Dating Lessons – Maggie Caldwell
He was slender with thin lips and bad teeth, square jaw and high cheekbones, always sporting a crisp blue oxford tucked into Levis. He smoked Marlboro reds and had a way of holding his elbows close to his body and waving his free hand around when he spoke. There was a bit of a prance to his step. At 27 he was five years older than she.
They met at a party. He looked at her from across the room, narrowed his eyes, and grinned. Pointing to her, than at himself, he pantomimed dialing a phone. She was thrilled by the attention.
Her mother was thrilled with the boy on the phone. “It’s finally going to happen for you,” she proclaimed. “I was really starting to wonder.”
On their first date she wore new black leggings and the green eyeliner her mother said matched her eyes. They went to the Bamboo House. “I can’t believe you’ve never had Chinese food before,” and shaking his head mock disgust he ordered dinner for four so she could taste everything.
“I’m so proud of you,” said her mother that night. “But next time wear a skirt. Boys really like girls in skirts.”
On their second date he taught her the importance of discarding the wrapper on a pack of cigarettes. “Cellophane holds fingerprints,” he explained. “See, if you ever commit a crime you’ll probably get nervous and accidentally leave your smokes behind.” He smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Get it?” he asked nodding slowly. She didn’t really but kept that to herself and nodded slowly back.
“Now don’t think that we’re dating,” he said during their third date as he showed her how to peel shrimp. “I’m just getting you ready. You need to know how to act.”
She didn’t know why he said things like that, but kept it to herself.
He ordered martinis for the two of them on their fourth date. “Guys don’t like it when you order frilly drinks,” he told her. When she came home that night her mother smelled her breath and said, “Honey, you know that boys don’t like it when girls drink.”
He called every other Tuesday, always for dinner and drinks on Friday or Saturday night. She never phoned, even though she would have liked to talk. “Boys don’t like it when girls call them,” her mother explained.
They went to hear music on their fifth date. “I’m out of cash,” he told her. “Will you get this round?”
“I don’t have any cash either,” she replied.
“You’ve always got to have a couple of emergency bills,” he said. “What if you need a cab? You need to think.” With an exaggerated sigh he pulled a twenty from his wallet and went off to the bar.
After dinner on their sixth date he leaned back in his chair, lit a fresh cigarette, and crossed his legs. He inhaled and blew smoke at the floor. Waving his free hand he said,
“The thing is, we’re not going to see each other anymore.”
She froze in her chair and waited. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“I have a girlfriend; she’s a teacher. She gets it, you know?”
She still didn’t know, but kept that to herself, too.
“Look, I told you all along I was just getting you ready for the next guy. This is no big thing.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Come on, let’s go have a drink. Then I’ll take you home. She stood, throat full of tears. Pulling a couple of bills from her pocket, tossed one on the table, waved the other at him, and went to call a cab. She thought, just maybe she got it better than he knew.
* * * * *
Unopened – Tamara Dourney
Kipling and King, Grisham and Wells, Orwell, and even Kerouac. Inspiration, one and all, but there is a kinship, too, that I claim, an unspoken, “I’m one with them!” echoing through me. This curious alliance with others unknown to me from personal meeting or contact springs from shared emotion, imagined though it may be. I will not pass judgment upon myself for the delusion. I am certain that the disappointment I feel is the same they once felt. Steeped in the pride inherent in all who put pen to paper, I believe that the struggle I face will be overcome as surely as it was by those who came before.
Reality ebbs as my pride strengthens, welling to the surface and spreading out until all is hidden beneath it. I am certain now, adamant that no God would instill into an unworthy vessel such desire to create. No, he would not place this urge within one incapable of living up to the gift he had given. Not even the God of the Old Testament would be so cruel! It is my lot in life to strive to attain, to dream of filling the minds of others with beautiful pictures and unfathomable truths.
The trouble, of course, is indivisible from the hope. The easy way in which ideas flood in is not mimicked in the actual work of the writing. Struggles abound, as numerous as the drafts, as endless as the corrections waiting to be made. I’m made of strong stuff, though, I think. I wade through the changes and hold my breath as a final draft makes its way into the hands of those whose interest could make or break me. The wait is infinite, stretching on until I nearly break.
But this morning, an email lurks in my inbox, bold because I haven’t read it yet. I am deprived of the determination I had so long ago, when the words first flew from my fingertips. Deep breaths and time pass slowly as I seek the strength of will to double click and bring its reality into my life. And in a moment of overwhelming pride, I simply click delete.
Who cares?!
I, despite my overwhelming admiration of self, despite my brief rebellion towards those who would try to decide my fate, know that I care. Quickly, before I am unable, I fish it out of the trash.
Returned to the in-box, it again taunts me. I close my eyes as I click, a final attempt of fragile pride to shield itself. As they slowly drift open, an amazing thing occurs. As if ordained by God, a storm breaks overhead, lightning slicing through the sky, thunder booming all around. I stare in shock at the now-black screen, wondering how long it will be before the power comes back on.
* * * * *
INSPIRATION
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
Vincent van Gogh
* * * * *
Trampled – Cindy Noble
There, on the ground. Just under the sole of your shoe- no, don’t bother now, its too late. You’ve crushed it, trampled its fragile beauty, your careless feet directed by your unseeing eyes. Yes, I know; you see only a weed by the roadside, but I see so much more!
I have a picture on my wall of just such a weed. Tiny little thing, it was hidden among the grass of the backyard where I, running barefoot with the kids, almost did as you just now. I don’t know what force it was that sent me to my knees. It could have been divine intervention, or it could have been the dodging off a ball, yet there it was, and there I was, face to face with its breath-catching perfection.
It possessed a tiny purple center, no more than the size of a pen cap. Around this purple ball were clustered a dozen perfect white blossoms, so tiny, so flawless; bell-shaped with tiny yellow centers, they seemed the stuff of fairytales. More surprising still was the discovery that the whole of this was held high and proud by a thin green stem, no more than a thread- a thread holding up the world. Yes, hidden there beneath a single blade of grass, I found the most amazing truth; I found myself in the colors of summers long gone by and in a single thread-like stem holding together all that was beautiful and right.
So, you see, it is no horrible offense you’ve given to the universe at large- no, you’ve just managed to trample…on my inspiration.
* * * * *
An Awakened One – Cheryl M. Tait
An Awakened One is easy to spot if you understand the law of nature in its most perfect design. Just as the pattern of consistency occurs with the rhythm of the universe. With constant changes of evolving, so is the consciousness of the Awakened One.
The Awakened One will have personality characteristics similar to that of the universe for they have become in sync through enlighte
nment with nature; they are constantly busy.
Like the force that makes the universe revolve non-stop, so are we. We are never still and always on the go (a work of peace, always in progress). And where we go harmony is to come and unharmony will soon be removed, since we become restless with the unbalance of the absence of harmony and must dwell in it or leave.
Some have heard said that idle mind is the devils work shop. But I say idle minds are the sign of the unawakened one under the veil of delusion which leads to an idle body. Where the mind goes the body will follow.
You have also heard said ‘faith without works is dead’. But I say the Awakened One is compelled to action; compelled by wisdom which connects to faith, creating a constant rhythm through the connection with the creator of life.
The Awakened One constantly feeds off of inner wisdom; constantly hungers for knowledge, which leads them to constant activities.
It is important to understand the characteristics of an Awakened One in others; some times it can go undetected. Yet they are all around you. Some know who they are and some do not, but merely following the divine- driven actions and behaviors; but don’t know why.
Yet they are kindred spirits of light, enlightened ones to be awakened soon…
You must tread careful with those of the unenlightenment, unbalanced on in the rhythm of nature; because the danger does vary in unpredictability of behavior and each person varies depending on the degree of unenlightened balance; yet the more enlightened the person, the more peace they keep, in the company of all forms of life- which is also with relation to fellow mankind, the Balanced One. The less enlightened tend to be at odds all the time with all forms of nature including human relationships. They are not only a threat to other life forms but as well self-destructive in one form or more.
We, the Awakened One’s, are sent here as fishermen of men; seeds for the mental and productive growth of the world in the variety of human forms as we represent with multiple talents and gifts. Yet we dance carefully in spirit toe to toe with the negative force of the unbalanced one.
For they are the mission; yet they are a threat in the unbalanced state of mind bringing mankind closer to the light of truth and wisdom; we deposit small seeds of light to feed them the fruit of pure knowledge and yet-not standing too close to them- until they can see the inner truth of the Myo, the wisdom of the Ancient Of All Times
We must guard ourselves from harm, since we practice peace and they do not.
Each time, we feed larger dosages of light through the word; we give knowledge as they are able to adjust to the change in their thinking and actions. Until they are fed enough, we learn to stick and move for they are violent verbally and physically.
Yet we persist; the mission of the Awakened One is to deposit and replace. The deposit of pure knowledge energy and the replacement of negative energy one person at a time.
Transforming the world into one of light, of positive energy. To remove the self-destructiveness of the human race, through positive energy forces to form one light, one candle of constant flames of world peace; which can only be done in the light of truth and perfection.
* * * * *
Part Two
* * * * *
SORROW
Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door—— Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow’s hand?
Edna St. Vincent Millay
* * * * *
In the Light – Christi Craig
She didn’t look so old three days ago.
I stopped by her apartment after work for our usual Wednesday evening coffee date. She had just gotten back from her mall walking and said she’d gotten an eyefull at the Victoria’s Secret display.
“I don’t think their hardware could hold this old body together.” She laughed hard. “Can you imagine? I’d be a nightmare in satin!”
She buzzed around the kitchen and spoke of the weather and of the birds whose songs filled the cold winter air with life and signs of spring. She told me about her plans for her summer garden. She washed out a juice glass and her favorite coffee cup. She grabbed another cup, for me, and turned on “the tea kettle.” She dropped a few teaspoons of Folgers in our cups, and then topped the grinds with sugar.
“I put a little extra in yours, honey. I know you like it sweet. That water’ll be hot any minute now.”
She was vibrant as she danced in and out of the late afternoon sunbeams that streamed through her patio doors.
But now, laying there in bed, under a fluorescent light, she looked old. Her hair had gone white. It was gray before, but now it was definitely white. And, the skin on her arms seemed looser. Maybe it was always that way, and I just never noticed.
I pulled back the sheet and found her hand. Ice cold. I lifted it to my cheek and tried to warm her fingers. She breathed deep.
“Is that you, honey? Is it Wednesday already?”
She turned to me. I smiled and tried to hide the fear in my eyes.
* * * * *
Without Breathing – Taylor Ridling
Without breathing.
Without talking.
Without really thinking, I said it.
“I’m…not happy.”
What I really meant was “You’re not making me happy. I’m not happy with YOU. I’m
not happy with what we became.” But I just said “I’m not happy.”
We used to be all sunshine.
All plans, all pancakes, and time.
But somewhere along the way we lost us.
I’d get lost on the way home, stay late at work, or stay up all night figuring out how I was going to leave.
We used to stay up all night.
Talking.
Entangled and kissing.
Slowly.
Learning about each other.
But today I said I’m not happy.
And I left.
* * * * *
Incomplete – TS Harrington
She lay on the bed in his shirt, inhaling him. Contemplating her next move. The sun rose through the curtained windows, the breeze softly blowing them towards her. Clutching the parchment in her left hand, she wrapped her right hand around her heart.
“It’s dawn. I’m in my bed after leaving you in yours. I realized that I needed to write this before I lose my nerve. Before Saturday comes around and with it the chance to see you again, to touch you once more.”
The words trailed off after that. Perhaps she couldn’t focus through the haze of tears. Perhaps there simply were no more words.
Sighing, she placed the paper on the bed beside her, next to the pen. She made her way to the window. Parting the curtains she closed her eyes, took a breath, and leaned into the glass. Into the warmth of a new day.
* * * * *
FEAR
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust
William Shakespeare
* * * * *
Tight Wire – Gabrielle Mitchell-Marell
The kids were better at it—more balanced, less weight, used to practicing similar feats. One hopped on and padded across the braided cable to the landing. “Ow, ow, ow,” he said as he went. I scanned the field for the architect. Two stakes plunged deep in the grass. Small town entertainment. I stepped up; took a few teetering paces and fell the short distance to the ground. With flip-flops I went farther, but could only make it to the finish if escorted like a bride down the aisle.
Our group, just passing through, settled down in the thick grass to watch the sky fade in blue and black wisps. Across the field, musicians performed under a tent while families picnicked, children played in their wilderness that would soon shrink down to just a corner stretch of grass. Not so big or small.
In the twilight from a distance, I saw them coming. Two young boys, their elbows drawing circles in the air, propeller legs, rushed their bodies forward like wheel spokes chasing the limit of how fast these machines could go. It could have been a race or just pure exhilaration on a summer’s night. If you’d been a cricket, knees up in the grass you would have heard the patter of fresh heartbeats and those limbs pushing against the air. Maybe the whoosh of silken hair rising and falling and shoes shucking the grass.
They arrived too close to yell out, like Olympians crossing a finish line. The first to reach buckled back then threw forward—hurled over the wire, as the other one started, met too at the shins, set off on that series of body-breaking motions. Then arrived flat on his back and joined in.
Those staggered howls!
We ran to them, crouched down, afraid to touch their bony, wounded bodies. In those long seconds no one knew what to do. Two women, not so far behind, showed up and hovered over. “Mom!” the bigger one cried. “Come on,” she said, and then moved on as she’d come, keys rattling in her hand.
Tender, unmade things, they lay and wept.
Soon they eased themselves up like aged men. Each a hand pressed to his hunched back began to stumble on across the field, towards the cars. Too brave, now silent.