Daily Love

2/26/12

2012-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Remember this from me
By Allie Poole

So I wait for the sun on my horizon
Still I return to a heart without home
Wanting to leave it whole before it’s gone
I’m shaking, hopeful but scared to the bone

Still I return to a heart without home
I see that frightened girl reach for that hand
I’m shaking, hopeful but scared to the bone
The truth behind loving you was not planned

I see that frightened girl reach for that hand
She sees the tall shadow stand next to her
The truth behind loving you was not planned
Can this be the one who is my gentle cure?

She sees the tall shadow stand next to her
Now I know the lover that smiles kind
Can this be the one who is my gentle cure?
Let’s walk the sun’s path, it’s behind

- - -
I’m a girl who doesn’t take love lightly. I write from the passion that every emotion makes me feel, almost automatically. I’m a junior in high school, but I don’t see that as less of an advantage for my word’s value. Being young does not make me naïve; it makes me explore the wonders of caring for others.

2/25/12

2012-02-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

Your Wings
By Linda M. Crate

I love it when you dance your wings upon me,
wash away the stain of yesteryears that cling to
me in stinging hands of sea salt; the osculation of
your lips against mine is enough to chase away
any rainy day or thought there-of, you make me
smile the way that no one else could ever dream
of doing; you’re not like anyone else I know, but
in a good way, I wouldn’t want to know love from
the arms of any other; you’re the one that makes
my heart smile, you’re my hearts duet, the one that
dances rivers of magic done my spine in electric
pulses that excite the sou, reviving my spirit’s core.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

2/24/12

2012-02-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

CHECK MATE
By Gil C. Schmidt

I’m a Black Rook standing on King’s Rook 1. No, this isn’t one of those “chess pieces as fantasy heroes” story. I’m real and so is the game, standing under the mild sunshine on a plaza-sized chessboard in Brussels. Thirty-two of us arranged on squares three feet to a side, a checkerboard black-and-white that looks odd at ground level and must look great from the chairs where the capitaines sit. They are the real players: We are just the human pieces.

Every Sunday morning, except when it rains, folks gather here to participate in this life-sized battle of wits. The capitaines are local chess club players who donate money to local charities for the privilege of sitting in the high-backed chair some twenty feet above the plaza. One is painted white, the other black and the edges of the board are bordered in that fabulous red clay brick the Belgians once used for every building.

I volunteered to be a piece and got assigned as a Rook. I barely had time to get to my square when the first move was called out: Pawn to King 4. A smiling young man moved two squares forward, his counterpart did the same and the game was on. I knew it would take some time for me to get involved in the game, so I took in the other players.

That’s when I saw her, the White King’s Rook. She was absolutely stunning, with waist-length black hair, olive skin, a tall lithe figure and a dazzling smile. She was wearing shorts and her lovely legs were tanned. I lost track of the game as I stared at her. She was talking happily with the Pawn in front of her. I would’ve given a year of my life to switch places with that Pawn.

Suddenly I heard “King-side Castle” and when I looked around, a few frowns were aimed my way. The King had already moved and it was my turn to switch places. From there, I kept my mind on the game while my eyes drank in the beautiful Rook, now closer to me. The White capitaine castled to her side and for the first time we locked eyes. The moment was electric, the chess fading as we searched each other’s souls. We laughed at the same time and her face was flushed, her eyes shyly darting down and back to mine. A quick flurry of moves had me advancing to center-board, then away from the White Rook. I didn’t care for that, but I eventually noticed I was “threatening” the White Queen, an imperious-looking older woman who smiled frostily at me. The White Rook smiled at me warmly as I shrugged an “It’s not my fault.”

White pressed his attack and I was forced to retreat. Then it happened: The White Rook was moved to King Bishop’s Six, one square away from me. The vision of beauty moved gracefully through the other pieces and stepped into the square. Her shy smile lit up her green eyes with a quiet fire. I couldn’t speak, so I nodded. She nodded back. We smiled like children.

I looked around and noticed the situation. White was forcing Black to exchange Rooks to gain a positional advantage. Exchange Rooks? That meant I was to “capture” the beautiful girl and she would leave the game. If only “capture” meant I could stay with her! But the game could go on for another hour and what was I going to do if she left? I turned to speak to her, but she interrupted my first words and pointed at the Black capitaine. I knew what she meant: Talking could interrupt his thinking. She was being a good sport and I was getting frantic. I looked around again. White’s pieces were strongly positioned, but not exactly supportive of each other. Forcing my mind to think faster, the solution burst like a flare.

As the Black capitaine spoke his play, I moved down the board, five spaces away to threaten the Queen again. The crowd gasped and the White capitaine asked for the play to be described again. I turned, desperately hoping the Black capitaine would see the play I saw…

His face slowly melted from frown to smile. He called out my play and sat back, knowing the game was his. The White Rook waved at me, I waved back and we smiled together while the game ended within two plays.

Later, I told the White Rook—Sylvia—that I didn’t want to capture her in the game so she could stay close to me.

She smiled and said something marvelous: “I was hoping you would.”

True love can be like that.

- - -
Gil C. Schmidt has been a regular submitter to Yesteryear Fiction since the early days when it was a daily magazine. His story "Initial Quantum State" is also featured in his book "Thirty More Stories." Get "Thirty Stories" and "Thirty More Stories" for free: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/gil-c-schmidt or http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/gilthejenius

2/23/12

2012-02-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

Believe
By Linda M. Crate

we seem to be cut from a similar
rung, two trees separated at childhood
reaching for one another; we’d be
each others' penguins if given the
chance, I miss you more than I’ve
ever missed a person in the realm
of my existence; I wonder if you feel
it, too, there’s something in the air —
a magical hope that one day we’ll
be together, a prophecy I hope that
is one day fulfilled; for I’ve never
liked anyone of your ilk before, and
you’re beginning to feel like the only
place that’s ever been close to home.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

2/22/12

2012-02-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

That Wonderful Attraction
By Michael Plesset

We were not a couple, but there was a group of us going on a picnic and I offered to pick her up, since it was on the way to where we were meeting. I looked forward to seeing her, she was always happy, cheerful and seemed really glad to see me, though I’m sure she was that way with everybody.

She came out the front door of the house when she saw my car pull up. She was wearing very short shorts, and seeing her bare legs for the first time startled me, she was really gorgeous. The rest of the afternoon I would look at her whenever I thought she wouldn’t notice, though she must have.

That night when I was back home I still had her in my mind. She was pretty, with that great smile and sweet, cheerful temperament, but now the image of those gorgeous bare legs was all I could think about.

I was really enslaved by the sight of those perfectly graceful thighs because I couldn’t get it out of my mind. If I hadn’t seen that I’d still be free, but now I have an image, that can’t be erased, of something I cannot hold, but holds me captive.

It’s so unfair to me, I thought, where was modesty, to protect and spare me pain, delicious pain, for what I can not touch.

Maybe some of those conservative religions have a good point, keep women at least somewhat covered up, to prevent the terrible frustration of all consuming, overwhelming attraction.

I tried to stop thinking about her, but no other subject would work. I pictured touching her soft skin and perfect curving shape, holding her and not wanting to ever let go, gently taking off all her clothes, then kissing her from head to toe and back again. It was the combination of all the things, her lively, friendly spirit and constant smile, and now those legs I couldn’t take my eyes off, or get out of my mind.

Over the next week I thought about her often, and looked forward to the next time I’d see her. Then one morning in the mail I got a letter that had her return address. It read:

“Dear friends:

Tom and I have gotten engaged, and we’re having a little party to celebrate, we hope you all will come and join us at this happy time.”

I know there’s a big difference between fantasy and reality, but I can’t control my feelings, and I’m sad, disappointed, and feeling hurt. Of course I didn’t have a real relationship, but even one that’s just imagined, or wished for, can have deep feelings, just like a real one, and it’s not easy to get over. It will take a long, long time.

- - -
Michael Plesset did undergraduate and graduate work in mathematics, philosophy, sociology and English literature, and attended seminary at one time. He has published poetry, short fiction and non-fiction articles. He has worked in the space program and the computer industry, wrote material for a stand-up comedian, and has taught English to Chinese students for the last 10 years.

2/21/12

2012-02-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

10 conversations
By Tony Rauch

"Shut up!" "I can't believe a word you say!"

"Oh, yeah, well that's not what I heard."

"You're so stupid!" "Will I ever see you again?”

"You're driving me crazy." "You don't know what love is!"

"You're completely selfish, inconsiderate, unsupportive, and insensitive."

"You're not listening!!" "I hate you!!!"

“No, you shut up!” "Please stay. Please don't go."

"Yeah, like you've ever done anything with your life."

"I'm not gonna be your doormat anymore! You can't control me!"

"You smell funny." "I wish I never met you!"

"Stop lying!" "Why are you so mean to me?"

"I never want to see you ever again."

"Don't throw that; put that down."

"I love you."

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

2/20/12

2012-02-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

Believe
By Linda M. Crate

the golden sun seems to sing
more mirth upon your face when
love has wrapped you in her rivers —
there’s just a magic to it that no
human can ever begin to comprehend;
two hearts twined as one, loving
one another despite their flaws, no
one can promise perfection, yet it seems
so strange that we can accept those
irksome habits in the one that we love —
while if someone else did that same
exact thing we’d be annoyed; it’s so
strange how love seems to transcend
all of the horrible throes of life if one
will just take her hand and believe.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

2/19/12

2012-02-19T00:00:00.000-08:00

Facing the Truth
By Jessica Thompson

It seems like all the days I spend away from you are just days I have to pass time.
In the moment, my smile appears real and my laugh sounds genuine, even to myself,
but later on, the dull feeling grasps at the pit of my stomach and proves otherwise.

I've gone weeks, even months without communicating with you.
Whether a snap reaction, or a gradual process, I begin feeling happy,
lifted, free, like I could fly anywhere. But, maybe not whole.

When I'm not with you, I take on another name,
a new persona, a fresh self. I make new friends.
But they leave, or I leave, and I come back to you.

Somehow, you're at the end each time.
A cycle on a continuous loop.
For a brief moment, I'm complete.

Peace with us never lasts.
Our pride gets injured.
Disagreements arise.

But our emotion,
it's not forced.
It's always real.

At least,
A while,
I'm myself.

- - -
Jessica Thompson is an emerging writer that has had work featured in publications such as The Talon and Heavy Hands Ink. She spends her time dancing, writing, drinking coffee, and taking in the beauty of life. She believes in love, heartbreak, and contemplation, but not regret.

2/18/12

2012-02-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

Love in Death
By Savanna Griffin

I know someday death will take hold of you,
It will take me from you or you from me.
It is very sad but indeed it’s true;
At some later point we will have to see.

I’ll love you ‘til death, and still thereafter.
I wonder the days that are left in life
But for now I hope life’s filled with laughter,
Even if sometimes we laugh at our strife.

I love you even when I think I do not.
I love you and need you more than I know;
It’s because you’re you, and not all you’ve got.
Between you and me, death’s our only foe.

Yet death does help people to see one thing,
It’s how much they love the one that’s missing.

- - -

2/17/12

2012-02-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

Dreamtaker
By Stephen D. Nadaud II

A yearning burns inside my chest,
to feel you by my side,
to hear your every whispered breath,
your every softest sigh.

The first time that we meet, someday,
the angels, they will sing.
But when we leave and go our ways,
I’ll know of parting’s sting.

I yearn to be your shining guard,
and be with you, each night,
to watch you spin an evening yarn,
a dream with no goodbyes.

I’d take that lovely, perfect dream,
and make it come to life,
so that when you awoke from sleep,
we’d never say goodbye.

- - -
Stephen D. Nadaud II was born on August 28, 1981, and has been writing poetry and short stories since he was seventeen. He hopes to rekindle his career by publishing a novel in the next few years, and his work can be seen in several online and print venues.

2/16/12

2012-02-16T00:00:00.000-08:00

Let’s Get Sad
By Tony Rauch

It’s finally a rainy day. So a bunch of us hit the basement. It’s totally gloomy out, oppressively gray and bleak, the perfect setting for getting sad.

“Finally a crummy day,” someone beams.

“Yeah, maybe this’ll finally impress the girls,” Johnny D shakes his head.

“Nothin’ else seems to be workin’,” Kenny shrugs.

So we set about getting sad. We watch the movies ‘Brain’s Song’ and ‘Bambi’, take turns reading the obituaries out loud (the illnesses, the accidents, the randomness, the unfairness of it all), and listen to really sad music (principally The Smiths, some glum classical [Samual Barber’s ‘Adagio for strings’ and ‘Angus Dei’ – the string and vocal versions], samplings of Lou Reed’s ‘Berlin’ album, and a smattering of alternative college stuff such as The Wild Colonial’s ‘Spark’ and The Violent Femme’s ‘Good Feelings’).

“Are you really sad yet?” I ask Benny as I stare blankly into my future.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Just sad? Or really sad?” I inquire, still staring, as if I simply can’t bring myself to move.

“I wanna freakin’ off myself, man,” he whines.

“Good. Good,” I nod, “I think you’re there then. I think you’re ready.”

“I wanna freakin’ end it all, man,” he turns away to bury his face into the couch, “Why did Bambi’s mom have to die, man? Why? . . What’s the point of it all?”

“I think my heart has died,” Kenny gasps, “Man, I . . I really think I went too far on this one, I mean, I’m in way too deep . .”

“Great, man,” I moan encouragement, “Keep goin’ deeper.”

“My heart’s dead,” Kenny squeals, slithering on the rug, turning over, writhing in pain, “It’s gone, . . it’s gone,” he wheezes and gasps.

“Good,” I nod, “Go with that.” Then I look over to Pharoah, “How’s it workin’ for ya?”

“Why?” he quivers, sitting on an apple crate, his head in his hands in his lap, “Why?” he shudders, “Why?”

“I think we’re ready,” I utter.

Someone groans.

“We should’ve had a person monitoring our progress,” I sigh, “I think we’ve gone too deep. . . overplayed our hands,” I try to get up, but can’t. I try again, succeeding to stand this time. “Come on. Let’s go,” I whisper, “We’re ready. . . Let’s get to it,” I wave to the door but everyone’s scattered like limp blankets.

“Yeah,” Pharoah gulps, rising sloppily off the floor, “This is it.”

“This is our big chance,” I wheeze, “To finally impress those cool, sensitive, arty college chicks. Not the usual impressionable morons, but the thoughtful, literate types.”

“Nothin’ else has worked, so maybe this’ll do,” Pharoah gulps sadly.

“Yeah,” someone whispers sadly, “Now we’re ‘deep’.”

Kenny slowly rolls over, sits up, rises to his feet, collects himself, stares down, “Maybe this will help,” he nods.

“Oh, man,” someone on the floor groans, “Just leave me be. . .”

We step over and pull him up. It’s Johnny D. He flops down as he goes limp. We lug him to the door and out the basement steps. He wiggles in our arms, trying to get free.

“Yeah, let’s hit that tapestry exhibit by those refugees,” Kenny mumbles vacantly, “I’m sure they’ll be some bespectacled sensitive types there. . .”

“Let’s show ‘em how sensitive and in touch with our inner emotions we are. . .” I moan as we climb the steps, “There’s supposed to be a poetry reading on death and loss afterwards.”

“We can only hope,” Johnny D groans as we lug him out into the gloom.

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

2/15/12

2012-02-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

Love that transcends death
By Linda M. Crate

autumn’s golden laughter
embraces me in the orange
cupped arms of lilies, but
it was your proclamation
that made my heart pause —
I’ve never loved someone
as much as I’d loved you
in that one single moment,
it made me think that this
must have been the way
Cathy felt about Heathcliffe —
made me wonder if we,
too, would have a love that
transcended the bounds of
death that would claim us
one day when the moon
was dim in your lovely eyes.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

2/14/12

2012-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

Four More Words
By Gil C. Schmidt

    “Would you like a refill?”
    I’d forgotten where I was. When I looked up, the waitress was a different one. Finally. After the long wait, I was nervous. “Uh, yes. Please.” I didn’t really want the coffee. I think she knew that. In fact, I know she did.
    She filled the cup with steamy ink and walked away, her stride slow and steady. I thought about her face, the near-smile it showed when she offered me the coffee, the deep blue of her eyes like a summer lake. I put too much sugar in the ink and had run out of cream, so I drank slowly, barely tasting the darkish brew.
    She returned. I saw tiny lines around her eyes and a redness in them that I hadn’t noticed before, a tightness around her mouth that spoke of things best left unsaid, a kind of heaviness in her walk that seemed new. “Been here long?” she asked, her voice low in the pre-dawn softness.
    I nodded, my eyes on the table. “Very much so.” I felt her smooth her apron with her hands, her body shifting to face me. I looked up, searching for kind eyes. “My girl just….left...”
    The waitress, her badge saying “Virginia,” pressed her lips together, but didn’t say anything. The door opened, its tinkling bell shattering the mood. “I have to take that,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
    The coffee still steamed, but it made no difference to me. I thought of the one who’d left me, choosing her own path to security over life with a freelance writer. And maybe choosing the new vice-president of her daddy’s firm over me. She talked about it enough, God knows. I should have believed her. I felt the deep smash of loss in my gut, again. I had chosen her--or perhaps she had chosen me--but in any case, I had a relationship where I thought I could make her happy and would make me happy, And I’d been wrong. On both counts. And the pain in me just grew.
    “Have you eaten anything?” I shook my head. “How about some eggs over easy and toast?” I glanced up, nodded and as I was about to say something, Virginia walked away.
    She came back in a couple of minutes with my second breakfast of the short day and I thanked her. She sighed a “You’re welcome,” then looked around the near-empty café. “So why did she leave you? Do you really know?” Her hands clutched at the apron.
    I forked eggs into my mouth to give me time. The first answers that tumbled through my mind seemed trivial, beside the point, wrong. An honest answer came to me. “I didn’t make her happy.” I sipped some coffee and found some more truth. “And she didn’t believe in me.”
    Her eyes darkened, a distant storm on warm seas. “Did she want you to make her happy?”
    I started. That made me look up into a face filled with the sadness of understanding. “I...don't know,” I mumbled, “I hadn’t thought of that.” The new thought opened a floodgate of feelings that grew and grew. Virginia looked behind her and saw the counter was empty. My words now tumbled out. “I thought I was supposed to make her happy. And that doing so would make her believe in me. Because I love her and I need for her to believe in me.”
    There were tears in Virginia’s eyes, tears from a pain that recognizes itself in another heart. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “Maybe--maybe it will work out.” Seeing her, it was all I could do to keep from crying.
    “How will I know? When?” My voice seemed so small, so… hurt. So…lost.
    Virginia quickly wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “I have to go now. People are waiting.” She turned and practically fled to the counter, her body stiff and tight.
    I finished my cold meal and when I asked for the check, the beefy cook dropped it on my table. Instead of numbers, there were five handwritten words on it. One was “Paid.”
    The others were Yes. I believe. And the lovely signature: Ginny.
    I dashed out to find a jewelry store.

- - -
Gil C. Schmidt has been a regular submitter to Yesteryear Fiction since the early days when it was a daily magazine. His story "Initial Quantum State" is also featured in his book "Thirty More Stories." Get "Thirty Stories" and "Thirty More Stories" for free: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/gil-c-schmidt or http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/gilthejenius

2/13/12

2012-02-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

Your Mark
By David Xu

My eyelids fluttered open.

I’ve been marked by you, to be your man and yours only. In a primitive way that drives me crazy — the thought of which brings back those butterflies to my chest.

A hickey. Hickeys. Such a peculiar name for something that can be surprisingly satisfying. I awoke today feeling the dull ache emanating from the ligaments on the left side of my neck, with the soft shape your name on my lips.

You know that I miss you. For me, your love bite brings merciful comfort, in the form of physical sensation, in the indescribable language of trust, fidelity, security, and passion.

I bring my hand to the dark splotch, and immediately I am taken back to our time alone together. Already I feel your warmth near me; it is educed from my own internal flame, becoming more distinct from my own warmth, until I am craning my neck for more in midst of vivid recall of the sensation of your lips pressing on my neck.

More images stream forth, and I can trace your features in the warmth flowing through my entire body. But for only a fleeting moment, can I feel your fingers in between the fingers of my other hand, and the heated touch of your hand pressing mine harder to your mark.

I have to remove my hand to allow my eyes to open.

- - -
David is senior at a New York City magnet school. He considers himself to be overly sentimental at times, and relishes the challenge of opening his inner mind with the limited physical vocabulary, spoken and unspoken, that we share as humans. A long-distance romance has begun to free his mind . . .

2/12/12

2012-02-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

My Wolf
By Linda M. Crate

you are lone yet beautiful,
blue eyes piercing out of
the white snow; paws that
are strong and capable of
anything, a strong mind
full of thoughts I had not
even begun to consider —
I don’t know the exact
moment I fell for you, but
I did; you weren’t like
anyone I ever knew, you
told me once that I was
beautiful yet you didn’t
rub it in my face always as
if there were only one thing
on your mind; I appreciate
that more than you’ll ever
know, I can’t wait to go on
that date with you; you can
make me smile without even
being here, and I can’t help
but feeling that’s how love
should be if it were true.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.

2/11/12

2012-02-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Despite Our Best Efforts
By Tony Rauch

We met and I was too old for her anyway. I was too old for marriage. At least that‘s the way I saw it. I was just too far gone, too far into my own little world. That’s why I never asked her out. It just didn’t feel right. It felt too lechy or something. I mean, I liked her and all, but who was I kidding, why would someone her age ever be interested in someone my age? Plus we worked together so that could’ve been awkward for the both of us, and in bad form for me in particular to ask her out. She had mentioned she wasn’t ready to get serious and besides I was 47 and thought it was all over on the love end anyway. I seemed to have had my time with the girls and that seemed all well over with by now. My time had been brief, bright, and intense. That was all I had ever gotten and it was all gone now. It had flashed on for me and then off just as fast - flashed and burned out - the love thing for me. I knew that and had come to terms with it a long time ago. Since then I had been just existing, just floating along with the wind.

And then we were thrown together.

We were put on a project together at work and spent many hours with one another until finally, in the end, she mentioned offhand, “You know, I think I’m going to miss working with you, we get along so well,” and I said, “Yeah, I guess so, but I’ll be around so you can still call if you have any questions or anything. We’ll both be busy with new projects and all, but we could always meet up for lunch or whatever. I mean, it’s not like you’ve never seen me eat, like, a million times before or anything.” I didn’t think anything of it, only that it was all a polite good-bye thing to add to filing and boxing the last of it all. I hadn’t thought of us together at all because of our age difference and because I just never had that lifestyle where I met so many new people whatsoever. She was twenty years younger than me, and we worked together, and she wasn’t really all that experienced with life and all that. Plus I’ve really seen them come and go over the years like you wouldn’t believe, to the point where people had become like leaves to me - falling in the air all around. Eventually, I just lost faith in people sticking around. The idea of being with someone had become an illusion to me, a cruel hoax. It just really didn’t matter at all to me anymore. They were just going to drift off anyway, so what was the point? You just couldn’t trust it - the whole people-sticking-around-and-being-in-your-life-for-very-long thing.

Then, about a month later she called with a follow-up question on the project and we had to meet up for lunch as I was in meetings all day long. And we met up and got to talking and found out we were both jonesing for the big game. So we ended up meeting up at the big game on the weekend which was just lovely and pastoral instead of just saying our casual good-byes and staying at home like always. After the game, she stopped off at my place to look over a new volume I had acquired through guile and insistence. And she complimented my place politely and gushed at the other manuscripts in my collection and my little flower garden out back. She mentioned that she was losing her charming little brick place to the evil strip mall developer’s wreaking ball. So I invited her to move into the spare room upstairs for a while as it was very warm up there; and so she did and we didn’t see much of each other for a long while as we were busy and constantly missing one another and into our own tiny little corners of the universe. But gradually we began to play pinochle together and eventually construct large, elaborate puzzles and recreate mythical medieval cities on old tablecloths that we’d then hang up in the attic. And it all became so warm and comfortable and familiar. I guess this is what it’s like to be in love and I fell in love too late in life and now it feels like it’s way too late for me - that I’m twenty years older than her, twenty years too late, too late to fall in love, too late to explore that wilderness of warm sensations when she is near, too late to bathe in it all. Too late.

But then one time I got around to blurting out during one of our puzzle nights, “Will you marry me?” as I felt so comfortable and relaxed around her, and Sinatra’s ‘In the wee small hours of the morning’ was on. It just seemed like a nice thing to mention, like a compliment only more sincere, even though I was sort of bored and tired and kind of half joking, and she laughed and I pointed out that I probably wouldn’t live very long anyway and that I was living on “borrowed time” as they say, that I was “running on fumes”, that I was probably destined to die pretty soon - keel over in my morning wheaties and all that and they’d find me there, soggy wheaties all over my face - and that she could have all my money after I finally passed on since I didn’t have anything much to spend it on anyway, and that since we both had the bad luck in the way of personal affairs, and that since we both got on so well and repelled the opposite sex like strong atomic magnets to the point that it was almost the only thing we were really any good at any more, that neither of us would probably be getting married anytime soon anyway, and just look at me, I’m getting on here so look at that and just see for yourself and she may just end up like me anyhow. So she right off agreed by shrugging a chirpy, “Yeah, OK, I suppose. I see what you mean,” just as I probably would have done, just as I was finding a nose and then adding it to an important and prominent place on the puzzle and just as she added, “But just so you know, I’m not really into that whole money thing,” and I replied, “Oh, no, of course not, neither am I, I wasn’t implying anything at all, I was just trying to convince you to stay on with me, and to let you know that we’d be provided for and that I wasn‘t after money,” and then we eventually grew to fall in love with each other over our lost medieval cities and tea. We fell in love despite our best efforts, despite our attempts to maintain a sort of professional “roommate” politeness as we got on so well, neither of us wanting to upset the other because that would just about put me over the top and put an end to me once and for all. And then ten years later she got hit by a car in the pouring rain on an old wooden bridge and that was that. I retired to write this to you here and now - alone in my dark study surrounded by my old volumes and pictures of her.

And now here you are with me. Despite our best efforts I guess life just happens, just unfolds like an ornate rug. It’s all just empty and lost and gone now, blown away.

She was gone now, just like she was a lot when she was here but now she wouldn’t ever be back again. She was gone a lot - off on projects or vacations with her friends, cousins, or co-workers, and I was busy with my projects, hobbies, and pre-occupations. But she would always send photos of her exploits and I would frame them and place them up all around me in my study - her next to a giant marlin, her next to a B-list movie star, her next to an old, dusty leaning something, that sort of thing. She’d also send back glowing sunsets and foggy valleys and rolling landscapes, and I’d put them up in the hallway, as if to be seeing and feeling what she saw and felt. I never had the desire to follow along with her, although we did talk about it. I was far too tired, too occupied, too far gone into the deep, swampy recesses of my own musty world and busy at work, after taking a position at the Institute For Southern Oration, and my work progressed at the institute, at the “IF-SO,” and at the Congress for New Urbanism. And, although we never spoke of it, neither of us feared straying or losing the other to another as we both knew neither of us possessed any kind of luck or vocation to even be presented with that kind of situation. No luck or vocation in that already crowded arena.

And now I just sit here and listen to the sad songs of my youth and wish she were back here with me, with all of her sunsets setting around me, her forever misty valleys, her always leaning towers, her hopeful starlets, her pink luminous clouds, sprawling pastures, proud windmills, and that arching angel disguised as a white wooden bridge that took her like a great white unfolding angel up to heaven to look down on me forever and wait for me up there beyond the veil of clouds.

- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

2/10/12

2012-02-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

Anxiety
By Linda M. Crate

Russell was nervous. He was about to ask his girlfriend of six years, Angela, if she wanted to marry him. He wasn’t anxious about asking her, he was worried about the response. They loved each other, sure, but he knew that Angela was something of a commitment phobe. Her friends had told him that the first time they had met.

He hadn’t really believed she could be that bad when he had first met her yet he had come to learn that she was unable or unwilling to commit to much of anything.

Yanking nervously as his tie, he bit his lip. Angela was always late. Of all days, she would be late today, too. Yet he knew that he ought to be more patient. She would be there when she was able to be there.

Angela walked in ten minutes late, which considering the way she was, wasn’t all too bad.

Russell smiled at her warmly. “Glad to see that you could finally grace me with your presence. I was afraid that I wouldn’t see you until I was beyond the grave,” he joked.

Angela laughed. “Don’t tempt me,” she teased, her brown eyes twinkling. “Next time I might just consider making you wait that long.” She observed him sweating and frowned. “Are you all right, Russ? I hope you’re not sick or anything.”

“Oh, no, just a rough day at work — foreman says tomorrow should be worse. I suppose I’m a little nervous about it, that’s all,” he lied.

“Well, don’t worry so much, you’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out,” Angela persisted. “Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but why this restaurant? It’s a lot fancier than our usual hang outs,” she remarked. “I had to wear a dress,” she winked.

Russell laughed. “Well, I can see that. I should bring you here more often, I like seeing you dress up. You look even more like a goddess than you usually do.”

“The flattery never gets old,” she smiled. “But thank you,” she laughed. “You look good, too, minus the sweat.”

He chuckled. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, I’m just glad that everything is all right.”

She smiled at him once again, and he felt his insides flip flop. He had always known that she had a wonderful smile, but it still had the ability to disarm him. He hoped that it always would. He hoped that there was never a day where he stopped loving her anew each and every day.

“Stop stressing, Russ, we’re not going to make it through dinner at this rate.”

“Sorry,” he apologized, face heating up in embarrassment.

The repercussions of this night were still unknown, he just hoped that it ended up on a good note for him. He would hate to find himself companionless at the end of the night. Yet after five years, he didn’t think he was rushing things.

They had made it thus far — he knew that she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He could only wish with all his might that she felt the same way.

After dinner, he bent down on one knee. “Angela Margaret Davenport, will you make me the happiest man in the universe and marry me?”

She looked at him, her expression one of awe, as she gazed upon the diamond ring in the box. The expression on her face was unreadable. He didn’t know how to gauge it.

The minutes seemed to stretch into hours.

After what seemed a million eternities she finally laughed. She nodded. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you,” she smiled.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.

2/9/12

2012-02-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Dance with Me
By Madison Sonnier

Michael Sullivan bounced his leg up and down in annoyance as he scanned the crowd of students dancing, laughing, and showing off. Why had he let his dad talk him into going to prom? People spent tons of money on their “special night” and it only lasted for a few hours.

Michael watched as touchy-feely couples latched onto each other and girls wearing expensive dresses primped and gossiped by the chocolate fountain. He had come alone and politely waved off the flirty girls that approached him.

Michael was the line-backer for the school’s football team and was often asked out on dates and invited to parties. But he wasn’t much of a party-goer and he had strayed from any serious dating since breaking up with his first love during his sophomore year. Everyone at school seemed to label him as “popular” just because he was on the football team. He was on the football team because he loved sports, not because he was seeking any extra attention. Michael was snatched out of his thoughts when he heard a familiar voice.

“Hey Mike! Where’s your date?”

Michael looked up in time to see Erica White looming over him in a blinding neon orange prom dress and way too much make-up. She was flashing him her large, toothy grin and batting her eyelashes like some sort of CoverGirl model.

“I actually came alone,” Michael replied over the boom of the music.

“Wanna dance?” Erica asked, holding out her hand to Michael.

“No thanks. I’m not really sure why I came here, to be honest.”

Erica pushed out her lower lip and planted her manicured hands on her hips. “So you’re telling me that you’ve been sitting here like a loser all night?”

Michael smirked at her teasing tone and nodded his head. “Guilty.”

Erica rolled her eyes and held out her hand again. “Well, that’s about to change. Come on. My favorite song is on.”

Michael sighed as “Brick House” blared through the speakers.

“I hate this song,” he admitted.

“So you’re just gonna make me dance all by myself?” Erica pouted.

When Michael didn’t answer, Erica let out a frustrated sigh. “There has to be someone you find attractive enough to dance with, although I highly doubt she would look as good as me.”

Michael let out his own frustrated sigh. He was about to blow Erica off and leave the prom early, but before he could, he caught a glimpse of Samantha Rose sitting by herself on the other side of the gym.

Samantha was a socially withdrawn girl from his Chemistry class who was mercilessly teased and bullied. Michael had stood up for her a few times, but it was to no avail. Samantha was very bony and pale with dark circles under her eyes. She often mumbled to herself and occasionally wore thick glasses. She had frizzy brown hair that constantly hung down over her face and she was almost always seen with her nose in a book.

Michael had witnessed her being pushed around and made fun of more times than he could count. Samantha was defenseless against the bullies and would just hang her head and keep walking as they tormented her.

Michael couldn’t imagine why she would want to go to a high school prom, which many of her bullies were attending. Samantha was wearing a long, aqua-colored gown that fell down around her feet like a rain puddle. Her normally unruly brown hair was pulled back into an elegant bun. She was staring down into her lap, looking out of place and uncomfortable. Erica once again tore through Michael’s train of thought.

“The song is about to go off! Are you going to dance with me or not?” she quipped.

Michael ignored Erica and began making his way over to where Samantha was sitting. When Samantha saw him coming, she blushed and shifted nervously in her seat. Michael slowly sat down next to her.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Samantha sat stiffly turned away from him and didn’t answer. Michael patiently cleared his throat.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

Samantha shook her head and stayed silent.

“Oh, come on,” Michael teased. “Please?”

Samantha’s shoulders relaxed a little bit and she turned back around in her seat, but still avoided Michael’s gaze.

“Please dance with me. I’m having a lousy time,” Michael pleaded. He looked across the gym and noticed that Erica was gaping and narrowing her eyes at him. He ignored her and turned his attention back to Samantha as a romantic slow song began to leak through the speakers. Samantha shook her head and turned away again.

“Come on, Sam. I sat over there trying to work up the courage to ask you to dance and…You’re bruising my ego a little bit, you know that?”

Samantha turned to face Michael and he saw that she had tears in her eyes.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she asked with a shaky voice.

“Of course not,” Michael said gently. “I honestly want to dance with you.”

“No one’s ever asked me to dance before.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” Michael smiled and extended his hand towards Samantha.

After a few moments of hesitation, Samantha took Michael’s hand and nervously followed him to the center of the dance floor. Students jeered, stared, and laughed as they watched the unlikely couple share a slow dance, but Michael ignored them. To be honest, he barely noticed them. Samantha didn’t seem to notice either.

- - -
Madison is an aspiring freelance writer who enjoys writing articles, lyrics, stories, and blog posts. She hopes to inspire and make others feel less alone through her writing. You can read her personal ramblings and life insights over at http://journeyofasoulsearcher.blogspot.com/.

2/8/12

2012-02-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

This may sound strange...
By Michael Plesset

“This may sound strange,” he said, “but sometimes I think that holding hands is the deepest intimacy of all. More than all the words, and more than all the sexual activity, which can be quite impersonal.”

“Well, that’s an unusual point of view,” she said, “I’d have to think about that.”

It was a warm evening, and when they finished dinner, they went for a walk. It was a busy Saturday night, and the sidewalk was crowded. He took her hand to keep them from getting separated in the crowd.

“Wow, the deepest intimacy of all, and right out in public” she said.

He didn’t say anything, but squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes.

After she got home she called her friend Sarah.

“Hi Sarah, it’s me.” she said.
“Well, what happened, how did it go?”
“We held hands.”
“Yes, and …?”
“Well, that’s the main thing.”
“So are you saying it was boring?’
“No, he’s nice, he’s unusual.”
“That doesn’t say much, Hitler was unusual.”
“I hate to say he’s sensitive, that sounds like a weak thing.”
“So, are you going out with him again?”
“If he calls, yes.”

He did, and they planned to get together in a couple of days.

But before then, it happened, all she could remember was crossing the street, and the sound of the taxi’s tires screeching as it tried to stop before it hit her. Waking up in the hospital, she didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, and couldn’t see because of bandages she could feel across her face.

Still struggling to figure out where she was and what happened, she realized someone was holding her hand. It was him.

- - -
Michael Plesset did undergraduate and graduate work in mathematics, philosophy, sociology and English literature, and attended seminary at one time. He has published poetry, short fiction and non-fiction articles. He has worked in the space program and the computer industry, wrote material for a stand-up comedian, and has taught English to Chinese students for the last 10 years.

2/7/12

2012-02-07T00:00:00.000-08:00

Sensory Admiration
By Jessica Thompson

And with all the pandemonium surrounding me in this array of a world,
Your voice pierces the shadows.
Attempt to distort by the sound of a million jet engines, in the dead silence of a plane,
I think it would sound the same.

There are colors. They appeal to and are perceived by the sensitive retina of an eye,
But these only mirror you.
The color of your skin isn’t an inferior reflection, imperfect, changing.
It’s constant, unmistakable.

Touch a piece of broken glass and sense a tear, darkened blood quietly flows,
Too soft a blanket is uncomfortable.
But to stroke your hand, to feel the perfect tips of your well-worn fingers,
Is to caress the essence of the earth.

Your surrounding air has it’s own delicate flavor. I breathe, and can taste it.
It fills my lungs.
The sweetest berry wouldn’t register on my taste buds once you’ve been around.
All others dull over time.

People apply artificial scents to their bodies, believing it to be attractive,
But you have no need.
You have your own natural smell, one that stows in the mind for decades.
Previously unknown.

Close enough to sense your heart beat, my own speeds up.
Accelerated motion.
Caused only by your presence.

- - -
Jessica Thompson is an emerging writer that has had work featured in publications such as The Talon and Heavy Hands Ink. She spends her time dancing, writing, drinking coffee, and taking in the beauty of life. She believes in love, heartbreak, and contemplation, but not regret.

2/6/12

2012-02-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

All The Things That Love Are
By Linda M. Crate

Love, she knew, wasn’t all about the crescendos of cascading sun haloing the trees or rainbows — sometimes, it was conceding defeat after an argument so as not to arouse even further hard feelings; biting one’s tongue, cleaning up after someone when you didn’t really want to. Sometimes love was as dark as a thundercloud and as hard as stone, sometimes it stung like a bee, and yet through it all if one managed to hold on it was all worth it.

She looked over to her snoring husband Richard. Darla had never seen anyone quite as handsome even with his rapidly balding hair, his loud grunting, and his sarcastic sense of humor she still found him as attractive as he had been the first day he had met her. Even now when he wasn’t that skinny boy she had married thirty five years ago he still managed to take her breath away.

She knew that a lot of people couldn’t comprehend that, but not everyone had been blessed enough to feel the burgeoning blossoms of love in their life more beautiful and fragrant than magnolias pink.

She watched the cardinal on the wizened end of a tree branch for a few moments before she decided she ought to wake her husband up. If she didn’t, he’d be late for work, and that would just make him cranky. “Dick,” she remarked, tugging gently on his arm. “Wake up, honey.”

“Mmph,” was the only intelligible response she could make out.

“Come on, Dick, it’s time to get up,” she protested. When he swatted at her hands she went in for a tickle attack. “Come on, Richard.”

He half grumbled, half laughed when he woke up to see that his wife was tickling him. “Well, you’ve never done that before.”

“I was getting desperate,” she admitted. “You wouldn’t wake up. I just didn’t want you to be late for work, is all. Breakfast is on the table, it might need warming up in the microwave,” she informed him, gently placing a kiss on his cheek.

He smiled, kissing her gently on the lips. “Thank you, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Okay, dear,” she nodded. She then left the room, picking up the laundry basket of Richard’s clothing off the floor. Love wasn’t always the showy artificiality that pervaded some romance novels, it wasn’t always in the most splendorous moments spent in the sunshine times of life, love was looking past the flaws; cherishing every moment able to be spent together, and caring enough to try to get through the roughest storms that life threw out. Goodness knew that love wasn’t always easy, but without it she wouldn’t be the same.

Darla couldn’t be more grateful for the wonderful, caring man she snagged all those years ago. Smiling to herself, she walked downstairs with the basket, pausing only to straighten a picture of the family before she proceeded out into the kitchen and then into the laundry room.

“I’ll try to get home earlier tonight,” Richard called from the kitchen. “We’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

“No, that’s okay, I understand,” she smiled. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight,” he agreed. He then departed, and she smiled as she noticed the bits of toast clinging to his beard.

She could have told him about them, but that would have just ruined the moment.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.

2/5/12

2012-02-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Love Bird of Prey
By Virginie Colline

soon is the night
shining talons
rapacious flight

- - -
Virginie Colline is a Parisian translator.

2/4/12

2012-02-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

Moonlight
By Kieran Woodhall

There is something almost magical, enchanting, about a night where the moon is at its fullest. Especially when that enchanting moon is caught beneath the surface of the frozen mirror of a still lake. Cherry blossoms danced in the slight night breeze, spinning in slow graceful pink circles. I leant against the tree, the branches above me made soft music that floated down on the nightly breeze.

It’s night like these where the moon is at its peak of the night and I’m alone with my thoughts, that I can almost feel her beside me. Four years had passed and still I could feel a ghost of her presence beside me. A gentle breeze brushing my cheek like her lost kiss. The rustling of leaves, the remnants of the swish of her dress. The night time music was just a whisper of her musical voice.

It’s night like these, where the moon is at its peak. That I miss her most. Four years of pain, four years of despair, four long lonely years. Sometimes I’m sure she’ll be there… waiting for me, lying by the lake like she was all those years ago.

People say love is a fickle thing; I say that is a lie. The word love is thrown around far too much but love, real, true, deeply honest love lasts longer than a life time.

- - -
My name is Kieran Woodhall, I live in Northampton in England and have enjoyed reading and writing for as long as I can remember. I am yet to have anything published to my name but I'm hoping that will change soon, fantasy is usually my favourite genre to write but I was recently convinced to write a few romance stories.

2/3/12

2012-02-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Dragon Fly Girl
By Linda M. Crate

She collected dragonflies the way some people would collect sea shells, bottled ships, arrowheads, or buttons. She had all types: real, glass, metal, jeweled, fabric, and so on and so-forth. Some people found her collection rather disconcerting.

Her eyes were bright teal like ocean waves, her long thick strawberry blonde hair was always caught in plaits behind her back that reached her buttocks, and she had a dainty ethereal aura about her as if she had been a faerie in a past life.

When her boyfriend asked her about her obsession, she couldn’t believe that the answer weren’t obvious. “They don’t bite, they don’t sting, they’re just pretty painted things,” she insisted, dusting off the wings of one of her metal specimens. It was a hair pin that she had not worn in quite some time.

“So are butterflies,” he answered. “They don’t bite or sting, either.”

She snorted. “But every girl likes butterflies,” she said, simply. “I like dragonflies.”

“I don’t understand you,” he finally quipped.

She smiled. “It’s okay,” she said, serenely. “Most people don’t.” With that, she climbed out of her window and atop the porch, watching the dragonflies bend and dip into the water, hoping they would have the sense to avoid the mouths of the hungry fish washing them from below the depths of the waters.

“April, wait!” he cried. He climbed after her. “What are you doing?”

“Watching the dragonflies.” She turned to face him. “It’s okay that you don’t understand why I like dragonflies. I don’t understand why you like watching horse races. To me, they’re perfectly boring. They run and run and run and run, the only different outcome is the winner of the race. It is so long, though, by that point I just don’t care. Dragonflies are sometimes predictable, but I like it when they’re not. They’re fun to watch, their wings shimmer in the moonlight, see,” she remarked. “They’re beautiful. They can just fly away when they have a problem, sometimes I wish that I could fly away.” She laughed. “I know this will sound silly, but a part of me thinks that if I collect enough of them that one day I will be able to fly.”

“That doesn’t sound silly. Improbable, maybe, but not silly,” he reassured her. He took the braids out of her hair and pinned it up with the clip that she had been cleaning earlier. “You should wear your hair down more often.”

“It would obstruct my path if I could fly,” she teased, poking him playfully on the nose.

“Faeries don’t pull their hair up and they can fly.”

“Good point,” she smiled.

He leaned forward to kiss her. She let him kiss her, as moon silver shimmered upon the lake below them. He pulled away, and took her hand in her own. “I know that we’re only eighteen, April, but I want to ask you something that’s been on my mind. Will you marry me, will you be my dragonfly girl?”

She looked at him with a tender smile. “Yes, nothing would make me happier. Not everyone could understand or tolerate me with all my quirks,” she grinned.

“You’re worth it, even if you’re a little crazy.”

“Watch it, that’s your future wife you’re talking about,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. When he slipped the ring upon her finger, she gasped in surprise. It had a dragonfly on it, diamonds were the dragonflies eyes. She had never seen an engagement ring like it in her life. “David, it’s beautiful.”

“Your father was certain you would like it when I asked him for your hand.”

She smiled. “Well, my dad might not understand much about me, but that comes as no surprise. He was wrong about this, too.” He frowned. “I don’t like it, I love it!” She rested her head on his shoulder, a lilting comfortable silence stretched it’s wings between the pair on hymns of moonbeams and starlight, as the pair watched the dragonflies avert the perilous danger of being eaten. Nothing, in her humble opinion could be more perfect than this moment.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry has recently been featured in Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, and Vintage Poetry. One of her short stories has been featured in Carnage Conservatory and she has an upcoming short story for publication in Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine in April 2012.

2/2/12

2012-02-02T00:00:00.001-08:00

Communication
By Jessica Thompson

I know how easy it would be to say
"I miss you"
Quote a song, sing a verse, ask someone
"Where is he?"
Use this time to give you the message
"Let's talk now"
But instead, my mind tells my heart
"Take a rest"
So tonight my speech remains silent.

- - -
Jessica Thompson is an emerging writer that has had work featured in publications such as The Talon and Heavy Hands Ink. She spends her time dancing, writing, drinking coffee, and taking in the beauty of life. She believes in love, heartbreak, and contemplation, but not regret.