Pen 10 Scribes

A 100...

2012-01-04T12:55:00.000-08:00

The Little Match Girl

by Katie Brown

Her heart beat hard against her. It was bitterly cold and she had little left in the way of warmth. Save her matches.

Her grandmother had died some years before, she had only the memories of her words and smile. Staring in the window of where the others with money sat feasting, she tried to recall her.

Looking into the deep velvet, watching a star shower mark the imminent death, she took out her matches.

Next morning, when they found her amongst the ashes of the dead feasters she was warm and had eaten very well.

BIO: Katie Brown ** coming **

Taste by Diane Jardel

2012-01-04T11:34:00.000-08:00

Cutting the courgettes

Snap, snap, snap

Glossy green skill.

Dicing the purple aubergine,

Sweating it with salt

Drain the bitter juice

Eating together

the lemon flavour coming

punching through

the underlying spice

of mustard and cardamom seeds;

next the earthy taste

of the potato

Embracing the gently sweet taste

Of the spinach

Still with its vital

life giving audacity.

The rice is the tender

and savoury, setting

off the moderate heat

pleasure as she swallows it slowly

They dip the fresh

sweet strawberries

into hot chocolate fondue

laced with brandy

and taste its sensuality;

and bite into the rich tangy

exotic fruit

She looks into his eyes

And asks for water.

BIO: DIANE JARDEL - a published author of poems and stories; a vegan gourmet and I love to capture the wonder of nature on camera. I am also a writing group addict.

My poem 'The Mirror' is published in 'The Poetic Bond' by Trevor Maynard
I was featured poet of the month for December on www.muttonline.com
I started Fermanagh Creative Writing Group here in Enniskillen and registered it as an educational charity.

I post my stories and poems regularly on Stories Space.

by Diane Jardel

2012-01-04T11:33:00.000-08:00

Spittle falls

Mother, you screamed

And raged

And spit fell

From your lips

I cowered before you

helpless

And afraid

I could not run.

One day

you might

transform

my fragile stability

by some miracle.

And I would love you.

BIO: DIANE JARDEL - a published author of poems and stories; a vegan gourmet and I love to capture the wonder of nature on camera. I am also a writing group addict.

I post my stories and poems regularly on Stories Space.

Family by Michelle

2012-01-04T11:26:00.001-08:00

“Well, of course my family likes you, dear.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I get the feeling that I’m an outsider; no one talks to me, really.”

“Come on, what gives you that impression?”

“Well, last year at the dinner table while I was telling a story I caught your sisters rolling their eyes.”

“Nah, probably something in the air, of course they like you, it’s nothing.”

“And your mother didn’t have a chair for me at the table; she squeezed your place setting between the neighbor’s daughters.”

“You came in a little late behind a big crowd at the door, just a little oversight, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Everyone laughed a little too hard when I dropped deviled egg on my dress, for like 5 minutes.”

“Spills can be funny, it’s nothing, dear.”

“SWEETIE, there was a magnet covering my face in the family photo on the fridge!”

BIO: Michelle ** coming **

FEATHERS by Rosalind Kim Nazilli

2012-01-04T11:25:00.000-08:00

Her last remark. The final slur on his already destroyed character.
He took himself away. For her sake as much as his own.
He lay on the wet sand, stretched star shaped, staring up into a black sky.
As he prayed that something would take him, release him from the torment of his unacceptable love for innocence he felt a soft fluttering against his face.
He reached up, feathers from some invisible bird.
His feet were wet. The tide was in, channelling a moat around him.
The sudden flapping of wings did not scare him. He knew they would come.

BIO: Rosalind Kim Nazilli ** coming **

100 WORD FLASH by Andie King

2012-01-04T11:23:00.001-08:00

Dad slept in our greenhouse.

It's not as though he lived there, he came in for his meals, to watch telly and to have a wash but it's a small house and we don't have room for another bed.

He couldn't sleep on the floor, we'd keep tripping over him and it wasn't fair to make him sleep on a bunk bed with one of the kids on top. He had his privacy out there anyway.

We were all incredibly shocked when he died. It was very sudden and we still don't understand what happened.

Doctor said it was pneumonia.

You lie beneath the snow flocked ground, barely close enough to reach. I dig with bare hands, scrabble until my nails rip from my fingertips; blood soaks into damp, cold earth as I frantically try to find you.

Finally a glimpse of dirty pink satin, a shimmer of glitter and a hint of bone peeks out. Relieved I continue more cautiously, revealing you in fragments then finally lift you out.

Your party frock is ruined so I dress you in something new, purple this time. I kiss each broken bone before laying you back to rest.

Happy Birthday my Angel.

Little by little I watched you close yourself off from the world and I did nothing about it.

I saw it coming, I was complicit in it happening and I cover for you every time.

I'm not ignorant of the shoes caked in mud, the clothes that disappear or the car that constantly needs cleaning.

On the news, a local girl is reported missing and you are suddenly engaged, transfixed, studying her friends and family as they hopelessly appeal for information.

A mother always knows. Your mother never tells.

BIO: Andie King, a 31 year old wife and mother living in High Wycombe and working as an administrator. Recently started writing again and loves literature, cookery, cinema and theatre.

Hunted by Jack Holt

2012-01-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

They usually hunted in packs, so I was surprised to find one wandering alone amongst the foliage.
I knew it hadn’t seen me, I was too good for that. I raised my rifle, gripped it tightly; I’d only have time for one shot.
They told me nobody had ever slain one before. They said it couldn’t be done, that I’d never make it back alive. But I knew better, knew I was better.
That’s when I heard the rustling to my right, and then again behind me.
I quickly realized my mistake: they didn’t usually hunt in packs. They always did.

BIO: Jack Holt Born and raised in Bristol, England, Jack now lives, breathes and writes almost daily from his bunker deep in the Somerset countryside." Jack Holt can also be found online at http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/past-transgressions/ and http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/hunted/

Past Transgressions by Jack Holt

2012-01-04T11:21:00.000-08:00

I offered out my hand and took the map from him.

“Cheers mate, I’m a little bit lost, I reckon,” he said.

I didn’t recognize the man, but part of my cover involved helping the locals, blending in, so I knew I’d better.

“No worries,” I told him.

But as I glanced down, I realized he was lost for a reason. I was rusty, had taken my eyes off him entirely. He knew this.

The second-to-last thing I remember seeing were the pages of that stupid “Bristol Pub Guide.”

The floor racing up at me was the last.

Don’t Make a Sound by Jack Holt

2012-01-04T11:20:00.000-08:00

Fists strike clumsily at my front door. Again and again and again.

I thought I’d be luckier than this. I switched off the lights, didn’t make a sound. And I know they can’t see me all the way back here. In the kitchen, in the dark, under a bed sheet-covered dining table. Can they somehow sense my presence? Had I made the slightest of sounds?

They’re banging even harder now. Scratching, scrambling, feverishly anticipating, desperate for their prize. But they can bang all they want, I won’t move, won’t open that door.

After all, I don’t even know who Jehovah really is.

LIVING WELL

2011-12-28T15:02:00.000-08:00

The human mathematical equation that would explain the chronic feeling of displacement from which gifted individuals frequently suffer, can be traced back to the improbability of their being born into the families that raised them, the local Milton Junior College text read, Sometimes, in order to provide hope for a genetic trainwreck, a "variable" is born.

Bogart Freely was certain he was the "variable" of his textbook, Genius Rising by John Paul Slumberger, since for many years he was plagued by the persistent feeling that he didn't belong in his life; in a journal entry dated 1/1/69, he made the resolution to do something about it.

Bogart grew up with no father; his mother, Ethel, was a loud opinionated woman who didn't trust Bogart to wash well so she bathed him herself until he was thirteen. He wasn't allowed to have friends over unless Ethel knew the parents; another criterion was that the families had to attend the same church as the Freelys - a small congregation called Living Well which met in a building that was once a 7-Eleven on Burchill Road in Fort Worth, Texas.

The few times Bogart dared to bring a friend over, Ethel embarrassed him with her chastity sermons delivered from their sun yellow kitchen while she made the ritual Sabbath meal of gooey chicken and dumplings. Once she even showed Bogart's only good friend, Gerald, the large rasberry hemangioma at the top of her fat milky thigh which she believed looked exactly like the face of Jesus as it appeared on the Shroud of Turin.

On his 20th birthday, Bogart went to the local Home Depot to purchase the items necessary to carry out his plan with Gerald as his assistant, who by now was well-versed in chemistry and biology. The two would administer the cyanide which would be readily available in the Milton labs since Gerald - often referred to as the "science golden boy" on campus - had successfully requested a series of toxicology experiments on rats. Once the body was transported in a van Gerald would borrow from his father (Bogart didn't have a car and Gerald drove a VW Beetle), then placed in an earthen pit dug the night before, the sodium hydroxide could be mixed with water.

It would be the perfect crime, Ethel's rasberry stigmata and the surrounding tissue digested to the consistency of her chicken and dumplings once she got a good bath; there would be little more than her brittle bones remaining in the deep quiet earth behind Living Well.

BIO: Teresa Cortez of Sugar Land, TX

RELAX, I SAID

2011-11-19T21:20:00.000-08:00

I told him, I did, and I wasn’t coy neither.
I told him straight out.
I said I don’t have time for all that,
I just want it quick and dirty.
It didn’t have to be dirty neither,
just quick.
Give it like you mean it
and you don’t need all the
extra fluff to get it done.
It’s not like he didn’t ever
do it before so I guess
I just expected him to
get it right.
I didn’t say it out loud
but I was thinking in my head:
I know you’re nervous
but just do it the way you do it
when you’re by yourself
and that’s the way to do it best.
But I didn’t want to
make him nervous
about giving it to me
so I just smiled.
He was nervous, too,
a little.
I could tell, nervous
even though he was only
giving me 10 sentences.

BIO: this pen 10 gotcha is the work of Olive Rosehips. She loves to play with imaginations and big pens... like Waterman's. What on earth were you thinking just now? Even more importantly, can you give 10 sentences?

DEAR DAD

2011-11-16T09:05:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure I ever began a letter with those words, but I’d like to take a stab at it.
Can I tell you that I always admired you for your strength, your musical voice and sense of humor?
Can I tell you that I never felt so special than that time you confided in me on the way to Kennedy Airport?
Can I say that I saw your face shine, the first time you saw me in uniform?
Can I tell you that I should have known I could trust you to help me, always?
Can I tell you that I love you?
Well, now it is too late.
I suppose I could have written a letter of which I’d be proud .
Better yet, I could have written a letter to make you proud of me.
Most of all, I just could have written a letter.

BIO: Jim Hunkele

MOTHER'S DAY

2011-11-16T09:01:00.000-08:00

An elegant woman with perpetual blonde hair, she had the hint of a British accent giving her the aura of mystique.
The lady would not stand on ceremony.
Befriending the wealthy, the wretched, the weak and the well off, she was mother to seven, but mothered so many more.
Always time for a laugh, but never enough time for the cooking, laundry and cleaning, the kitchen floor would shine by the last mop of midnight.
She would answer the phone with a voice that any person would love to hear, soothing, as by an Angel, there were times even I would not recognize it.
Her children were always fed, educated and clothed, in that order, leaving herself last in all things.
Five boys, never an easy task for any woman, she would find the time to mentor “strays”.
As she grew in years, she would still show her sons up by kicking a field goal or throwing a “double-bull’.
She could deal out punishment with one hand, and wipe a tear with the other.
Attending to so many with little time for herself, she asked for almost nothing, but perhaps, her final request, “Can we go now?”

Bio: Jim Hunkele

You Aint Spose To

2011-07-14T22:23:00.000-07:00

She was gone. I thought on that a long time ago, wondering what would it be like. I had seen it on tv and heard about it from friends but now this time it was my own mama. Come to think of it, she wasn’t like tv mama’s and so mine wasn’t like no tv mourning, neither. She was evil and she never had my back so all I felt was relief at her passing. It rose up off of me, I almost felt it lift like a dust removed by gravity pulling it upwards. I think if I was standing back looking at me in the light I would’ve seen it and I would have marveled all the more. The energy cycle came to claim parts of that person that she left on me so I shook to make sure all of it went. You can have your person back universe, I thought, I endured her, I honored her and now you can have her back!

Craig remarked about her passing and I told him all about it because I was happy and lighter and wanted to share my new elation with someone. He looked at me but pulled his face back slowly like he smelled something unpleasant and he let me know, “You aint ‘sposed to say stuff like that when your mom dies.”

Bio: Olive Rosehips* made that name up. She does that a lot. She does it because she thinks it's cute and it's the stuff that writer's do so they can roll eloquent, pretentious things off their tongues like "nom de plume". So she likes pretending, is that so bad? *Rhonda Smolarek

DEAR FIVE YEAR OLD SELF

2011-06-08T10:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Five Year Old Self,
I miss you in the strangest way possible. Strange because I do not remember you. I cannot recall what you liked or what made you scared. I cannot recollect what your favorite color, or song, or most cherished object was. I do not remember what made you cry or how often you did so. I do not remember if you feared monsters or whatever else lives under five year old’s beds.
I miss you though it feels like I hardly know you. Or knew you.
I miss you because, since I can’t remember you, I am convinced that times were simpler. Less complicated. Less convoluted with life and love and the odd uncomfortable mixture of the two. I miss you because you existed in a time where death and loss and grief were foreign. I miss you because you lived in a world that was blind to abuse and rape and mis-use and manipulation. You existed in a space where life was hardly hard and there was a smile at the peak of every day.
I miss you though I hardly know you. Or knew you.
And I know it is strange to say I miss you because essentially I am saying that I miss me. But not saying it would not make it any less true.
I miss you. Because I miss me too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bio:

Felecia Roberts functions largely as a ghostwriter and often authors under various pseudonyms. She has received many accolades in following her dreams. She has a letter writing series that can be found atwww.lettertomyunbornself.com and is working on her first book.

THE GUEST ROOM

2011-04-10T07:23:00.000-07:00

by Jeanette Cheeezum

Nina’s head pounded, eyes felt gritty and with a swish of her tongue she swore there was fuzz on her teeth. Had someone slipped something in her drink? They had arrived and set the suitcases in the guest room just in time for drinks to be served. That’s all she remembered.

The bed was empty next to her, maybe Tim had left her to sleep in. She slipped her jeans on and thought if she didn’t get something to eat soon she’d throw up.

No way! The door was locked. “Okay Asshole, let me out of here,” She banged and shouted.

No one came. She looked around, thankful there was a bathroom. This wasn’t funny.

What’s that in the bathtub? She pulled the shower curtain back then froze. Another woman was there. Nina nudged her knee, no response. Maybe she had the same thing to drink. She nudged again. “Hey, wake up.” Nothing…Nina reached out and touched the girl’s face. It was cold, very cold and lifeless. She backed away, nervously rubbing her hands on her jeans.

She needed a joint. No, she needed to get out of here. Where was her purse? It wasn’t visible if it was in the room. She searched through drawers, under the bed and opened the closet.

Her blood curdling screams were stopped when Tim’s body fell at her feet. His eyes bulged and a rope was tight around his neck.

Something shook her once, then twice. Her mother stood over her “You’re going to be late for school if you don’t get up now.”

Bio: Jeanette has been published in eleven anthologies and three poetry collections. Her work can be found all over the internet. She loves to write fiction of all types. She has completed four novels and a children’s ebook @ Barnes and Noble. If you would like to view her website go to http://cavalcadeofstars.wordpress.com/

SOMEWHERE SPECIAL

2011-04-10T07:18:00.001-07:00

by Salvatore Buttaci

It was supposed to be a getaway celebration, our 10^th wedding anniversary. Turns out the operative word here is “getaway,” so forget “celebration.” We got away all right, so far away we ended up lost.

“Why not go somewhere different this year,” my wife said, weary of the same old Rustic Lodge five minutes from our home, the motel where we had so far spent nine over-nighters since that first July 10when we were pronounced man and wife.

With the help of Mapquestᵎ™ and despite several wrong turns (I have a sense of direction worse than a broken compass), at last we found the Concord Manor Hotel two states away in Pennsylvania.

We were both in a less than good mood, nearly running out of gas, which Diana said was my fault since I was the driver, to which I defended myself by hurling back, “You're the damn navigator whose job is to keep an eye on the controls!”

So I paid for the suite, carried in two matching luggage pieces, sat on the king-size bed and remote-clicked the TV on.

“I'm hungry,” pouting Diana whines, “so don't get too comfortable because those sandwiches we ate in the car hours ago were nowhere enough.”

My question, “Can't we grab a bite at Burger King™ next door?” met with a squinting killer stare, so we hit the unfamiliar highways in search of a five-star steakhouse and, not finding one, got terribly lost, and drove in the darkness for three grueling hours before we miraculously found our way back to the Concord Manor.

“Happy Anniversary, Honey,” I said, but Diana, without turning from the half-wall mirror where she was brushing her teeth, raised her other hand and flipped me the bird.

BIO

Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer who writes everyday. His work has appeared widely. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award.

His collection of 164 short-fiction stories, Flashing My Shorts, is available from Amazon.comat http://tinyurl.com/26u8huk His upcoming book, 200 Shorts, will be released in mid-2011.

He lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.

NEVER SEEN A NIGHT SO LONG

2011-04-10T07:16:00.001-07:00

NEVER SEEN A NIGHT SO LONG

He lies in bed, ears perked to the plaintive cry of a whippoorwill somewhere in the darkness. Not in the sky. No, not there. Maybe hiding behind the blue rhododendron bush, nest-far and lonesome. Like me, he thinks, rising from the double bed, setting on fire a Pall Mall, inhaling a lungful of smoke. Hank’s never seen a night so long. He wonders where 1952 has flown to. He pictures one of those barrels where his grand pappy burned wood scraps back in Alabama. He reminisces and knows too well the pain of that. The way old men sit in rocking chairs and in between gusts of warm breezes say, “Yep,” and wish to God they could either travel back to the young old days or sleep forever in their rockers.

Across the bedroom in his favorite chair, the Gibson Audrey bought him rests against the red velvet needlepoint cushion Audrey left behind. His new wife Billie Jean hates it as much as Hank loves it and won’t let it go. “Audrey loves Hank,” says the needlepoint, and then in large flowing cursive, “FOREVER.”

“It's just a damn guitar!” Billie Jean tells him, the sour taste of jealousy frosting on her lips. “You got a closet full of 'em!” Then she pauses and drives daggers into his heart when she says--he suspects for spite-- “That girl knows as much about forever as that bottle you're pourin' knows how to stitch up a broken heart.”

Let it rest. What's done's done.

Whatever lyrics sing in his head he’ll keep up there. Still, he runs his thumb over his four fingers, itching to pluck the strings, hold down the frets, strum the chords into blues, sing his heart out, release the pain.

Without my guitar I'm nothing. Without me, Gibson's like the tree nobody's in the forest to hear crashin' down. But the two of us together…

Hank pours a full glass from the bottle on the end table. Then he shakes several white painkillers from another bottle, gulps them and chases them down with the lonesome-blues whiskey. Meanwhile, outside his window, stars go on twinkling, despite life without Audrey. The face of the moon hides behind dark clouds. Why should it let the world see its tears? And that old train, she keeps heading down the line, traveling the iron rails, heading for...heading where? He let the cities flash across the stage of his troubled mind. Nashville. Abilene. Birmingham. Chicago with its cold winds. Even New York City with its even colder people looking up at him performing, thinking, Who in hell's this country boy from Alabama think he is 'cept white trash who can toss out a song to make grown men cry?

Where is Audrey? he wonders. Absently now he lifts the guitar, slings the leather strap over his shoulder, and gives in to the six strings. Strumming, he fills the dark room with words that ride the chords like dauntless walkers on a high narrow tightrope. Once, before a preacher, the two of them swore to heaven the knot they tied would never be broken. The world out there could try all it could to pull them apart, but they'd hang strong and let love beat that world back into its corner.What happened? he wonders now, wonders the day long. The night. What made me throw it all away?

“The midnight train is whining low. I’m so lonesome I could cry.”

Now’s he’s searching through the contents of the end-table drawer for a pencil and pad. The Grand Ol’ Opry star finds both, balances the pad on the sound box, jots down the lines, and clamps the pencil horizontally between his teeth. He lets the pad fall against Audrey’s cushion.

“Did you ever see a robin weep when leaves begin to die?”

He repeats the line several times so it melds in perfect time with his plucking and continues.

“That means he’s lost the will to live. I’m so lonesome I could cry.”

When he manages three quatrains, each ending with what he will make the title of his new song, he removes himself from the Gibson. Again it leans against the red velvet lie. Again thoughts of the long-gone Audrey plague him. Once he believed she loved him. Now she expects him to believe she no longer does.

“I’m so lonely I could cry,” he sings. What could say it better? he wonders.

His head throbs with the booze and pills conspiring against him. Still, the duo are not strong enough to calm the agony in his back and the rawness in his heart.

Hank Williams stares open-eyed at the ceiling. Tomorrow night the Grand Ol’ Opry will explode in thunderous applause. Fans will scream his name like a litany to a saint. He will sing song after song. He will bow and exit until one more call for yet another encore will bring him back. Finally, he’ll quiet the crowd by removing his white cowboy hat, wave it, and return it to his head.

“Here’s my last for the night,” he’ll say. “This one’s for Audrey. Are you listening, Darlin’?”

Then the king of country music will sing every note from the depths of a heart so wounded, not even time can heal, “Hey, good lookin’.Whatcha got cookin’. How’s about cookin’ something up with me?”

BIO: SALVATORE BUTTACI; Buttaci's poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared in The New York Times, The Writer, U. S. A. Today, Cats Magazine,Christian Science Monitor, Bardic Echoes, Wind, Iconoclast, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating Brothers and Sisters, and many other publications here and abroad.

His newest collection of flash fiction, 200 Shorts, is available from the publisher athttp://allthingsthatmatterpress.com. His first, Flashing My Shorts, is available at http://tinyurl.com/6bqu6b2

More than anything in the world, including the craft of writing, Buttaci loves his soul mate and wife Sharon Lee. The two of them live in Princeton, West Virginia.

A NIGHT RIDE ALONG LAKE SUPERIOR

2011-04-10T07:11:00.001-07:00

by Gita Smith

Each night, the porter went through the train car, pulling open the double decker bunks and lowering the ceiling-to-floor curtains that offered visual privacy between strangers. I was seven years old, traveling across Canada from east to west.

I crawled into the dark, womblike space of the lower berth and drew the curtains around me. A button on the wall turned on a tiny blue nightlight, and in its glow I fell asleep. Rocked by the train, soothed by the white noise of the steel wheels humming over tracks, I felt none of the fear I usually felt at home in the city. The men and women sleeping all around me were simply benevolent fellow travelers on the Canadian Pacific Railroad whose tired faces I would see over breakfast in the dining car.

Sometime past midnight, I awoke to complete stillness. Deeply accumulated snow had blocked our train's progress, and in the brightness of moonlit frozen ground I saw prints indicating a scuffle between some animals. I could make out various paw prints and a place where the top powdery layer was stained with blood.

Lake Superior, vast and lonely, stretched away from us forever and, in that moment, I understood that only the thin tissue of the train's wall separated me from the brutal North.

BIO: GITA SMITH;...

GOING BACK

2011-04-10T07:10:00.001-07:00

by Nadia Marie Perez

I am an endless wanderer but there is definitely one place that tugs at my heart strings every so often; it beckons me return to it, to know it once again. The feeling is mutual, of course, and my pulse quickens at the thought of boarding a plane again; engines roaring, speeding down the runway and then the lift off. There is no way to describe the rush of emotion that courses through my veins when a plane lifts off and I'm up in the air again gazing at the beautiful clouds that I often stare at from below.

Being there, in the stratosphere flying and looking down at the earth below eagerly awaiting the place which calls me back to it time and time again. Going over the blue water that is the Caribbean Sea, checking out the islands below and then getting closer and closer to that coast, my beautiful coast. The mountains come into view and I know I am back, back in my gorgeous and wild Venezuela. We touch down and taxi for a few minutes and then it's off to immigration and customs, gathering my cumbersome luggage once again making my way out to meet whomever has come to greet me and driving away down that old renovated highway toward the city which has become my home...Caracas.

I get to La Candelaria and am greeted by the old familiar noise, faces and scents. The music from Pablo Electronica blaring out onto the street as I make my way to my grandmother's building to open the heavy iron door, I'm back home and ready for a brand new start...again. Until I board that jet plane once again for another destination yet unknown.

BIO: NADIA MARIE PEREZ;...

ROUTE 13

2011-04-10T07:07:00.001-07:00

She slammed the car door and walked a little ways down the dusty road.

He watched her wait for the next car to come along. What started the argument anyway?

She had insisted he put her out along the side of the road.

Maybe if he sat quietly she would return to the car.

This route was a long and lonely one. If she got into the wrong car she wouldn’t be in trouble because he would follow close behind. Making sure the next driver realized what he was doing.

The trunk load of contraband wouldn’t be in jeopardy as long as he made it to the border by half past eleven.

BIO: JEANETTE CHEEZUM;

TO UPROOT A PECAN TREE [TAKE ME BACK TO THE BALL GAME]

2011-04-10T07:02:00.000-07:00

I don’t mind branches; they bare wonderful things like fruit, nuts, flowers, & foliage. I've lived life being the roots of things, aiding them along and helping them grow. Most folks forget about what's in the dirt, but I've always known it’s a whole world below affecting everything around it. I left Phoenix, AZ for Nashville, TN... The prodigal daughter returned to the south after a ten year hiatus. It gave me fireflies and moonlight, and just before I became too fanciful- a mosquito bite the size of Gibraltar appeared. Home gives perspective, so I had to reroot myself back to the source because some seeds don't grow everywhere--- if you force it, you'll find you've over watered it with love. In places of our beginnings we learn who we are; who we used to be; and who we can become. So I’ve slid home and I don't care if it grounds me. If I stand with a cruddy face and motley clothing know that I'm no worse for wear when standing to dust myself off. You just gotta make sure you stand back from the mirror next time you see yourself rounding third, and the people you care for provide shade.

BIO: SOUTHERN QUILL; Kimberley Gladney is a modern day renaissance woman. She has performed spoken word under the alias "SouthernQuill" in venues across America; sang her heart out in smoke filled rooms and crowded bars; and regularly bares her soul to followers on her blog site Brown Girl in the Red, White, & Blue. She has hosted open mics, acted in plays, had her paintings up in various galleries, and is currently recording her first album ep. She currently resides in Nashville, Tn, with a 1940s antique typewriter and a host of family and friends.

BREAKFAST BUFFET

2011-04-10T06:58:00.001-07:00

Russians approach a smorgasbord like a small boy whose parents are not paying attention. They pile their plates high with food, far more than they possibly can eat. Sometimes two plates, one in each hand. Perhaps a legacy of food shortages in the Soviet era, or a persistent ancestral memory of hunger.

The hotel where I stayed in Murmansk offered a buffet breakfast, heavy on protein, eggs and cheese and meat. Cold, flat, fatty strips of bacon that were eaten, tidily, with knife and fork. Lots of bread and pastry. Not much fruit, at least not in March, when winter still gripped this northern city and it snowed every day, sometimes at blizzard intensity.

My Russian-born father, who survived the famine in Berlin after World War I and had seen people starving to death in the streets, could not bear to see food wasted. I wondered what he would have thought of the towering piles of food that remained uneaten on every table, which seemed to surprise no one but me.

Bio: ANN MINTZ; Ann Mintz has had six careers, five dogs, one husband, and has lived in seven cities, if you count Philadelphia twice. She has written radio scripts, text for museum exhibits, websites, speeches, grant proposals, numerous articles and one book. She blogs at 6S, T-10 and Pen Ten.

THE WORLD IN PIECES

2011-04-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

There is a man who sees the world in pieces. He wears an old top hat, and shattered glasses that keep him blind. He sees what is there, and he sees what isn't there, because it is. No one can see him. Pacing, he walks among us; unburdened, he observes. He walks alone, through the days and into the nights, pausing only to stare a while at something that has caught his interest. He leaves no footprints, and is followed by no shadow. It would be easy for him not to exist. It would almost make sense. Still, he walks.

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Bio: FABLE LADEN; Fable is a young New Hampshire writer who is just starting to get her feet off the ground. Her work has appeared on FLASHSHOT.

WHAT IF

2011-04-10T06:46:00.000-07:00

Did you ever stop to wonder "What if?" You're walking along the street when you come upon a shiny new dime. You stop, pick it up, look at it in the palm of your hand, and read the date. It's this year. It's brand new. How lucky is that? You reach the street corner, casually looking both ways. You step out into the street just as a motorcycle whips around the corner and flies by you at an incredible speed. Wow! If I had been a second sooner… . People crowd around you, asking if you are all right. Yeah, you did stop for the dime. Man, I'm really lucky! You cross the street, finally, just in time to miss your usual bus, thanks to the dime. Maybe I'm not so lucky. I could keep these steps of "bad luck" up until I get to the part where an ambulance hops the curb and launches you across the street, where you are squashed by a cement truck, as a collapsing building comes down on you and the truck with such force that it causes the street to cave in, just as the subway train runs over you. Whew! Wadda trip! But you get my point. Well, sometimes I wonder what might have been, if… .

I have played a lot of pool in my day. I started out playing at a place called "Toms", in Brooklyn, NY, at 10 cents an hour per stick. The last time I played regularly, it was about $12.00/hr, and that was over 40 years ago. I was 21, full of "piss and vinegar", nothing could stop me, and so this is the story. The "Triple Triangle", a billiard parlor in the west end of Richmond, Va., was a favorite haunt of mine. I made a modest income there, and continued to frequent the establishment, after beginning my latest stint at "Fuqua and Sheffield Florists". How are these places related? Why, through the "Toddle House", of course.

We, some friends and I, closed up the pool hall about 11:00PM one evening, and meandered across the street to the Toddle House, an "all-night" breakfast place, for something to eat. Our food arrived and we ate. As we were sitting there sipping our coffees, a gentleman walked in and asked if anyone had a driver's license. I looked at him like he had 2 heads, and finally, with reservation, said that I did. Now, Mr. Forester was a gentleman in his late 70's if he was a day. He was dressed in a Chesterfield overcoat and fedora, and a gray suit with tie. Since he looked quite respectable, I couldn't imagine what he could want with myself, as I appeared quite the ragamuffin. It was simple, he needed my youthful eyes to drive him in his Cadillac Brougham sedan, to Norlina, NC. So, I figured, anything for a joke, and I said OK. The first stop was at his house in Richmond. Now, I didn't see how anyone could have lived there. The living room and dining room were literally covered with architectural plans of every description. He gathered some things, and we were off to his "ranch" in Norlina. The trip was uneventful. The house we stayed in that night, was apparently better taken care of than his other house. I awoke the next day to walls that could not get any whiter, in a very sunny room. The house, though very old, was in excellent condition. I am certain he had a staff that catered to at least this house. On the way home, feeling more at ease with each other, we started chatting. He told me that the miles of tobacco land that we had just driven through, were only a part of his land, and he was considering sending me to an agricultural college, to learn how to manage his plantation. He was well up in years, and I assume no relatives, at least, those with which he wished to socialize. We parted company amicably, and I waited patiently for him to send for me. A couple of times he stopped by the florist looking for me, in my absence, and the dullards there didn't even bother to get a contact number from him. I felt the pangs of disappointment welling up in me each time. I never saw him again. What if… ?

BIO: Jim Hunkele...

TIME THIEF

2011-04-10T06:42:00.000-07:00

She took it. I knew she was going to the minute she sat down next to me in the airport. She looked at me with large round eyes and a stupid smile that was probably meant to be cute and disarming. It may have been cute once upon a time, like when she was around the age of 7, but now, not so much. I’m thinking that maybe the guy with her had her convinced she was still cute but I didn't think she was cute and I wished she stop looking at me with those big stupid eyes. She was trying to come off as innocent but I knew, from years of traveling, that she was a practiced beggar and sure enough she took it. The thing about people like her, they do that sort of thing for so long that they don’t even see it as stealing, maybe just relieving you of something they needed more than you. I, however, needed mine, and I gave her a hard discouraging stare at the onset but she easily had twenty more years of practice than I did and she didn’t even blink. Later she dashed off when a voice on a loudspeaker made it’s usual announcement about not leaving your things unattended and not accepting anything from people you don’t know or whatever it is they say exactly, the point was that suddenly she was gone. I sat there wanting to sink in my chair as I surveyed my magazine and few worldly possessions and I knew I’d been robbed of the thing which had come to mean the most to me after the difficult months I’d just had: my precious time.

BIO: Rhonda M. Smolarek ~~hides~~ writes under the nom de plume of Olive Rosehips, where she makes up things all the while using proper grammer and spell checks. She generally does this in stiletto's with her pedicure in vivid shades of red. Why? Don't ask me, I just work here. Word is she also does website design/re-design at OliveRosehips.com and plays at getting absurd songs stuck in people's minds in order to amuse herself... I know, right?

WHO WE ARE

2011-02-15T07:08:00.000-08:00

The Pen 10 Scribes anthology project constantly seeks the talents of new voices from around the world to publish and print annually. Our book is printed in paperback at the beginning of December and available as an ebook, also. Our writers are encouraged to express themselves in 10 sentences and write about any matter under the sun. Short stories, poetry, lyrical verse... 10 sentences. We would like to be able to pay you for your talent but we can not. We do, however, publish you and promote your talent and the book is something you can have on hand to add to your credentials.

If you write, and would like your work to be considered for our next publication, please email your 10 to or questions to:

Olive.Rosehips@Yahoo.com

Allow 10 days for response.

"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." ~Anais Nin

"I write to give myself strength. I write to be the characters that I am not. I write to explore all the things I'm afraid of. " ~Joss Whedon

COFFEE?

2010-12-04T06:56:00.000-08:00

Maggie burst into the quiet office, her chest heaving and with anger dancing upon her brow, she seethed "YOU! You did this!"

Unseth, expecting her, casually glanced away from his paper before setting it down slowly and saying dryly, "Oh Maggie, stop with the drama. I did what?" The last three words drawn out slowly before he sought his coffee cup.

Maggie, still enraged, stood before Unseth for a moment longer before clearing his meticulously organized desk in one sweep and he, with impeccable timing, lifted his cup as papers whooshed past just before Maggie sprang upon the desk. She was seething and leaned in to say "I know it was you."

Leaning back in his chair, and with excellent restraint, he sipped again at the coffee.

Dagger filled eyes followed calm ones, seeking a glimpse of confirmation but Unseth said only, "You want to sit down and tell me what this is all about?"

A distinctly animal like growl came the response from Maggie's throat before she snatched the covered coffee mug away and hurled it at the nearest wall, thus concluding her visit.

When she was gone, Unseth made his way over to retrieve the dented mug. With one hand in his pocket, he inspected the vessel: no harm really and no mess. The cup never actually contained any coffee because Unseth had been too busy this morning taking care of other business.

BIO: Olive Rosehips...

Our Book

2010-11-13T13:56:00.000-08:00

Congratulations, the Pen 10 Scribes anthology is now in print. If your work was featured on this site between from August '09 - September 2010, you are an author published in print between the covers of this book. You may purchase a copy here and include this in your list of accomplishments. While you're at it, pick up some Pen 10 gear from the column on the right.

~Thank you

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REALLY

2010-08-22T07:54:00.000-07:00

“Are you sure?” He asked, struggling to conceal the emotion in his voice.

“Yes.” She replied, calm and certain, like she always was.

He reached out hesitantly and held her hands. “There’s no going back...It will never be the same.”

She just nodded.

“Ever.” He said. “Are you sure you want to end it like this? After all this time?”

“It’s for the best.” She said, her voice gentle, as if she was trying to lighten the blow.

“Fine.” He looked like he was going to burst into tears at any moment.

He directed a single glance full of despair at her and then he turned around.....and kicked the castle till it was just another pile of sand.

“Don’t be sad.” She said, patting him on the back. “We’ll build a better one tomorrow.”

Bio: Abhinav Sapru, Engineering student (unlikely but true), aspiring writer...Due to the fear of boring you I'm going to stop right now. You can visit Abhinav Sapru http://flash-999.blogspot.com/

FEAR OF FLYING

2010-08-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

He got off the plane and had the urge to kiss the carpeted floor. He thought better of it when he considered the amount of foot traffic the floor had seen, and that doing so would hold up the line and cause a distraction.

All that was left was to pick up his luggage from baggage claim.

He moved with a sense of urgency through the airport pathway; meandering through the crowded hallway like a fearless motorcyclist on a congested freeway. Or maybe he was more reckless – like the motorcyclist with a death wish.

He survived near death on the flight from BWI-Thurgood Marshall to LAX. His ears popped something fierce, and he felt as if he was having a brain aneurysm. The agony – which still lingered – would be well worth it when he sees her face.

But she wasn’t waiting for him at the baggage claim area, or at the pick-up location outside. He waited at the airport for immeasurable hours – even after she returned his numerous calls and informed him she had no intention of following through with their plans to meet.

BIO: A. Jarrell Hayes writes poetry and fiction. In his spare time, Hayes designs wearable expressions and various merchandise with writers and poets in mind. Visit his website: http://www.ajhayes.com or check him out here http://www.facebook.com/jarrellhayes.

BREATHLESS

2010-08-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

More cotton than you care to see.

There used to be time for driving,

for singing at the top of our lungs,

running, screaming.

Our legs stopped craving the feeling

of being stretched, pushed.

Running with mouths wide open,

tiny yelps greeting clouds of dust.

The field strewn with yellow buds,

a blanket of sunshine.

Driving, we wish we hadn’t forgotten

running breathless, to lay

in summer-bloomed shade of trees,

gulping air like water.

Bio: Laura Rachel Fox ... Her heart lies in the library, where she served as a Librarian for several years and discovered her love for the profession. She is currently working to enter the writing field professionally, perhaps through the library, education, or writing. You can view her recent work at http://rachelspillowbook.blogspot.com/

BLU'S CRISP BILLS

2010-07-07T06:10:00.001-07:00

“I don’t feel right about this,” said Maxi, fumbling with her umbrella as wet curls lay plastered to her forehead as she waited for Blu to answer. Blu was pretending not to hear as she held tightly to the anger that was rising in her chest as she tried to quell it as it tried hard as it could to spew out profanity at Maxi. Blu did not like Maxi at all-- the sight of her scuff-free boots and manicured hands made her want to vomit as she thought of the rich brats she used to watch shop without care when she used to be normal and work a day job at the mall. But, she swallowed roughly, this was a job, and her job was to follow directions, whether she liked Maxi or not.

Blu opened the envelope that Maxi handed her, counted ten crisp one hundred dollar bills and scanned the other books of money neatly settled in the envelope. Funny, but thirty thousand dollars didn’t look like that much money . Her mind remembered the bills the money was going to cover and, though relieved she would be debt free for a while now, she was a bit wistful about not being able to vacation with the windfall. She tucked the envelope into her purse and looked up. The glint from Maxi’s badge flickered first as she heard “You have the right to remain silent”, then she saw the uniformed cops emerge from surrounding spaces that had seemed so vacant before. As Blu put her hands up and felt rough hands push her head down and handcuff her, she hoped that her sister would be called soon enough to pick up the baby from daycare.

Khadijah Ali-Coleman is a playwright and performance artist. She is editor of the anthology Liberated Muse Volume I: How I Freed My Soul and will debut her play Running: AMOK this year in the Capital Fringe Fest this summer in Washington DC. She was inspired to write "Blu's Crisp Bills" when she learned that 62% of women imprisoned in the US are between the ages of 25-39 and typically mothers.

SPEAKING OF MRS. MORROW

2010-06-23T10:17:00.000-07:00

by Olive Rosehips

Mrs. Morrow was outside, I knew this because her loud, chirpy voice carried through the open window as she called to Joanne across the street. I whispered a wish under my breath that she would take up knitting or bridge or whatever it was people her age did when my little voice whispered back that gossip was what uncoupled, older ladies did. Loneliness to be sure and too much time on her hands had created this chapter of Mrs. Morrow; this overly organized, neat nick who hosed the rocks outside her home on week nights in order to be available to question, er, greet us when we came home from work each day. Indeed, she had become a professional at drawing out information I never intended to add to her gossip list, and so I used to peek through all the front windows to see if the coast was clear of Mrs. Morrow before going out to my garden.

Yet somehow, I suspect constant patrol, she always found me no matter how early I gardened, nor what side of the house I was on and so I pretended not to hear her calling to me as I berated her discovery under my breath. Ignoring her only worked the first time and now she would walk her round self, gingerly and hastily over to where I was and tap me on the shoulder, causing me to look up into her time worn, smiling face; her bright eyes setting me up, along with her wrinkled mouth with how she never sees me anymore and how are the boys. My mouth lied back to Mrs. Morrow with it’s own smile as my mind raced to come up with something to say which was really nothing so that I didn’t wince over having given her something to talk about.

I began to feel like a hostage in my own home and felt I had to put an end to this nonsense, which is when it occurred to me to leave my garden tools lying about in such disarray as to discourage Mrs. Morrow from jaunting over to my yard.

I could never have foreseen the possibility of her stepping right onto the head of the rake, nor how the handle would have struck poor Mrs. Morrow right between the eyes. Everyone talked about it for months and now I comfort myself thinking that she would have liked knowing she was still in on the neighborhood conversation.

ALONE IN HER OWN BED

2010-06-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

Roland C. Bonay

It was well past midnight and despite the sedative given to her by Pablo, her nurse, Dora Moorewas afraid to sleep for fear she'd have another nightmare where she’d dream violent dreams of guns and sometimes knives; of war and death and armies of men invading and ransacking the house in which she lived. She dreamed of old movie monsters chasing her on her way home from school. She could never run fast enough and just as the monster had her within reach she'd wake up from the terror of her dreams crying into her pillow as she clutched her favorite doll, still afraid to go to sleep at night, alone in her own bed.

She dreamed handsome young men would enter her bedroom as she brushed her soft brown hair by the lamp near the open window where the sheer curtains billowed in the wind while she gazed at the clouds drifting past the full moon. With shiny metal scoops, like the ones she remembered from the huge ice-making machine in the kitchen of the nursing home where her mother once worked, they'd pour diamonds at her pretty feet.

She found herself outside in the middle of a raging snowstorm while dirty gray snowmen shoveled dirty gray snow at her dirty gray frostbitten feet. She noticed a pack of snarling wild reindeer with gnarled antlers and sharp teeth. They were tied to an old tree from which she was afraid they'd break free (which, of course, they did). They nipped at her once pretty ankles as she lay perched upon mountains of trash outside of the kitchen of the nursing home where her mother once worked. And just as they were about to sink their dripping fangs into her comely flesh, she'd awake from the terror of her dreams crying into her blanket as she clutched her favorite doll, still afraid to go to sleep at night, alone in her own bed.

BIO: Roland C. Bonay is an engineer in NJ with a passion for writing and drawing. Bonay discovered his flair for telling stories at an early age and dreamed of following in the footsteps of his idol, comic book legend, Stan Lee. His passion ebbed and his dream faded as it became necessary to pursue a more traditional lifestyle in order to raise his growing family. His dream was rekindled in early 2009 and Roland worked feverishly to create the popular Learn to Draw Cartoons Online website . Roland’s vision is best summed up by his motto; The world would be a better place if we all just learned to draw! http://rcbonayatwork.com/.

PURPLE NAILS

2010-06-06T20:00:00.000-07:00

Khadijah Ali-Coleman

Her painted purple nails almost blared against the quiet of her black blazer as her fingers grabbed her folded arms. She had forgotten to remove the color before she went to bed last night.

Shit.

Her client, a conservative Southern CEO of a multi-million dollar corporation would surely disprove.

He was already upset he had to work with her, the only woman—Black woman at that—on the team. He wouldn’t care about her Stanford education or wealthy parents. He didn’t care about her impeccable work record or indestructible resolve. He would only see those damn nails, in party purple, and curse the agency that hooked him up with the ghetto, token Negro at the firm--a recipient of the Obama hand-out, he would think.

Her heels clacked heavily as she walked reluctantly to the glass boardroom, shoulder drooping from her weighty laptop bag, purple nails clutching. His head raised as the squeak of the door announced her arrival.

Eyes searching up and down paused; “Nice nails,” he said.

-----------------------------------

Khadijah Ali-Coleman is a playwright and performance artist. She is editor of the anthology Liberated Muse Volume I: How I Freed My Soul and will debut her play Running: AMOK this year in the Capital Fringe Fest this summer in Washington DC. She owns the online artist communitywww.LiberatedMuse.com. Learn more at http://www.KhadijahOnline.com.

Making History

2010-05-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

Doreen prepared to flip through the channels when the news interrupted her show for a ‘Special Report’.

An excited news anchor filled the screen as she caught him in mid sentence, “this is a historic day not only for America, but for all of the people of Earth. Today we started receiving the video from the Centauri Wanderer spacecraft as it prepares to launch its probe into the surface of the planet designated Ameda 1. We'll now switch you over to the feed coming in from Mission Control.”

On the screen, a view of a conical shaped projectile provided by an on-board camera showed the probe jettisoned from the Centauri Wanderer, firing its thrusters to build speed for its impact with Ameda 1. Despite the interruption to her shows, Doreen couldn't help but be fascinated with the historic implications of the video before her, one that traveled between solar systems for the first time in human history.

A bright flash flared from the planet’s surface just as applause erupted from the scientists and engineers at mission control. Applause turned to murmurs of confusion and Doreen saw on the screen what looked like gases flowing from the location the probe struck, spewing odd looking material that fell to the planets surface. Coldness formed in Doreen’s stomach as the Wanderer’s on board camera continued to zoom in on the impact zone. Suddenly her shows replaced the picture on the screen, but not before Doreen heard someone at mission control cried out, “Oh my God, there are bodies.”

BIO Kevin Vorshak dabbles in writing from his home on Ohio. A huge fan of Scifi, Fantasy and Horror stores, he still hopes to one day be able to become a full-time writer.

I SPY

2010-05-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

I spy with my wandering eye, a woman sitting at a booth in a restaurant.
I spied her dark, silky hair just past her shoulders.
I spied her bright brown eyes.
Her smooth mocha skin.
Her full pouty lips.
Her big wide smile.
I then spied with my wandering mind sitting across from this woman.
Staring in those same brown eyes, gently touching the arm of her smooth mocha skin, brushing her dark and silky hair out of her face, and leaning in to kiss her full pouty lips.
Then I spied with my wandering eye another man doing exactly what my wandering mind just saw.
Letting me know what I see to myself will only be for me alone and not for us to share aloud.

BIO: Chauncey Balsom, is an aspiring screenwriter from Florida currently working on his first full length screenplay as well as a web-series and a short film. Other than writing, he enjoys working out, reading, sports, going out with friends and music. A pretty well-rounded individual, Chauncey will try almost anything once. You can contact Chauncey on Twitter and his blog pages: http://twitter.com/tuckfwitter and http://mrrenaissanceman.blogspot.com/

TEN LINES

2010-04-21T17:31:00.000-07:00

Spare me sick animals just a little longer

Spare me sick animals while I get stronger

Drooping mandarins with grubby jaws

Middle class wankers pretending to be poor

Fat slag wasters of various descriptions

Prissy Miss Perfects – perfume nickers

Sly promptings from former virgins

All you really need is a good plastic surgeon

Fakes falsely worried cos baby's pissed

All I want now is Love and Mint Juleps

BIO Chris Savage King is a writer and performer. She is author of the Award Winning What/So What? (ICA/Radio Four) and a novel Do What You Want. She also sings, has worked extensively in prisons, and has attempted theatre.

A SIMPLE THREAD

2010-04-21T15:24:00.000-07:00

How Fate dreams to subdue me.
Her Pale blue green dactyls
Sweeping the sweat of her laboring
From her pious brow
Her effort strained against
Other forces prevailing to
Construct my end their way.
Oh, Fate - beautiful colossus
Harpy of misery and ruin.
Your eyes gleam ferocity
Jealous of talents made mortal
Ruinous of the fleshy beings-
You steal their glory short.
Sheer robes and veils of dreams
Mask your true form, Fate.
Deamoness of false hopes and pride.
Gleefully smiting down the wouldbe's
Would without your ruin
Be evermore remembered mythic forms
Will now lay forgotten
To all, and none.
That is the reward you spin, Fate,
How cruel you are.
Cutting Destiny's cord
Letting the days die unwon.

BIO Crystal Chambers-has managed to squeeze at least three lifetimes into her 39 years. From being a florist to a professional cyclist and athletic coach and, now, realizing her lifelong dream of being a writer. She’s written poetry since adolescence, moving into writing training articles and being published in the annual Authors of Tomorrow. Crystal occasionally fights town hall with fiery speeches (and wins). Crystal is thrilled to be a contributing writer for Bel Air Magazine, in addition to her daily duties owning a business Golsan Cycles and writing novels, poetry and children's books. @CrystalChambers on Twitter, www.mymadworld.com.

TO THOREAU AWAY SOCIETY

2010-04-21T15:14:00.000-07:00

David was right

To Thoreau away society,

Step Rhythmed distance

Within his life as art,

Reflecting beauty's intuition,

The voice of which...

Few hear.

Henry did not keep pace with his companions,

His Waldon Pond mirror reflected,

A measure of life few grasped.

BIO: Douglas H. Melloy. I am a musician. I play congas and bongos. I teach Martial arts. I have a black belt in kenpo karate. I have wirtten nine books, seven of which are in print. I enjoy dancing, playing live music, cooking, walking my dog, and drinking wines. I am 53 years young and single.

THE FICKLE NATURE OF OUR KIND

2010-04-21T14:55:00.000-07:00

The fickle nature of our kind is not satiated without a looming air of irony; for we are unnatural. To peer out of a glass window pane and see nothing more than structures that don't grow, buckles the soul into insignificance. The makeup of whatever is made up ascertains the fact that we are creative beings. "God-like" if you will. Whether you like it or not, we are indubitably gods of our own worlds. If we weren't, our visual system wouldn't utilize the process of projection. We create our own realities with astounding precision; only to blame others for what we're responsible for. Eternally, will fortune wax and wane; and time only waits for the patient.

BIO: Carl Woods, II is a native of the state of Virginia, U.S.A. and retained a passion for the written word at a very young age. With such an understanding, he has come to realize that words have little to no power to describe the intricacies of what actually is. While studying quantum mechanics, he's become a beacon of unbridled significance to whoever reads his work. @iambecomepi on Twitter

Understanding: To Ponder the Puzzle and Wonder

2010-04-21T14:43:00.000-07:00

To wonder less is to have more time for peace.

To have more time for peace gives more time to think.

To have more time to think creates opportunity for enjoying a good meal.

To have more good meals gives way to weight gain.

To have more weight gain leads one to energize and exercise.

To have more exercise gives more time for sightseeing.

To have more sightseeing leads one to ponder about amazing things.

To ponder about amazing things leads of course to “I wonder”

I wonder what this means.

BIO: Michael Hartzell www.michaelhartzell.com If man was meant to only sit and think without action, God would have designed the head as a barnacle. Michael Hartzell 1953-_____

INVALUABLE

2010-04-21T14:32:00.001-07:00

He came to the decision that living outside society was his best chance for survival – the best chance for his mental survival. His job at the call center wasn’t recession-proof. Now someone in India is performing his job – a job he performed well and enjoyed doing – for a fraction of his wages.

His job gave him value, and his employer deemed him too valuable to work there. So his job was given to someone the company valued less. That’s what money does: places value upon objects and people.

Without employment, his house was too valuable for him. The bank foreclosed on his house, he was evicted, and the house sold at a lesser value – a value he could afford.

He walks to the city limits valueless to society because he has no money. But he is invaluable to himself because he is human.

BIO: A. Jarrell Hayes is a fantasy novelist and award-winning poet. His most recent works are the fantasy novel The Larorian Conflict and the poetry collection Just Another Angry Black Man. He invites you to visit his website at www.ajhayes.com. Words = Life.

The Goodbye Kiss

2010-04-20T15:16:00.001-07:00

The Goodbye Kiss by Paul D. Brazill

The Salutation Bar was stiflingly hot and cluttered with the usual hodge podge of misfits, waifs and strays. Walter sat at a table by the window watching the streamers of steam rise from his muddy coffee. Beside him, a gangling scarecrow of a man slurped his beer with all the enthusiasm of an ex-con in a bordello. Each sip was like leaky tap drip, drip, dripping throughout a sleepless night.

Outside, the cloak of darkness had draped itself over the city, and the moon bit into the sky like a fang. The night was suddenly filled the crackle of exploding fireworks as Lena oozed into the bar like mercury. She stood before Walter and a chill of recognition sliced through him. She nodded and he stood.

The next day a church bell echoed through the granite autumn morning as Walter lay slumped against a gravestone. On his forehead, a smear of lipstick and a perfect bloody circle were all that remained of Lena’s goodbye kiss.

Bio: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

MY FACE

2010-04-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

My face is your face, and yours is mine,
for the likeness is obvious to me.
Who are you I ask as I stare deeply
into the mirror of my own self.

I am not afraid of you because I’m
black like charcoal and the ashes of ember.
One tarnished by the heat of the blazing
sun, even that of dried basil and such.

There can be no greater love for you in
that I cherish you with such divine
reason, and reject the notion our color
in any way, shape, or fashion degrades our

blackness. A hew so fine my heart swoons
when I behold the face of my own self.

Emmett Wheatfall is an aspiring poet living in Portland, Oregon. He is a talented writer and someone committed to respecting the art and craft of poetry. He has produced two digital recordings of his poetry: I Speak, a compilation of original poems and When I Was Young is a recording of both lyrical and non-lyrical poetry. Emmet also writes at http://pentenscribes.ning.com/

BEAUTY TO DIE FOR

2010-03-07T06:48:00.000-08:00

Mark considers the words dressed carefully as he stands naked only a few feet from his sleeping wife.

He analyzes the purpose of clothing and tries to place today's occasion: funeral, appointment, party, every day, or rare special event?

Occasions are just another way of saying, I have a point to make or a lie to tell, I am good enough or better than you, and upon that last thought clearing his fettered mind, Mark chooses a special-occasion piece from the closet.

"Envy," he whispers softly to avoid waking his wife.

Mark imagines the fuss women make over appearance when only a little rouge and lipstick should do it, that and perhaps a gentle drag of a soft applicator over closed eyes, mascara, then a glide through moist clouds of Dior J'adore squeezed from an atomizer bulb, its shape very much like the female ovary.

He struggles to discern between hiding and enhancing at the image of stuffing a lacy brassie're, and decides man's fate is to devolve to a blunder of lies in a world that can't agree on what is beautiful.

He reaches for the Smith & Wesson hidden at the top of his closet and admires the alloy frame and the understated matte finish of the stainless steel slide. He loads the double stack magazine and adjusts the manual thumb safety before gauging his choice of attire.

After appraising his final image in the mirror, Mark glides toward his sleeping wife and places the four-inch barrel near her always beautiful face; he jumps at the sharp clack of gunfire.

He hums to dull the high-pitched ringing in his ears while remembering the beauty of his image in the mirror - the silk Versace covered in steady flashes of exploding sequins, then he eases the hot alloy into a Chanel Red pout.

Teresa Cortez is a freelance writer living in Sugar Land, Texas. She's written for the Houston Chronicle's Among Friends and Texas Magazine as well as several poetry anthologies. She writes random thoughts and stories athttp://wabisabiwords.blogspot.com

tlcortez@earthlink.net

EarthLink Revolves Around You.

More than 10

2010-02-27T07:38:00.000-08:00

When words bombard the cerebellum 10 sentences are just too few

Thoughts collide like atoms crashing always late for curfew

Digging deep to the center of the earth, flying higher than the stars

Looking down upon the universe

Un-caged spirit free to roam the land of freedom

In another space and time fighting the voices of oppression with rhyme and reason

Now is our season to flourish to plant new seeds within the grounds

to fertilize the minds of youth with wise voices of whispering sounds

oh yes 10 sentences are just too few to tell the stories needed to be heard

so I will end my 10 sentences, not with a sentence but just 1 word, knowledge.

Damond Butler discovered his passion for writing poetry at the tender age of 16, a major turning point for most American teens. Like many others, he began to embark on a new journey in life. He began to discover what he believed in, discover love, lust, & lies, and venture into events that would begin to sculpture him into manhood.

Damond Butler, a native of Philadelphia is an Author, Poet, and Entrepreneur. He attended Millersville University in Lancaster, PA where he obtained his bachelors of science in Computer Science. He currently owns a flooring company, DA Butler Did It Flooring and is in pursuit of expanding his career as a writer.

Damond is a proud husband and father. He voluntarily gives back to his community as a foster parent & Children’s Church Teacher.

TWILIGHT YEARS

2010-02-06T08:46:00.001-08:00

She slowly made her way across the unfamiliar room to the book shelf to adjust the position of the ceramic dog her great grandson had made her many years ago. The shelf unit was familiar, the surroundings were totally foreign.

She glanced out the window expecting to see Tekoa Mountain and blinked several times when instead she viewed a large pine tree and a fence that seemed to lead off to nowhere.She turned and shuffled back to her chair, sat down, and moved slightly to the left to ease the ache from her back.

She sat very quiet and still for a moment, then leaned back with a sigh, and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep and dreaming of her home many miles away. Her mouth curled into a toothless grin as she watched the birds bringing in pieces of sticks and grass to their home outside of her front window. Just as she was leaning forward to get a better look, a large clang made her jump, and her eyes flew open.

She looked around the room. Taking a few minutes to get her bearings, her eyes drifted to the ceramic dog on the shelf. With effort she got up from her chair and slowly made her way across the unfamiliar room to the book shelf to adjust the position of the ceramic dog her great grandson had made her many years ago.

Belinda Wright (BJ Austin) lives in Coeur d'Alene Idaho where she works as a bookkeeper/caregiver/volunteer/gardener/handiman. When she grows up she would like to be an artist/writer/gardener. Until then she will dream large.

CAROUSEL HORSES

2010-01-31T11:01:00.000-08:00

Nikki knew better because she wasn’t a little girl anymore, well, she almost knew better, she thought she’d try one more angle before she abandoned her romantic hopes completely over this particular kind of stallion. Maybe it was the music playing or the undulating movement hypnotizing her to ride, but whatever it was, Nikki relented to the magnificent creature, knowing he was not a real stallion and yet hoping that if she just whispered to him the secrets of how to be a real stallion, he would break free from the gelded carousel and they could ride off into the sunset. Her own intuition instantly smirked at that one but Nikki avoided it by leaning back with stretched arms and just curled her fingers around the pole that went through the middle of the stallion. He could not see the pole, of course, but Nikki could, and yet she ignored the plastic reigns and concentrated on the breeze in her hair instead as she closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the ride. The beast seemed proud to be chosen and he communicated to her what he thought was beautiful and important and he bade her to stay with him always; the poor thing was tired of new riders and wanted one single one forever. Nikki smiled at him as the music played and they went round and round; she smiled and tried to encourage the carousel horse to be a real stallion before the music stopped. The horse made a silent whinny, showing his beautiful teeth and a bridle molded magnificently just like the rest of him, she thought, as she touched his perfectly hard, wind swept hair. He was beautiful, his profile rivaled the musculature of any stallion and for all the impressive posturing, he hadn’t understand a single word she said. The music stopped and Nikki climbed down for the last time, accepting that wishes didn’t change carousel horses into real ones. Nikki would remember him fondly but she needed a real stallion, not one that just stood there beautifully.

BIO: Olive Rosehips parents actually named her Rhonda Monique and she looks to quotes to make sense of things. She believes as Leonardo da Vinci says, that "There are three classes of people: "Those who see. Those who see when they are shown, and those who do not see." She also has a thing for horses so this story was destined to be written. Apologies to any carousel horses who may think they recognize themselves in this fiction, this fiction is not intended to offend. Olive writes to clear her mind because painting her toe nails vivid shades of red doesn't always complete her. Olive is a published author, whose short stories and poetry appear in magazines and books. She blogs creatively at http://oliverosehips.blogspot.com/ and http://pentenscribes.ning.com/ .

Be 5/5ths

2010-01-21T16:42:00.000-08:00

"Be amended 5/5ths, be amended 5/5ths human."-Common from "It's Your World"

The world needs ALL of you, since there is only one of you on Earth. The worlds needs for you to fully BE who you were purposed and created to be. The destiny of another is dependent on you fulfilling your destiny, and extraneous issues are trying to pull you away from that greatness. You have to be deliberate about keeping yourself built up as a strong, humble being. When at 5/5ths, you are at your absolute strongest, best self. The minute you start to let go, shrink, and diminish is the moment of great vulnerability. Vulnerable to offense, fear, distrust, unhappiness, and bitterness. Be amended as the song suggests. Your amendment is in YOUR hands. Be 5/5ths so that the world can be 5/5ths.

Bio:
Kandice Na'Te is a futuristic, earthy teacher, writer, and business owner who chooses to see the world for what it can be. Writing is the one thing that allows her to positively express herself uninterrupted. She has been writing since she was in grade school, but now fully realizes the powerful potential of written word. She has decided to follow her heart and hope for the very best. To follow her journey go to www.kandicenate.blogspot.com

REPLICATION

2010-01-21T16:39:00.000-08:00

The pale gold walls of Georgiana's sewing room blanched in the arc of lamplight above the wooden trestle table, its once squared edges blunted by years of use. She'd always been attracted to objects with a history--something she'd been denied as an abandoned child..

The quilt before her was composed of a hand-appliquéd central medallion and three pieced borders. She'd haunted garage sales and thrift shops for vintage-looking fabrics and threads, not overlooking pieces with light stains.

The hand quilting process she labored over now was the most tedious--tiny stitches that left her fingers aching after the perfectionist in her worried at the threads and fabrics as she went along, gently abrading them with white paper sacks to obtain a genuine, timeworn look.

This quilt design, chosen from photos of post Civil War period pieces, had resulted from an afternoon of research at the library. She expected it to bring twenty thousand dollars with a carefully worded ad on eBay that would artlessly reveal it's supposed age.

She wasn't driven by the money so much as having her work accepted as something legitimate. It nearly took away the sting of her own uncertain lineage, the obstacles that had been placed before her at birth.

She looked up briefly and massaged the kinks in her neck, wondering for the thousandth time if somewhere in the universe, someone was watching, cheering her on.

Sue Elliis lives and writes near Spokane, Washington. Her short stories and poetry have appeared at such places as Sniplits, Flash Me Magazine, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and Wild Violet. She is a member of The Internet Writers Workshop. Look for her book reviews at The Internet Review of Books.

Rx

2010-01-15T16:11:00.001-08:00

Regularly I fill your soul with unleaded streams of premium inspiration. Your body never runs on E. The high from my hallucinogenic mind numbing fumes keep you running to my earth shattering pumps like clockwork!

Many have tried to counterfeit the quality of my elixir of thought provoking images, but alas you cannot make a mockery of my vivacious fuel.

You are used to the wholesome goodness of my clutch, driving without this sublime octane leaves you blind, and numb. Anytime you need my metaphysical to invigorate you, succumb to the estate streams of soul in the psychological.

Bio: Todd Covington lives in New Jersey. His mellifluous use of words has invoked light in every line he writes. Many of his inspirations and short stories can be found @ www.flashinthedays.com is the view into the era of a long lost time.

Ramayana's Daydream

2010-01-02T09:08:00.000-08:00

I tasted the juices, millions of years old. My feet were covered in earth. I hugged the ground, and the ground, like an impoverished boy curled next to a space heater in an attic-turned-bedroom with makeshift walls, hugged back. Naked girls pirouetting danced through my mind, the background a cave dimly lit by fire. What would I think if I left that cave? What would I do if the fire went dim? One slight change of path, and what would the ancient juices taste like? What would my feet be covered with? I am turning into a rocket. I hope death is like a space launch.

Bio: John Arthur lives in New Jersey. He likes to read, write, listen to music, and play music. He sings in a band called The Deafening Colors: http://www.myspace.com/thedeafeningcolors.

Princess Upon a War Horse

2009-12-28T09:36:00.001-08:00

The journey from the foothills to Darjeeling was like the slow, tantalising drip of jungle honey. Antara could walk alongside, on the brink of the hills, green valleys yawning below; chew on delicate pink flowers that tasted sour, and breathe deep the pine-scented air. Tiny wooden houses sat on stilts, their windowsills creaking with rosy-cheeked children waving at her, and pots bursting with red and pink geraniums.

She went horseback riding in Darjeeling on the tallest horse she could find, and although Mama's contempt caused her to miss a stirrup and fall face-down upon the horse's neck, she would ride alone. She was a princess upon a war horse and the boys with peace sign lockets around their necks whistled appreciatively at her as she galloped past.

After a round, when she neared the crowded ‘chowrasta’, Antara reined in the horse beside a little mound of earth, and gingerly dismounted. She did not wish to make a spectacle of herself again. The horse followed her like some docile dog, so that a tourist mistook her for a guide.

A young man with rosy cheeks came up to her and handed her the earring she had lost when she fell. She thanked him with a smile, and hastily clipped it on, for to be seen with just one earring was worse than not being seen with earrings at all.

BIO

Anita Saran leads a rich life that encompasses the world of fiction writing and spiritual practice. She is the award-winning author of the national award winning science fiction novella 'Aditya the Underwater Boy', and 'Dolphin Girl and Other Stories.'
Her short story 'City of Victory' was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in July 2004. You can listen to it free here:
http://www.associatedcontent.com/audio/10164/city_of_victory_by_anita_saran_narrated.html
Her audio story 'Panic' is up on Sniplits - http://sniplits.com/storiesbytitle.jsp#
Her Science fiction story 'The Enlightened Robot' is on Cezanne's Carrot: http://www.cezannescarrot.org/vol2iss2/enlightenedrobot.html

Novella 'City of Victory' published by chillifreeze.com :

http://www.chillifreeze.com/publish_your_book/city_of_victory_by_anita_saran.aspx

Her first novel 'Circe' – a funny satirical fantasy- is about to be released by Mojocastle Press.
Anita teaches short story writing and copywriting online on chillifreeze.com..
Read some of her writing on her personal website - http://www.anitasaran.com.

UNNOTICED by Jim Wisneski

2009-11-03T18:40:00.000-08:00

It was the last changing leaf of the season. The transformation from a dark, rich green to a bright red to a golden yellow to a fallen leaf happened unnoticed. It blew down the street, block by block, until finally held down by the rain and the endless tires. The remains were carried by foot, breeze, plow, and time as the last changing leaf went unnoticed.

The rush of candy, of thanks to be given, and lights and toys came and went. The treacherous winter sunk its teeth into the earth and held tight for as time made it feel like forever. Then something magical happened. The first leaf of the season budded. It stuck its head out and opened with a sigh and welcomed back the warm sun. The first leaf welcomed the rest and time moved forward once again, unnoticed.

Short bio: Visit Jim's writers blog at www.writersnwriters.blogspot.com - visit his personal blog at www.wizworld.wordpress.com - and visit his podcasting blog to hear some of his stories, novellas, and novels at www.jimcast.wordpress.com. Jim writes short stories, novellas, novels, and poetry. When he isn't writing, he is thinking about writing.

HANDS by Kevin Hoffman

2009-10-21T06:28:00.000-07:00

He looked down at his thick, time-worn hands and flexed his fingers deep in thought. These hands could carry a shovel and clear the way for a bright future or carry nothing and stand in the way of progress. They could cradle a baby gently within their grasp or crush the life from someone's throat. These hands can build a home to shelter a family or rip it apart one board at a time. He turned his hands over to examine the back, marveling at the variety of the size and shape of the veins running below the surface.

He thought how each vein turned at a fork in the road; a choice made that led him down one path and away from another. Through his hands, he could love someone or show them hatred. His hands could lift someone's heart and spirits or crush them and forever damage a soul. His hands were full of power. All the power in the world to bring about whatever wish he could imagine rest within his simple, bare hands.

Kevin Hoffman has been writing stories and books since he was a kid. He's spent the last 14 years of his life writing computer software and writing books on computer programming. He has finally decided that computer programming is just a day job and his true passion is writing fiction, though you will have to pry his high-tech gadgetry from his cold, dead hands. http://www.kshmusings.com

Behold the Dawn:

2009-10-14T14:16:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from just released medieval novel Behold the Dawn:

The infidels struck, screaming their wordless battle cry. Everything around them turned to pain and death. Annan didn’t wait to check for the guards. He clamped one hand round the lady’s arm and lunged forward. The sounds of the slaughter surged after them with an intensity and a speed that bespoke all too well of the attackers’ vigor.

He kept low, not daring to look behind him, knowing the Moslems were much closer than he wanted them to be.

He and the lady crossed the corpse of a guard, and Annan paused long enough to lift the infidel saber from the still-warm hand. It was a masterful stroke that had felled the warrior—silently, deftly, instantly. His nostrils flared in a momentary flash of admiration. Whatever else he was or had been, the Baptist was a man of many skills.

The courser, a muscled gray, snorted through distended nostrils, but he could not veer fast enough to escape Annan’s hand on the tie-line.

“Master Knight!”

At her cry, he spun to see the approach of the horsemen, dark against the ruddy sky. With one stroke of the saber, he severed the tie line and vaulted into the saddle, narrowly clearing the high cantle.

The Moslems swept through the camp, shouting their curses of vengeance, and Mairead turned to look up at Annan, eyes dark with the sudden horror that he was abandoning her already.

He shifted sword and reins all into one hand, fighting to keep the snorting courser from charging away. He reached out with his left hand and caught the countess’s outstretched arm. His wounded shoulder burned, and the tightness of the bandage nearly forestalled the necessary strength to swing her onto the pillion behind him.

She landed with a soft thump and let go of his wrist. Her arms came around his waist, her face against his shoulders. “Go.”

He laid his heels to the gray courser’s sides, and the horse lunged forward, dark mane unfurling against his rein hand. But this was a Western horse, bred for muscle and endurance. He had not the dexterity and fleetness of the Mohammedan war mares.

Behind them, the tattoo of hoofbeats grew louder yet, and Annan dared a look over his shoulder, past Mairead’s blowing hair. Only paces separated them from two infidel pursuers.
He spurred the courser again. The horse was fresh and responded with another lengthening of stride. But Annan knew they would never outpace their followers. He could only be thankful that these infidels were not that brand of Moslem archer famed for their accuracy on horseback, else the countess’s exposed back would already have become an easy target.

Not that it mattered. Once they drew near enough, the infidels would cut them apart at their leisure anyway.

He could not run. So he must fight.

about K. M. Weiland I grew up chasing Billy the Kid and Jesse James on horseback through the sand hills of western Nebraska, where I still live. A lifelong fan of history and the power of the written word, I enjoy sharing both through my many fictional stories and my novels, A Man Called Outlaw and Behold the Dawn (available October 1st). I blog at Wordplay: Helping Writers Become Authors andAuthorCulture and air a weekly podcast as well.

WHEN

2009-10-10T13:45:00.000-07:00

"Mommy!, I can't find my favorite necklace!" shrieked Emily.

"One sec Jane" sighed Clair as she turned away from the phone to address her daughter.
"Emily, how many times do I have to tell you? If something is that
important to you, you have to take really good care of it or it'll end up
lost. Go on, keep looking and I'll help you find it when I'm off the phone".

With a shake of her head, she went back to her conversation. "Sorry Jane....
I knooow! When will they ever learn?!? Now, what was that you were asking?
Oh no dear, that's ok, I don't mind you asking at all. I really don't know
what happened. I guess we just grew apart and needed something else out of
our lives."

Runswith Cizers is a nube writer who loves Mac products and Mustangs. When he's not running with cissors, and even when he is, he is a computer geek.

WAKE-UP CALL

2009-10-07T14:24:00.000-07:00

The day arrived packaged in a brown paper bag.

The pinched sun was knotted up behind a bank of burnt cork cloud, high up at the apex of the celestial.

Lesser cumuli corrugated the sky like wrinkles.

God, the old consumptive, was obviously anxious to get his latest sequestration back home through the pearly gates and was gripping to the firmament just a mite too hard.

And then it broke, all Hell that is.

A jagged tear at the bottom where the sky kissed the concrete Babel, from which hailstones rehashed from Ancient Egypt toppled on to the sidewalk.

The divine short order chef dashing his eggs over easy.

Sunny side down.

Or perhaps, considering the alcoholic withdrawal that continually ram-raided the hole in my soul, maybe the hailstones were resonating more like popping corn inside mycranium.

Unhh, no need for an alarm clock with my finely altered biochemistry.

Marc Nash: Experimental UK writer, lover of language and imagery. Ex-playwright, now assaulting the novel form. Self-published "A,B&E" imminent. A scabrous mirror held up to my people. A love-hate "Dear John" letter.

Blog: http://sulcicollective.blogspot.com/

Self-Publishing experience Blog: http://self-publishinguser.blogspot.com/

Website: http://marcnash.weebly.com/

Twitter @21stCscribe

TWILA

2009-09-30T18:40:00.000-07:00

Twila was born in the mountains of Virginia under a full moon “That’s when all the lunatics came out,” her grandmother said.

Maybe that’s why Twila set out to do things no one else could do.

Like the time she decided to roller skate to the White House and ask the President to stop all war; she made it five miles and then the sidewalk ran out . . . so she thought she’d go home and watch The Cosby show, instead.

On her fifteenth birthday she recruited six of her friends to help save the world from hunger; if they collected five hundred dollars the purchase of rice and beans could feed the impoverished.

Realizing these people would need fire and water, her plans changed to handing out bread and peanut butter where the local homeless gathered.

No one was surprised on the day after graduation—when Twila joined the Army to make new friends in Iraq .

Jeanette is a charter member of the Hampton Roads Writers.

A veteran member of many online writing sites and E-Zine’s.

Six Sentence Blog site and E-Zine. A semifinalist; in the Mixed Drinks contest and published two Six Sentence Magazines of Six Sixes and in their newly released book Volume Two.

Published on: Smith Magazine and in two of their memoir books.

Three of these books have been on the New York Times best sellers list.

Twice published on The Verb’s Chalkboard, and a Semifinalist in the Verb’s Dynamic Dialogue contest, Helium--Premier Writer Status andMarketplace Writer, Gather, Doorknobs and Body Paint, Edit Red, Pen Pricks, Thrillers Killers ‘N’ Chillers, One Sentence, Robert Swartword and Verbsap winner of the best title contest, Word Salad Haiku and poem. Pen Ten Scribes and Forthcoming: Harbinger*33.

Made in Heaven

2009-09-29T07:39:00.000-07:00

"C'mon, Slim, how you 'spect to git a woman 'less'n ya' c'n talk 'em up?"

"I don' got no words f'r that sort o'thing, Vern."

"Y'noe Slim, if'n yer Ma wuzn't my Pa's sister, I'd swear we wuzn't related at all!'

It seems as though Slim had been trying since puberty to get "Big Betty", the last available semblance of a woman in town, to marry him, without success, and so, had appealed to "Lil' Cuz Vern" for help.

"Now, ya' gotta' tell'er things like, 'Yer beauty cud dam' near stop the hands o' time!'"

"Don' knoe, Vern, las' time I talk' at 'er she got mad as a wildcat whut stepped on a hot poker, an' dam' near broke my arm!

You have to keep in mind that Slim was as strong as an ox and about half as smart, in words as kind as can be said, he was 'not the brightest bulb in the box'.

"Listen, ya' gotta git down'n one knee, hol' up that wooden ring ya' made, an' tell 'er wut I tol'ya to, 'n' y'll be fine.

Well, Slim met with the, ahem, "beautiful Big Betty" the very next day, and upon his return was met by Vern and a few others, a return notably marked by a blackened eye, fat lip. bloody ear, and this time a broken arm, prompting the question, "Damn Slim, wut the Hell'dya' do to 'er?"

I jus' tol' 'er wut ye said, "…that she had a face that could stop an eight day clock!", an' then the lights went out!

Jim Hunkele: From a family heritage of writers, I decided that such was not for me. I went on my merry way, experiencing one sort of job after another. I'd learn a job, get bored, and move on. I've worked in the Richmond , VA foundry, operated a nuclear reactor in the North Ana plant, and everything in between. In my late 40's, I became an Immigration Officer, where I got to interview others about their jobs. Since, after 30 years, I'd gleaned so much from so many different positions, I felt I had finally found my niche. While my stories relate to current life events, I plan to begin writings based on the stories I have accumulated in the Immigration Offices. Yes, I finally have the time and inclination to write. In God We Trust! photo2wood.blogspot.com

"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." ~Benjamin Franklin

THE HUMAN MIND

2009-09-27T23:33:00.000-07:00

I know the capacity of my mind and the capabilities it holds and yet I, like many use this gift so vaguely and inefficiently. I am always limiting my steps towards the limited direction and hence end up admitting defeat on various grounds. Repeatedly I echo for my own belief “It takes time, and effort, and energy to excel into things, and though I am capable of diving into it and getting it done, I always stand on the shore being too scared”. I am always thinking of the "what ifs" and never thinking of what could be.

Many fantasies dwell in my mind... many hopes, many thoughts, many dreams, many aspirations... and most of the time they are never planned for action. I am too prejudiced to do that. I am always wasting time wondering what everyone else will think, and weighing the absolute nonsense of the idea of pleasing people first. In most situations I have delayed myself so terribly that my opportunity to win has been lost. Some may blame fate but I blame me; knowing that I have the power to change the course of destiny I yet continue to sit here and constantly lie to myself about my abilities and ambitions. About time I learn, you learn it too!

Thirsty Desert, a copy writer by profession, is currently enjoying all possibilities of writing via blogging at "When he kisses her, passions roar" and frequent contributions to Pen 10 and 6S

VULTURES

2009-09-27T11:56:00.000-07:00

Clothes were flying from the drawer as Mama frantically searched through them in a hurry. I could only see the rhythmic jiggle of her backside and the smoke that curled from the cigarette which dangled from her dry lips. This was one of those teaching moments that I often heard of occurring at apron strings except what I got was a fat butt and garbled instructions.

She squinted through the smoke as she drew on the Virginia Slim Mild and said, “Your aunties are prolly thinking they gon just come over here and take everything when Granny passes. They aint nuthin but a bunch of vultures!” I stood there wide-eyed watching her ransack a once elegant room full of damask and warm memories. I had no time to indulge in the old times before being snatched back to reality with an almost harsh demand to “Hand me another bag!”

“What are vultures, mama?” I asked. She explained in her way that they were the birds who circle a carcass waiting for deaths invitation to signal their rampage; adding with pith that my Aunties were vultures.

I slowly handed her the bag as I thought better of asking what this mess we stood in made us. Yes, she taught many things at her knee but the lessons I carried away were something different altogether.

Rhonda Gould Smolarek fell in love with writing when her fifth grade teacher Mrs. Joyce Pickett at Parkside Elementary School made such a fuss about a story she wrote about a squirrel in the woods. She stuck with it as justification for all the beautiful pens available though now she mostly uses a keyboard to blend words into stories and poetry. She just makes stuff up. She does it mostly at http://pentenscribes.ning.com/ and hopes you will do it, also.

DADDY WARBUCKS’ KID

2009-09-27T11:28:00.001-07:00

We knew her long before her rich old Army daddy finagled a seat for her on one of the transports toAlpha Centauri. A sizzling redhead with a mouth that could wilt an orbit ranger dead in his filthy-tongue tracks, Constanzia Burke gave exemplary meaning to that centuries-old admonition, “Step up to the plate.” She feared nothing and no one. From the time she was in grade school, high school, and then through flight school with us, Constanzia knew what she wanted and made no bones about getting it, even when it meant elbowing ribs, planting subtle but effective landmines in the path of competitors, and even resorting to that ploy, also centuries-old …sleeping with the director.

Who knew back then New America would be planting its RedWhiteBlue on the third brightest star in the galaxy! Those who had bet the proverbial “farm” on lunar expectations ended up in the poorhouse, but a man with foresight enough to tackle less popular possibilities would reap financial windfalls from exclusive claims to the mega-rich chromium mines on Alpha Centauri. “Daddy Warbucks” Burke was that man.

Second Wingtenants Mueller, Franklin, and I––all first trekkers with shiny medals on our uniformed chests to prove it––had landed on A. C. during the very first convoy of six ships; Burke’s daughter arrived on the second several years later. We were not happy to see her, but we were even less happy when we discovered she had been promoted to First Wingtenant Colonel of all operations, military and civilian, the newly promoted brightest star in the western sector of the third brightest star!

“If you think for a second I kicked ass back on Earth, you freaking dumb glass heads, wait till you see what I’m cooking up for you here on the big A.C.!”

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Salvatore Buttaci’s poems, stories, articles, and letters have appeared widely in publications that includeNew York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine, and Christian Science Monitor. He was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007 and second-place winner in the 2008 Poetry Super Highway Contest. Buttaci has lectured on Sicilian American pride and conducted numerous poetry workshops and readings. Retired from teaching, Salvatore Buttaci lives with his wife Sharon inPrinceton, West Virginia. He can be visited at http://salvatorebuttaci.wordpress.com

His new chapbook Boy on a Swing and other poems is available fromhttp://www.bigtablepublishing.com/chaptitles.html