the leaves
had started to curl
like sleeping fingers
when the wind blew softly on them
and then slowly i realized
that i had made a fist every time
you spoke her name
my father’s skin is armor; tan and tough year after year
wrinkled only from life’s work, no lines from laughter, pain, or fear
only once did he break through, the day I taught him grief exists
he knelt sobbing at my bedside; zip ties chained my bandaged wrists.
The earth finally stopped moving, she looked around and everything was ok. Where was her husband? Was he in the city like he had planned? She looked around with shaking hands for her phone to call him
Jane
She read about him in the newspaper and didn’t think anything of it. But then something about his name hit her; something familiar. It hid her then: She knew him. She knew the face from somewhere; she hadn’t really read the name, just the story. He and his father and his brother had hijacked a plane to Cuba, and on the way, killed a security guard at the airport somewhere in Texas. When she read it, she shook her head like everybody else probably did that day, then poured her cold coffee down the sink and started getting ready to go to work. She was paging her way through the hangers when she thought about it again. She knew that guy. So she went back into the kitchen, and fished the paper out of the garbage. There was old toast and scrambled eggs all over the picture on the front page. The truth was, she wouldn’t have recognized the picture at all. But the name. Byron Teller. Byron. The nicest boy in 6th grade. So nice, that he offered to carry her books when they walked part of the way home from school together. So nice, that when her father, who hated everybody, saw Byron on the front porch handing her book backs to her and saying he’d see her tomorrow, her father said, “He seems like a nice boy. Ask him to come over for dinner.” Of course, he changed his mind the next day, but for the old man to like anybody was something. She remembered that somewhere in her drawer, she still had her old autography book from 6th grade when they all graduated. She fished it out. “To the nicest girl in 6th grade” He’d drawn a heart and his name.
Think of that. What happened to him? She called her friend Donna to tell her about the whole thing. “You mean Byron Teller?” Donna couldn’t believe it. “He wrote in my autograph book too.” She hung up to go find it. A few minutes later, she was back on the phone. “God, Sher, you’re not going to believe what he wrote in my book.” So go ahead, Sher said, what did he say? “Roses are red, violets are black, you’d look great with a knife in your back.” That sure got me to shaken. It sure did.
nyla
They have no meaning, most of these are cheesy and about james bond. Dig deeper. Not saying mine are any good but you can put more emotion in these. Make me feel someting.
madi
I felt like a name in a hat being shaken up by god himself, as i waited in that room to define my destiny. To find out where i came from and where i belong, even if it may be great disappointment, there was no going back.
madi
Shaken, not stirred. Says James Bond. What does it matter if it’s shaken or stirred? Wouldn’t it taste the same either way? Perhaps it’ll be bubblier, or fizzier. I don’t know. Do olive properties change when you shake them? It’s not like you’re shaking a tree.
Mariah
breathing hard, eyes unfocused. i knew this day would come, i knew, i knew, i knew. but i always pretended it wouldn’t. i wouldn’t because i couldn’t stop loving you, i don’t think i know how to.
Like a martini
Like a doll
Like an unwanted baby to quiet the screams
To the core
With icy winter coldness
With excitement and anticipation
With each orgasm
With love
Carmen M.
“Shaken, not stirred”, he said doing his best James Bond impression.
She was not impressed. She wanted to punch him in the face. She knew that he would never, could never be as suave and debonair as the legendary literary and film character.
“What did I fuckin’ tell ya?” Spit splattered against her cheeks as the man’s arms flung to the ceiling.
She stood her ground, “You knew the consequences, Harry. You knew.”
He leaned on the bar. “Shaken, not stirred,” he said in a smarmy James Bond impression. His date looked away and sighed. The bartender, bored already but hoping for a big tip, smiled cheesily back and busied himself with the drinks.
the leaves
had started to curl
like sleeping fingers
when the wind blew softly on them
and then slowly i realized
that i had made a fist every time
you spoke her name
my father’s skin is armor; tan and tough year after year
wrinkled only from life’s work, no lines from laughter, pain, or fear
only once did he break through, the day I taught him grief exists
he knelt sobbing at my bedside; zip ties chained my bandaged wrists.
The earth finally stopped moving, she looked around and everything was ok. Where was her husband? Was he in the city like he had planned? She looked around with shaking hands for her phone to call him
She read about him in the newspaper and didn’t think anything of it. But then something about his name hit her; something familiar. It hid her then: She knew him. She knew the face from somewhere; she hadn’t really read the name, just the story. He and his father and his brother had hijacked a plane to Cuba, and on the way, killed a security guard at the airport somewhere in Texas. When she read it, she shook her head like everybody else probably did that day, then poured her cold coffee down the sink and started getting ready to go to work. She was paging her way through the hangers when she thought about it again. She knew that guy. So she went back into the kitchen, and fished the paper out of the garbage. There was old toast and scrambled eggs all over the picture on the front page. The truth was, she wouldn’t have recognized the picture at all. But the name. Byron Teller. Byron. The nicest boy in 6th grade. So nice, that he offered to carry her books when they walked part of the way home from school together. So nice, that when her father, who hated everybody, saw Byron on the front porch handing her book backs to her and saying he’d see her tomorrow, her father said, “He seems like a nice boy. Ask him to come over for dinner.” Of course, he changed his mind the next day, but for the old man to like anybody was something. She remembered that somewhere in her drawer, she still had her old autography book from 6th grade when they all graduated. She fished it out. “To the nicest girl in 6th grade” He’d drawn a heart and his name.
Think of that. What happened to him? She called her friend Donna to tell her about the whole thing. “You mean Byron Teller?” Donna couldn’t believe it. “He wrote in my autograph book too.” She hung up to go find it. A few minutes later, she was back on the phone. “God, Sher, you’re not going to believe what he wrote in my book.” So go ahead, Sher said, what did he say? “Roses are red, violets are black, you’d look great with a knife in your back.” That sure got me to shaken. It sure did.
They have no meaning, most of these are cheesy and about james bond. Dig deeper. Not saying mine are any good but you can put more emotion in these. Make me feel someting.
I felt like a name in a hat being shaken up by god himself, as i waited in that room to define my destiny. To find out where i came from and where i belong, even if it may be great disappointment, there was no going back.
Shaken, not stirred. Says James Bond. What does it matter if it’s shaken or stirred? Wouldn’t it taste the same either way? Perhaps it’ll be bubblier, or fizzier. I don’t know. Do olive properties change when you shake them? It’s not like you’re shaking a tree.
breathing hard, eyes unfocused. i knew this day would come, i knew, i knew, i knew. but i always pretended it wouldn’t. i wouldn’t because i couldn’t stop loving you, i don’t think i know how to.
Like a martini
Like a doll
Like an unwanted baby to quiet the screams
To the core
With icy winter coldness
With excitement and anticipation
With each orgasm
With love
“Shaken, not stirred”, he said doing his best James Bond impression.
She was not impressed. She wanted to punch him in the face. She knew that he would never, could never be as suave and debonair as the legendary literary and film character.
“What did I fuckin’ tell ya?” Spit splattered against her cheeks as the man’s arms flung to the ceiling.
She stood her ground, “You knew the consequences, Harry. You knew.”
He leaned on the bar. “Shaken, not stirred,” he said in a smarmy James Bond impression. His date looked away and sighed. The bartender, bored already but hoping for a big tip, smiled cheesily back and busied himself with the drinks.