Literature And Coffee

In Light Of The Moon

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Sun, 27 May 2012 00:06:00 +0000

(c)Mireyah Wolfe 2008-2012

The silver glimmered in the faint light that the moon granted through the curtains of my room. I twisted it in my hands, casting the reflective light over the dark walls. My stomach twisted with each flash, my heart pumping harder when I brought the blade up to eye-level. The edge was sharp, I knew that very well. The handle fit my hand perfectly, as though made for my hand. The cherry wood was smooth under my fingers, a texture I’d missed like an old friend.

My lips parted, my lungs trying to get more air.

I knew I shouldn’t have the knife. I knew that what I wanted to do would hurt me more than I intended, but I needed it. They would find it and take it from me, lock me in that white hellhole again.

It would be worth it for this release.

I put the blade to the inside of my thigh, the cool steel icy against the nervous heat of my skin. Before I chickened out, my hand jerked back, slicing the skin. The pain—that sharp hissing pain—had me sighing in relief.

A tiny voice in the back of my head said, just like riding a bicycle.

I watched the black drop of blood spill from the cut and down my leg. I wiped the liquid from my thigh and wiped it on my shorts. I grabbed the bit of tissue I’d gathered before and pressed it hard against the cut. The pain increased just a little bit. A shuddering breath slipped from my lips.

I stretched out on my bed, legs hanging off the edge. It had been so long since I’d cut that I had almost forgotten how good the pain felt. I glanced over at the bedside table, my mother’s picture smiling at me.
Guilt pierced me sharper than the knife ever could. Even dead almost three years, she could still make me feel like I was worth less than a gum wrapper…good only for throwing away.

I stared at the wall, ignoring the tear that slipped down my cheek.

Heart In The Ground

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 08:10:00 +0000

My world has ended.

My world is the sound of heads hitting the business end of a bullet. It is the taste of metal and pine and gunpowder. It is the scent of fresh dug graves and white lilies.

It is tears quietly stifled under the covers of a young child’s bed.

It is a yellow envelope in my mail box, the letter within beginning with “We regret to inform you...”

It is a gray desert, slivers of moonlight highlighting the black liquid seeping into the sand from a skull cracked open like a ripe coconut.

My world was once light and happiness...I had a family. My love overwhelming at times, and returned with twice the intensity. My body had created the most beautiful works of art, their smiles brighter than the sun, their tears tearing the very heart of me to shreds.

The scent of this place stabs at me with the violence of every horror movie I’d ever refused to watch. I don’t know if I can make it through the ceremony. The colors and the stars that I had sacrificed so much for now fill me with nausea. I cannot look at the intricately folded cloth as the uniformed gentleman places it in my arms. Against my will, I hug it to my chest as if it were the body laying in the ground.

They could whisper all the condolences they wanted. It wouldn’t bring him back.

The shots pierce through the sky as the soldiers signal their respect for my heart, already decaying and eaten through with worms like a rotten apple too long left to the side.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Stupid

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 03:59:00 +0000

The white ranch style house sat on a good sixteen acres, the iron-wrought fence and gate guarded by two very large, very initimidating juju-permeated Foo Dogs. I stared up at the male, his fierce eyes staring down at me as if daring me to lay my hand upon his paw. I glanced over at the female, my skin crawling with the magic that lay within the granite statues. This place pulsed with energy, each blade of grass whispering of the man who owned it and painted the land with his magic.

I brushed a finger over the World under the Dog’s paw, coming away with a vibrant blue bit of energy that sank into my skin with a low growl that echoed within my mind. Such a fierce guardian, full of power and a deep need to protect what was his. I approached the female and ran the same finger between the eyes of the cub she held beneath her, and absorbed the red magic that drummed through the stone. For all that the male was a strong, ferocious being, she was something that made my spine tingled in fear from. Goddess help anyone who pissed her off.

“Well?” my companion, Derek Cordell, poked the male in the chest.

“You have a death wish, my friend. And for the love of living beyond the age of twenty five, please remove yourself from killing distance from the guardian. I swear, you normies are such dumbasses. You can’t recognize something quite literally dripping with some serious juju? And you want to try and kill the man it guards.” I shook my head. “You can’t do it, Cordell. You may as well forget it.”

“I can’t, Lily. He hurt her. He really hurt her. I can’t let that go.”

“I understand that—better than you know, my friend—but you can’t touch him. Trust me on this. Your head would be gone before you could step past the gate. These two right here aren’t just decoration. They are true Foo Dogs, and they don’t play. They will kill you and lick the blood from their paws. And even I won’t try to stop them.”

If I’d thought that the fact that I wouldn’t step up to the Dogs would convince the man to abandon his plan, I was sorely disappointed by the sheer stubbornness that hardened his eyes.

“If it were Arisheal in there, hiding behind some magic statues, would you let it stop you?”

I should’ve expected the question but it still hit me right where my scars lay beneath my clothes. I wasn’t sure what my honest answer should be. My sense of self-preservation is a very strong thing, but I get my taste for revenge from my father. The Prince of Lies and King of Hell likes to serve a few cold dishes to those who wrong him.

“I don’t know, Cordell. I really don’t. I’d like to think I would find some forgiveness in my heart, some tiny bit of my grandfather in me, but there is quite a bit of daddy dearest in me. But I’m not human, not mortal, and I, unlike you, am vulnerable to very few items. A stray splinter could kill you.”

“When has that ever stopped me?” the charming smile that led me to this place flashed.

“It’s not as simple as that, Cordell. The man in that house is protected by things that would give you nightmares. Nightmares that would actually kill you. Dude, you just can’t win this.” I clapped my hand on his shoulder. "Let it go. Let the Gods and Karma sort it out--it all comes out at the end of all things, I promise you this. Your sister will be avenged. But you will not be the one to hold a knife in that man's heart."

His eyes darkened. His lips firmed into a thin line.

“I’m sorry. I won’t help you with this. I won’t stop you, if you truly wish to move with this suicide mission—leaving your sister alone in her pain, by the way—but I will not aid you. And believe me, if I won’t , nobody else will either."

“Wow, egotistical much?”

“It’s not ego when it’s truth, Derek.” I stared into his eyes. “If the Devil’s daughter won’t touch this man for fear of his minions, then nobody else will dare.”

"Fine, if you truly won't help me, then I'll do it by myself. Screw you, Lily."

He stomped away to the car, driving off and leaving me stranded outside of a demon possessed warlock's gate.

I waited a few moments before I pushed the button for the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Let me in, Davieyn." I growled.

The gates swung open. The Female Foo Dog's head turned to stare at me. A low snarl reached my ears. I allowed the darkness inside me flare in my eyes, black shadows filling them and the air around my skin. I bared my teeth and she settled.

I walked into the house as if I owned it--which, as the Boss's daughter, I may as well have--and headed straight for the study.

Abigor stood beside the door, his head bowed and eyes on the floor. Davieyn, on the other hand, reclined on the luxurious chair behind the cherry wood desk he'd stolen from a duke many, many years ago. His feet rested on it, his arms behind his head.

"Lilitha! What a pleasure, darling. What brings you by?" He grinned through another man's teeth.

"Get out here, now, Davie." I put every ounce of my power behind the order, and his meatsuit immediately began coughing up demon-spew.

It took a full five minutes (yes, I counted each minute.) for my brother to stand before me in his true form, his victim lying on the floor behind him.

"Damn it, Lil, you know I hate it when you do that."

"Yes I do. And I know that you are aware of the rules of residing in my city. Yet you deliberately and maliciously broke them. If that weren't bad enough, you did it on someone I care about. I probably could've let your willfullness slide by if it were some random whore on the street, but it was a friend."

His eyes widened, a hand rising to his chest. "Moi? I have broken none of your rules, dear sister mine. I've been quite the paragon of quiet virtue. Tell her, Abigor! I've been the epitome of a boring sort of bloke, haven't I?"

I swung my head to the side, looking at Abigor under my lashes. "Well?"

"Uh. Yes, of course, m'lord." Abigor paled and his eyes darted away from mine.

Right. Because telling on the Anti-Christ's bad behavior to his big (and much scarier, fyi) sister is always a good idea.

I looked back at my brother and his snide little grin, and I felt the strongest urge to just smack the shit out of him. But my self-control has always been better than his, and so I only slapped him across the cheek.

"If you ever break my rules again, Davie-boy, I will hurt you worse than you could begin to dream of. I will send you back to Daddy Dearest, and you will regret your actions. Believe me when I tell you that I will know if you do so, and my rage will be swift and painful."

With that, I walked out with my brother on the ground and his servant with a smile on his face.

No Hope In Hell

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 06:49:00 +0000

I hung suspended from chains that created bloody rings around my wrists as I twisted in pain. She giggled, and dug the nails a little deeper into my flesh.

“Enjoying it, my dear?”

“Like an acid enema,” I rasped. Her eyes brightened.

“Now, that sounds like fun!” She grinned and waltzed away, her thin veneer of sanity slipping away with each drop of my blood that she spilled. She danced around the dank room, her hips swaying to the music in her head. Her fingers tunneled into her hair and her shoulders shimmied. The nails embedded in my shoulders and stomach shifted, bringing a gasp hovering to my lips.

“When he discovers what you’re doing, he’s going to kill you.” I reminded her. The smile on her faded, replaced with sorrow.

“I know.” She met my eyes. “I’ll admit, Lil, I wish it hadn’t come to this. I like you, y’know. You were always so nice to me. You listened to my stories about the good old days before that limp-dicked father of yours decided to play nice. If he’d just done as I asked so long ago…we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Why are we here?” I asked, breathless with the pain. She reached a hand up to cup my cheek, her thumb rubbing over my lips.

“Because he wouldn’t kill me when I begged him to.”

Monsters

noreply@blogger.com (KT Simpson) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 23:32:00 +0000

monsters

"Did you fall asleep?"

"No."

"Were you waiting for the monsters to come?"

"No."

"But, did they?"

"No."

"Then, why - why, my dear, were you in the forbidden room?"

Silent. I remain silent.

"Answer me."

"Forbiddance," I say. "I performed a forbidden deed in the forbidden room."

He smiles. "So now we're being smart?"

"No. Now we are honest."

His eyes narrow, yellow slits in the dark. "How did you get in?"

"The door was open."

"You expect me to believe the door was open for you to simply waltz in?" he sneers.

"Not waltz, walk."

He pushes from his chair, his fingers around my neck.

I do not flinch.

"What did you do?"

"I stood."

The forbidden room. The room with the bed and the nightstand - the room where the monsters lived when I first walked. Fifteen years of running away from dreams threaded with darkness, and I went back.

I am no longer afraid.

Because he is the monster and they are the light.

Savage The Night

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 10:19:00 +0000

**I was reading We're All Mad Here and got the idea for this story. It's kind of along similar lines. Not the same characters, but very similar in overall storyline. I dunno how to explain it. But I warn you now: It's not pretty.**

The night calls – the night and the moon and the darkness filled with the rushing flow of blood from torn flesh howls for my return to the hunt – but she refuse to release me. Why? I am needed. The night needs me. It is lonely and quiet.

My sisters scream for me, their hunt unsatisfying without me. I am meant to lead them through the night…and yet, here I lie in wait…caged and domesticated.

I will return to you, my sisters. Our hunt will rage through this world and our bodies will bathe in their remains. I swear upon the hunts of our mothers…I’m coming back.

~*~

I tear at my flesh, trying to rip the evil from my skeleton – if only I could reach the bones beneath. It burns my body, screaming and raging for release. I must not do these things it cries for. I must not look upon the people around me as food – raw steak, walking around as if to tease me into pouncing. I must not dream of pouring goblets of too-rich, too-red wine over my chest, licking the sticky liquid from my fingers.

In my dreams, a woman holds a handful of meat to my lips and my teeth rend and tear into it – ravaging the feast until only blood remains in her hands. She sinks one finger into my mouth and I suck hard, drawing the liquid from her skin. Our eyes meet and her smile is proud and heated. I drag her against me, forcing her lips to part to allow the passage of my tongue. The mingled taste of blood and flesh and sex is intoxicating. I fucking loved it.

In my waking, I scream and tear at my skull – I must eradicate these foul thoughts from my body. They come for me then, bringing the straightjacket and the syringe that sends me directly back to that horrible place.

She loves it when they force me back.

~*~

I have learned to be quiet. I have learned to allow my keeper to believe I am dormant. She grows compliant. Her jailors begin to believe she is rid of me…soon, my sisters, soon they will release me.

~*~

It’s been silent for months, nearly a year. I begin to relax. They allow my mother to visit. She no longer cries at the sight of me.

Today…I smiled.

~*~

Today. Today, my sisters…we will be reunited.

~*~

For a moment, I felt the sun on my face. It was beautiful.

~*~

I have returned. And I am all that is left of this poor weak creature.

Let us ride, and savage them all.

Guest Story: Secret Sanctuary by Amber Thompson

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 16:00:00 +0000

Our secret garden, our secret place. A place in the middle of the forest that has been forgotten. Our nights together had come to a close. It had been months since an escape to our hidden sanctuary had taken place.

We would not run away together again. Our time had come to an end. We had lost our secrets, our love. Now, our nights were all but forgotten, they were gone.

I stepped out of our flat and started for the woods. It was mid-afternoon, a different time for me to be going there, and I was going alone. We had always gone in the evening to watch the sunset and the bright stars, and we had always gone together. Our secret trysts were long gone.

I stopped short just before the clearing. Music was coming from our spot. I ducked under the bushes and snuck a peek. Speakers were sitting on the little end table that he had brought the last time we had visited.

I saw her first. I froze. He had brought another woman with him. They were speaking in whispers. As they stood to leave, he spoke in a clear voice.

"We can come back as often as we would like, this is our spot."

I did not know what to think. He had cast me aside so easily, and now he had forgotten me. I created the secret hideaway with him, and now he was willing to share our spot with another.

They left. I stepped into the clearing. The clean white bed was untouched, still made. The canopy I had hung from an overhead branch had been pulled aside, but that was how I left it. They must have spent their time on the bench that he had built.

The past had been lost, and now we had to live in the present. I loved him. I never stopped loving him. Although now he loved her. The blonde with the perfect beauty.

I was alone now.

I sat on the bed and laid back on the pillows. I remembered the past. I thought about the first time we had needed an escape from the world.

We were hand-in-hand, walking. Just walking. I was telling him about my crappy dead-end job and he was complaining about how his boss had fired twenty people, but only kept him on because she liked how he looked in his suit.

We had been together for almost five years at that point. We had only been married for two. We walked along the trail in the woods and came to a halt when the trail ended. Trees surrounded us, but we needed to push further. We stepped off the trail and into the woods. Another five minutes of wlaking later, we came across a clearing. It was almost the size of an olympic sized pool. We stepped into the clearing and sat down.

I leaned against him as he wrapped his arm around me. I had a secret to tell him. I was expecting a child, our first child.

Before I could tell him, he suggested that we make the clearing ours. I gave the hint that we should place a bed and a bench in the grass. He agreed, and a week later he surprised me by bringing a queen-sized matress through the woods and when he brought me back later, he sat me down on the bed.

"I love you," he said in a whisper.

"I love you, too," I said. I told him I had a secret that I had been hiding for a few weeks. When he asked me continue, I obliged.

"I'm pregnant," I said. He hugged me and we had a few moments of complete bliss. This was our first good memory at our secret garden. The first moment of many that were to take place over the course of a year.

A few months later, I ended up losing the baby, but we still went to our place, to remember the good times, to be able to escape reality. After our three year anniversary of our marriage, he told me he wanted a divorce. I was shocked, of course, but I understood. We were not the same people. We loved each other, but I could tell that he was not in love with me.

Now, it was not our spot. It was his spot. It was her spot. It was not my place anymore. I stood up and walked toward the trees. I did not look back. I could not look back. I walked away from the past, and into the future.

about the author, Amber Thompson:

I currently live in Chester, New Hampshire, where I attend the local private college for Creative Writing. I have been writing since I was in first grade, when my teacher read us Harry Potter for the first time, and I find my inspiration to be J.K. Rowling. You can always find me writing some story or another and I am currently working on my first novel, a young adult romance tentatively entitled, Love Schooled.

Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 16:00:00 +0000

aka this story doesn't have a real title because I suck at titles.

It was the third day of the second month of the first year. Mom was in her room crying like she usually did, and Lola was in the downstairs bathroom doing whatever she thought would get her attention. On the fifth day of the seventh month, she was cutting herself. That was when I made her go to counseling.

Every few months I found her doing something else. Binge-eating. Burning herself. She picked up habits from those in her group.

It was the twenty-seventh day of the first month of the first year that I kept her home. She shouldn’t be exposed to that.

She found other ways to harm herself, though. I had hoped today would be a better day for both of them. Instead, I was facing my own demons.

I crawled out of the bedroom window onto the cold, snow and ice roof. I only wore jeans and a bra. All my shirts were dirty because I hadn’t done laundry since last Tuesday, two weeks ago. All I wanted was to sit outside and cry.

A year, two months, and three days ago Dad died. Fourteen months and four days ago our life was good. Dad was coming back from his trip in New York; Mom had a fantastic case and she was going to win—everybody knew it, even the defendant. Lola was captain of the cheer team and the football team was going to be the state champions. I was volleyball captain, and we were going to state. We were going to win, I knew it.

Lola and I were still the envy of every underclassman. We could have any boy we wanted, but I stayed with Chris and Lola had her eyes set on this college kid who didn’t give her the time of day.

I was in the gym, spiking a ball when I got the news. Lola ran into the gym, mascara running down her face and she still held onto a pom-pom. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but it was slipping to the side.

I missed the ball as Lola ran into the practice game. “What is it?” I had asked her. “What’s wrong?” Whose ass do I have to kick?

Her lips trembled. “Dad’s airplane crashed.”

My best friend Lindsey screamed and I fell to the ground crying.

“You’re going to catch pneumonia.” Chris climbed out the window with his jacket, tugging me up to wrap me into it.

“Maybe I want to.”

He grabbed my chin and yanked it up so I had to look at him. “Don’t give up on me. You’re not Lola.”

“Chris, I can’t—“

“You can.” He went back through, arms out for me to follow. I did, reluctantly, because I knew if I didn’t he would come back out there and get me. He held me and we fell into the bed that smelled like sweat and Red Bull and the stupid chips I couldn’t stop eating. I started crying into his shoulder.

We stayed like that until Lola came into the room. She was pale and skinny, her long blond hair chopped off.

“What did you do to your hair?” I asked, sitting up and rubbing at my eyes. “It was so pretty…” Before fourteen months ago, she obsessed over her hair and makeup like crazy. She never cut her hair. She wouldn’t let anybody jokingly come near her hair with scissors.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just hair.” She shook it out of her face and crossed her arms. “Mom’s getting up. I think she wants to go to the…” she could finish the sentence, but I knew what she meant. I pinched Chris so he would wake up. I gave him his jacket back and dug through the piles of clothes until I found a shirt that didn’t smell or look that bad. Maybe it was clean and Lola threw it the ground in one of her fits.

Every five days, Lola would scream and shriek and repeat “Why him?” while throwing whatever she could get her hands on.

That’s how she broke the mirror and cut herself, which started the harming obsession.

I folded into Chris’ arms as Lola left my room, head tucked to his heart. Tha-ump. Tha-ump. Tha-ump. He smelled good too. He was a year older, almost exact—my birthday and Lola’s on the seventh of May while his was on the second of May. He saw me the first day of freshman year, four years, three months, and seventeen days ago. Four years, two months, and three days ago he asked me out.

Two years and seven months and one day ago I broke up with him for another guy.

Two years and seven months and twenty-one days ago we got back together and didn’t let the other go, no matter what happened in their life.

So it surprised me when three minutes ago I walked him down to door and he kissed me like it was goodbye.

about the author:

At age ten, Ashelynn discovered the lost city of Atlantis Narnia-style (it's not that cool) and was kidnapped by a bunch of ninja pirates. She had to beg for her release. A year later, she beat the Devil in a poker game (it wasn't that hard) and owns half of Hell. At fifteen, she decided to write down the stories she made up. She likes writing fiction more than non-fiction, day dreaming more than dreaming, languages more than math, and cake more than pie. She believes in magic and that the most magical time of day is night. She may also be lying about this bio.

She wears many hats, including book blogger, writer, and full-time student (political science, baby!).

FOR LOVE OF EMMALINE

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 05:11:00 +0000

I should’ve known he would follow me out here. Breathing in the sweet, fresh scent of the night air and the vines that spiraled around the twisted metal of the balcony, I waited for him to speak. Tonight would be our last. I would make sure of it.

“Beautiful night,” he commented.

I hmmed, the noncommittal sound vibrating in my throat.

“Eloquent as ever, Emmaline.” He said, a dry chuckle behind the words.

“I’m not terribly interested in discussing the merits of tonight’s weather, Royce. My most sincere apologies if I fail in entertaining you.” I drawled, sliding a piercing glance his way. He met my gaze easily, as always, and with a small smile. He never failed to be amused by me. It didn’t matter if I was indifferent to him or raging at him. He always wore that little smirk on those full lips.

A man shouldn’t have lips that full. Made to kiss…to caress a woman’s skin and send ripples of arousal through a soft, writhing body. I returned my gaze to the rain-slicked roads of the city.

"You never fail to entertain me, Em.” He murmured. I sighed and turned around to lean against the balcony railing. His eyes slid down my body, taking in each curve and crevice he could see, and no doubt imagining the ones he couldn’t. Naughty man. He had no right…not anymore. I’d given this man everything I had to give, and it was never enough. He always wanted more.

I took in a deep breath, well aware of how my breasts filled the corset, almost to spilling over.

“Why are you here, Roy?” I asked. His pilot’s uniform fit to every inch of his tall and well-muscled form. It was a heart-wrenching reminder of why I was here. Running. A dirigible pilot was no man for me.

“I’m here for you, Em. It’s time you stopped being so scared of this.” He said, his face going hard. His brows furrowed over fierce eyes. “I have to leave tomorrow night to fly the President back to New Norfolk. Either you marry me tonight and come with me, or I leave and I won’t come back.”

I gaped at him. He dared? He dared to give me an ultimatum.

“What makes you think I want you?” I rasped, pushing away from the balcony and striding back into the hotel room. The rich colors of the room were almost overwhelming. I preferred cool colors to the sensual reds and browns of this room, but I needed the room. I needed him to see the side of me I permitted my clients to see.

Sexual creature only concerned with the pleasures of the flesh.

“I won’t say that you made love to me…” he began. I laughed, a harsh sound.

“Good because I’ve made love,” I spat. “with quite a few men.”

“You think I care?” he growled. He stalked toward me, every step echoing with anger. I refused to step back. He towered over me, bright blue eyes pinning me to the spot. “They were your past. They hold very little concern for me.”

“Because why? Because you’re my future?” I mocked him.

“Because they didn’t touch you. Not the way I have.”

“The only way you’ve touched me is when I let you fuck me.” I slapped the words in his face. I hoped they would hurt him. I hoped they were pierce his skin and draw enough blood that he would leave.

He visibly paled, but didn’t move. “You think you’re doing me a favor—hurting me to make me give up on you. You think we’ll both be better off alone instead of together.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I snapped.

“I know better than you think, Em. But I’m not letting you do it. Because unlike most, I suffer no guilt in eavesdropping on private conversations.”

I froze. No. He didn’t…he couldn’t. My eyes widened and met his. Knowledge gleamed in the blue and my heart stopped. He did.

Bastard.

“Bitch.” He growled.

I realized I’d said the curse aloud.

He stepped closer, crowding me with his body heat. I couldn’t step away. Couldn’t bring myself to go back to the cold again.

“How could you send me away with such cruel words when you loved me?”

“It was for your own good!” I cried. “Do you really believe we’d be happy together? No! We’d tear each other apart!"

“Why do you think that?” he asked, the words soft.

“We just would! You’d hate me for the other men I’ve been with, and I’d be ashamed of what I did to survive!” My heart fluttered in my chest, panic tangling in my throat. I drew in as much air as I can, only to breathe in his scent, wild and masculine…familiar and beloved.

“Em…” he started. Paused. Licked his lips and took a deep breath. His hands came up to cup my face. Their heat scalded me…such sweet pain it was to have his skin against mine. “Emmaline Rose, I’m proud of you. You did something many people couldn’t bring themselves to do. You did survive. Why would I hate you for doing what you had to so that you would be here for me to love?”

His thumb swept across my cheek, coming away wet.

“I love you, Em. Nothing will change that. Please…come with me.” His eyes pleaded with me. Practically glowing with love and need.

I closed my eyes against it. I couldn’t…could I? Suddenly, the vision I’d had of our supposed future—fighting and lonely nights—disappeared. Replaced by one of warmth and laughter.

“Promise me,” I whispered. “Promise me my past will never influence us.”

“I promise I will never hold your past against you—no matter what happens.” He immediately swore.

I opened my eyes, and let myself absorb the feel of him. We fit perfectly. How could I have missed that?

“Alright, Captain. You’ve got me.”

His smile was blinding.

originally posted here.
(c) Mireyah Wolfe, 2010

Only The Young

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 00:07:00 +0000

The picture that inspired this story is here.

Only the young can say… they’re free to fly away… sharing the same desires… burning like wildfire…

The song like a whisper on my lips, I sing, “Only the young -.”

I’m interrupted by a thick hand on my shoulder. Startled, my feet stop swinging off the ledge, and I turn. James, brown leather jacket and all, is kneeling behind me. His hand falls off my shoulder and he smiles.

“James!” I exclaim. “I thought you’d left.”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“Not yet,” he says again, looking away from me. He’s looking out at the city, with all its secrets, lies, doors, and windows.

He’s looking at the future. I know because I was, too.

I shake my head, throwing my dark bangs to the side. With futures so unclear, I want to be able to see. I need to be able to see. See where James is going with his music, see if my father gets sent to prison, see how many times I will fall victim to all these little things.

Suddenly, I feel weak.

“James,” I say softly, turning towards him again.

The warmth of his right hand meets my cheek, and he laughs. His hand slides past my jaw, pushing my limp hair back from neck, and he leans. Before his lips can touch my neck, I whisper, “Is it safe?”

“Don’t you remember?” he asks, pulling away.

Our third date. The night he brought me out on this ledge and we watched all the cars pass by below. We tried to look at stars through city lights and haze. We tiptoed on the edge, scared to fall, but scared to be safe. And we kissed for the first time. Held hands and became inseperable.

But it’s not night now. It’s a year later and there’s been many kisses. And we’ve walked this ledge so many times that walking has become safe. Where’s the danger now?

It’s in tomorrow, in the unknown days.

A tear slips from my eye, and I force a smile. “Of course I remember.”

James pushes forward again, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders, his lips pressed to my cheek, to that tear. When we fall back together and hit concrete, his lips are on mine. I can taste the salt.

His hand is cradling my neck so gently, and his arm his holding me to him with such strength. Everything seems impossible.

I break from his kiss just the slightest bit and look up. It doesn’t matter where I am, the blue sky always looks the same. Whether I’m lying with James in a field, or on a ledge, it’s still wide and blue.

It’ll look the same wherever I am, wherever James is. We’ll see the same sky and remember. I close my eyes again, whispering, “You’ll never let me fall?”

“Never.”

I kiss him again, opening my mouth with a gasp against his as his knee nudges my leg off the ledge.

With his kiss, I’m free to fly.

Grace

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 00:05:00 +0000

The picture that inspired this story is here.

The wind rustled the ends of her hair, lifting it in a way that if the wind was stronger, she’d fly away, up over the roof tops and city people staring at her. She could fly away from anything that pained her and land in a place of happiness. Renew herself. Crack out of the shell of the girl that once was and emerge as a beautiful butterfly.

Grace. She’d rename herself Grace. The way it sounded coming from her mouth, so elegant, made her smile. She’d be elegant. She’d be kind and loved by all.

Grace tipped her head back, staring up at the blue, blue sky. Maybe if she stared at it she wouldn’t see the ground racing to meet her. Wouldn’t hear the crunch of her bones; the squish of blood pouring from her. The snap of her life gone as she hit pavement.

She sat down, dangling her legs over the edge. It felt freeing—daring—to be half over the ledge. One slip and whoosh. Goodbye.

“What are you doing out here?” A boy leaned out of the window, staring at her in utter amazement and frightfulness. His hair was blond and messy, like he rolled out of bed. His eyes blue, like the sky, and sleepiness was mixed with the other emotions.

“Reevaluating.”

He slid out of the window and sat next to her. “Why?” He smelled like cinnamon. She wanted to bury her face in his jacket. But that wouldn’t be very graceful, and she intended on acting like her new name.

She tilted her head at him. Parted her cracked, pink lips. They still looked soft. “Because life is hell.”

“Jumping will be hell, too.”

She didn’t skip a beat. “Not unless you let yourself go while falling. You won’t feel a thing.”
He stared at her for a long time; from her dyed black hair and red roots to the combat boots she wore under the plaid skirt. He guessed she was an artist struggling to make it in the big, bad world. He held up his hands, dry, but covered in paint. He smiled.

“It isn’t that bad, you know.” He leaned forward, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. He whispered, “I hope you haven’t let yourself go,” and pressed his lips to her cheek. She gasped, turning her head toward his. Their breath mingled, then their lips and tongues. Wave after wave of emotion crashed inside her and he pressed her down on the ledge, one leg of hers still dangling; they stayed like that for a few minutes, hands tangled in hair while their mouths danced. He pulled her into the studio apartment with him.

“Toby,” he said, his lips brushing hers as he talked. She felt solid with floor under her feet. Walls under her touch as he pushed her into the corner. Ceiling overhead. Safe. The shell of the girl was broken; out came a new girl. A new butterfly.

“Grace.”

Picture Prompt

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 00:03:00 +0000

Leah Clifford, author of A TOUCH MORTAL, has been running After Midnight writing contests. She tweeted a picture of this last week and asked for stories under 500 words. So Kaitlin and I (Ashelynn) entered. Since both stories are around 500 words, we're going to post them to different posts. Enjoy!

Guest Story: Orange Tulips by Laina

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 16:00:00 +0000

Today's short story is from Laina, one of our other critique partners who doesn't normally write short stories. It's a gorgeous story--very short--and very depressing. Enjoy!

“I miss you.”

I know.

“I still don’t understand why you left with him.”

I know that, too.

“Were you cheating on me?”

No.

“Were you going to?”

Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have, but we’ll never know now, will we? And that’s probably a good thing.

“I never even saw you drink before.”

I know. It wasn’t the first time, but it wasn’t a regular occurrence either. And I was angry that you blew me off to go out with your friends, so I went out with mine and I was angry that I thought you were pulling away and I was… I was angry about a lot of things. Most, if not all, of them were my fault.

“You know I would have come gotten you if you called me, right?”

Yeah, of course I do, but I didn’t want to see you. You were pretty much the last person I wanted to see.

“If you didn’t want to see me, you should have gotten a cab.”

I know. Getting into a car with someone who’d been drinking was the stupidest thing I ever did.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come and seen you before.”

It’s okay. I don’t hang around here a lot either. If you haven’t noticed, there’s not a whole lot going on.

“It’s not that I don’t miss you. I miss you more than you know. But…”

Babe, I know. I really do. It makes you sad. Trust me, I don’t want you to be sad.

“I still love you.”

Me too.

Kneeling down, he sets the flowers gently on my grave. Tulips, my favourites, and orange, the colour I wore on the day I died. The last time he saw me. I hop off the headstone and bend down to kiss his cheek, even though neither of us can feel it anymore.

“Goodbye.”

Goodbye.

about the author:

Laina can be found at her book review blog, Twitter, and Facebook. She has a short story, Zombie Girl, published in the Zombie Survival Crew anthology Undead Is Not an Option.

Small Updates?

noreply@blogger.com (KT Simpson) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 23:44:00 +0000

Hey, lovely followers!

Jenna (Jennifer White) has left the blog for now. Lately she seems to be busy working on her book and other exciting life things (heading off to college soon!).

Mireyah is shifting hours at work next month and hopes to get back to writing a lot more! She's also going to be attending The Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers' Conference this September.

Ashelynn and Kaitlin have both been writing away on their current WIPs and might just have some short stories in the works!

So, stay tuned. We'll have some more exciting stuff up soon!

We're All Mad Here

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 02:20:00 +0000

I'm a bitch, I'm a monster,
yes I'm a beast,
and I feast when I conquer...
Save Me, Nicki Minaj

They found me with the bloody ax in my hands, standing over the torn-apart body of my sister’s boss. Blinking, I didn’t bother resisting when the cops slapped the cuffs on my wrists and dragged me away from the carnage I had apparently created.

I blacked out again, and became a different person. In the videos the D.A showed me, she introduced herself as “The Bane.” She wore my face, spoke with my voice, but everything about her screamed wrong. Her eyes were empty, her laugh falling flat in the tiny cement room where they asked her question after question.

The court-appointed therapist thinks it’s a split personality—a reaction to the stress of what my sister’s boss did to me. Only Bane could protect me from the horror of what he did. Only she could do what part of me had wanted so badly to do—destroy the thing that hurt me. But when they asked her why she did it, all she would say is, “It is very simply my purpose to eradicate the demon that plagued him. The only path to achieving that goal was to kill the host. It was a nice little perk that he was an evil, loathsome soul.”

She believed he was truly a demon—straight from the bowels of hell, come to dirty the lily-white souls of humankind. She believes she is Chosen – born to be their Bane, their poison. Their executioner.

When the trial came, I pled Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. The People argued that I was faking, but none could watch those videos—see the seductive movements of my Other Self, the empty, cackling laugh of that demented personality—and believe that I could fake that. The therapist let me watch the broadcast of my trial, and I saw myself, a tiny little mouse sunk into myself at the table, shaking visibly for the camera.

The room where I now live drives Bane into fits of madness. She throws our body against the walls, claws at our face, screams until they take us to solitary where she whispers to us of the horrors the demons commit while we lounge in safety.

She rages at our therapist, throws items around the room, while the woman sits calmly at her desk, watching us.

When she lets me out, she is in the back of my mind, growling and scratching at my eyes from the inside. I cannot speak for the pain. She won’t let me have a moment of peace.

Finally, the day comes when she is quiet. I sit in the corner, rocking back and forth, and as the light filters through the small window, the pain in my mind fades. I bask in the silence, in the feeling of being alone for the first time in three years.

She stays silent for a long time. I should’ve questioned her sudden disappearence. I shouldn’t have trusted it. Hope is a cruel emotion.

Our therapist declares me miracously cured. I briefly wonder at the glint in her eye as she signs the papers to have me released. The judge meets with us and is amazed at my progress.

Six months later, on my twenty-first birthday, I walk out of the asylum, and slide into the taxi they called for me.

The moment the door shuts, the silence ends. There is no pain, only a resigned sigh as I feel her shove me away into the dark once more. In our mind, I turn away—I cannot watch what she will do to the world, using my body.

A smile curves our lips.

Wicked Blood

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 03:23:00 +0000

This story includes blood and gruesome events. I (the author) advise people with weak stomachs to not read this unless they desperately want to. Thanks!

music: In The End -- Linkin Park

The fairy lifted its head, its mouth covered in blood. It blinked and cocked its head before placing one of its long claw-like fingers in its mouth and sucked at it. It smiled, showing pointy teeth, and dug into the deer’s carcass. It took out the heart and made a bloody mess as it ate it.

The girl had frozen when she stumbled upon the eating site. Everybody knew a fairy attacked when it was disturbed while eating. It was why she stopped, rocks digging into her bare feet, the wind whipping her nightgown around, her tears clinging to her cheeks.

From weheartit.com

Maybe she wanted to die when she took a step and another one until she was standing in front of the carcass and the fairy.

Her life was hard at home. Ever since her sister died from a fairy attack, her parents can’t stand to look at her, or talk to her. The silence made her insane. Her only companion the ticking of the clock and the silence. Always the silence.

She crouched in the dead leaves coated in the deer’s blood and stared into the fairy’s black eyes. They continued to stare at each other as she reached into the body and pulled out an organ; she didn’t know what it was, but she still took a bite out of it. Blood and other liquids ran down her chin and neck, staining her nightie.

She ate the whole thing, never blinking, always staring into the empty abyss of the fairy’s eyes.

She wiped a hand across her mouth. The fairy opened its mouth. “You shouldn’t have done that.” The fairy’s voice was low and gravely, not what she expected. She didn’t think the fairy could talk and not so well. Its lips pulled away from its teeth when it talked, the teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

It attacked her. It flew across the deer, its claws sinking into her shoulders and its teeth into her throat. Her mouth was opened, but no sound came out. The fairy had already ripped out her throat. Her eyes stared upwards, into the moon.

More fairies came and they dug their nails into her skin, pulling away layer and layer while they ate it like chips. Blood ran and they licked at it. A few giggled. A few traced their nails around her remaining skin before plunging in.

Her life didn’t end until the main fairy yanked out her heart and ate it.

She didn’t scream, not even once, but she had a smile plastered on her face when she died.

Auditorium

noreply@blogger.com (KT Simpson) — Fri, 13 May 2011 22:34:00 +0000

A little note first: You've probably noticed we didn't post any stories in April, nor any stories relating to April's theme. Life problems have been prominent for all four of us, prohibiting some new stories. We're also going to go with a more rolling process - when we have a story to post, it'll be posted. Themes won't always be there.

That being said... Here's a story from Kaitlin:

Auditorium

I sit quietly. Alone. In the dark. A ghost light stands at center stage, but it doesn’t help lead my way.

I tap my heel on the ground, the clap resounding throughout the auditorium. Perfection. My muse is alive, reborn through the stillness of a frozen theater. I pull out my notebook and begin to write.

Not far down the page, the click of a door sounds from behind me. I snap my notebook shut, spinning to see an intruder.

He walks silently, the flat bottoms of his shoes refusing to make a sound. So unlike mine. He walks with his hands deep in his pockets, his head ducked low.

When he looks up, he catches my eye. My hand rolls into a fist against my notebook, crushing my pen. Such audacity he has to scare away my muse.

He continues walking until he is by me seat. He sits next to me. I freeze.

His hair is blonde and his eyes are silver and his foot is touching mine, brushing it ever so slightly. What’s he doing?

He glances to the ghost light and then back to me. “Do you know what ghost lights are for?”

I nod.

He smiles slightly. “Do you perform?”

I stare at the stage, slowly inching my notebook away from him. I whisper, “I write.”

“That’s a great thing,” he says back. His voice is like a promise. It’s smooth, quiet, and doesn’t seem to end. It’s always there, seeping into your mind and soul.

“And you?” I say as a shiver runs down my spine. His foot, than his leg, had brushed mine again.

“I performed.”

Performed? Past tense?

I flash a curious glance at him. He doesn’t notice, only stares back at the ghost light. He sighs, “I’ve seen you here often.”

He knows. He knows I come in the theater to write. My stomach churns. I’m not used to people talking to me, telling me I’m not invisible. Especially not boys with little smiles and wide, blue eyes. I stay silent.

His voice softens a little. “I think you’re beautiful.”

My spine shoots straight. No, boys never said that. I avoid looking at him. “I’ve never seen you before…”

He hesitates, “I… I don’t always come out.”

I turn to look at him, opening my mouth to respond. But, instead he’s leaned in close. He presses his lips, soft and thin, against mine. I close my eyes.

And then his whisper of a kiss disappears and we’re looking into each other’s eyes. He pulls my hand into his. “I want to give you this.”

I stare down at my hand, a perfect little penny pressed into my palm. The year 2007. Four years ago.

He whispers, cold breath tickling my spine, “That’s the year I died.”

My head shoots up, ready to give him another curious look.

But he’s gone.

April's Theme

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 08:30:00 +0000

In case you missed it, KT's story was Human, a story about a robot. And it was SAD. Grab the tissues if you're an emotional reader.

Mireyah's story, Bleeding Green, was totally badass (as all Mireyah's stories are!)

Ashelynn's story, In The Dark, and Jenna's story, Heartbreak Beat, were both inspired by songs.

And now, April's theme!

with the four elements!

If you get a story idea of magic, link it in a comment! We'll love to read it. :)

Human

noreply@blogger.com (KT Simpson) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 01:46:00 +0000

Warmth. From her hands, resting on my solid cheeks. Metal. Not human. I can see it in her eyes.

I try to speak, but nothing but gurgled noises comes out. The sound of a computer. That’s what I am. A wretched computer. Created, not born.

But, apparently everything that is created is given a soul. She gave me my metal skin, and my robot brain. And, somehow, she gave me a heart.

She reaches behind me to adjust a monitor. Her hair falls, brushing my shoulder plate. She whispers, “Dokie, why aren’t you moving?”

She pulls back, her palms rounding over my so-called face again. Her lips are pulled down in a frown, her eyes dark, but curious. Even so sad, she is beautiful.

I can say her name – she programmed me to. “Ev-ah-lin.”

Her frown turns to a smile. “What is it, Dokie?”

I think of all I want to say, try to speak, and more gurgled noises come out. Her smile disappears, and she yanks at a cord behind me again. She hums as she works. I wish I could hum too. Like Evelyn, music is wonderful.

Finally she gets off her knees and walks to a computer on the other side of the room. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, typing codes to make me run properly. She stares at the screen and stuffs her hands into the pocket of her white lab coat. With a sigh, she blows her bangs out of her eyes. I want to comfort her, but she still has to program me with more things to say. And I sometimes doubt that will happen.

The door opens and a tall man walks in. She smiles briefly at him, and he glances towards me. His voice is low. “Robot not working?”

“Won’t move,” she says sadly. She cares about me. I know it.

The man walks over to me and pats my head. He speaks to Evelyn again, “What have you tried doing?”

“I tried adjusting those cords behind him. And I’ve tried manually writing the code for movement, but Dokie won’t move.”

“Perhaps we should try shutting it down?” the man suggests.

“Reboot?” Evelyn asks.

“If it’s not moving at all,” the man sighs, “I’m not sure how much good a reboot will do.”
“But he said my name!” Evelyn argues.

The man walks away from me, and runs a hand through his black hair. I wish I had hair. I wish I had fingers. He sighs again. “Evelyn, it’s a robot, not a person.”

Evelyn frowns when he says this, and it makes me happier that she does. “Mark, he’s got a programmed personality!”

Mark walks closer to her, pressing her palm over the left of his chest. “But it doesn’t have a beating heart, or a brain. Why care so much?”

Liar. I have a heart. So I don’t have a bloodstream or muscle tissue, but I said it before, and I’ll say it again – somehow everything created has a soul. And my soul heart doesn’t need a pulse to say it’s alive.

Evelyn walks back over to me and drags a finger between my ‘eyes’. She leans down, close enough for a kiss. I’ve never felt more…alive. Human. “Dokie is my life’s work, Mark. He’s been my project for the past five years – why shouldn’t I care?”

“You’re a scientist, not a dreamer. Don’t dwell on foolish things. We can program a new one. Come here.”

Evelyn turns and walks towards Mark. Her hands fly up, agitated. “Mark, the project managers are coming this week. They can’t see a broken robot!”

That’s what I am. Broken.

Mark frowns and lays an arm over her delicate, narrow shoulders. I feel a twinge inside of me, as if one of my pieces is snapping in half. Right in the middle of my torso. Where a heart would be. If only Evelyn knew that my soul’s alive, swimming under my metal skin. If only I could reach out and…

He touches her, his hand to her cheek and bends closer. His voice is low. “They can’t see a broken one, but we can shut it down temporarily. And then start the new program.”

Oh, no. That couldn’t happen. I hear these stories – whispers from other stuck robot souls – once you’re shut down, it’s so long to your soul too. With that new start comes a new life, a new heart.

Evelyn nods solemnly. Mark speaks, “I’ll get the switch in the other room. Turn the lights off.”

And, more painful than before, Mark leans down and kisses her firmly on the lips. I hear a screeching sound, as if my entire metal frame is ripping to shreds.

Mark leaves to find the switch to shut me down. Forever. Although, with that kiss… I am already shut down.

Evelyn’s heels click as she walks back over to me. She crouches, her eyes level to mine. She puts her hands on either side of my face. Warmth. I’m brought back to several minutes ago, when her hands were there before. I need to speak.

“Oh, Dokie, I’ll miss you…” Evelyn sighs.

“Powering down!” comes Mark’s call from the other room. Evelyn turns her head to his direction, yelling back.

And then she turns her head back to me, her dark ponytail swinging over her shoulders. She speaks quickly, leaning in, “Oh, say my name again before you go.”

I can do more than that. Stiffly, I lift my arms up and wrap them around her, bringing her into an embrace. My robotic voices comes out. “Ev-ah-lin.”

Her eyes widen and she whispers, “You can move?”

I tighten my arms around her. I wish I could feel how soft she looks.

She starts to call out, “Stop!”

But it’s too late.

I was never a broken robot. Only a broken soul. A broken soul in love.

Bleeding Green

noreply@blogger.com (Mireyah Wolfe) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 02:34:00 +0000

Jealousy is the ugliest trait...

~Pretty Girl Rock, Keri Hilson

As the door opens, and she walks in, the very air changes in reaction. Conversation ceases--it's like a scene in a movie, where the sinfully sensual woman struts in, half naked and oozing sex appeal. I roll my eyes as my buddies all stare at her, and take another sip of my Jack D.

Been there, done her, got the T-Shirt and sold it for a profit. About the only good thing that came out of that debacle.

"Hey, Winchester, get a load of this." My partner, Sanford, popped my shoulder with his beefy hand and nodded his chin at Sex Incarnate.

Gone completely unnoticed, a nightmare walked in behind her. Long legs leading to full hips, a trim little waist, and perfectly shaped, perfectly proportioned breasts, and a mouth made for sin, every inch of her was covered in business attire and every inch screamed "I Don't Belong Here."

"Goddamn it." What the hell was she doing here? I slammed my glass back down, and swiveled in my chair.

"Chester, be careful with her, man..." Sanford warned my back.

"I'll be real careful when I drag her over my knees and spank her little ass..." I muttered. Her big eyes fixed on me, and for a brief second, awareness and fear widened the gaze. Immediately after, determination flattened her normally full (and completely kissable) lips and narrowed her eyes. Then again, she enjoys that if I remember correctly...

"Donavan. We need to talk." Cara said clearly. Damn her for thinking that she was even remotely safe in this place. I have got to get her out of here. Now.

"Oh yeah, baby, we really do. C'mon, we'll go back to my place and..." I made my lips stretch into a feral smile. "Talk." I threw a glance over at my buddies at the bar--they started laughing their asses off at the implied suggestion.

Who the hell cared if I had every intention of throwing her ass in my car and back at her house?

"No, we're gonna talk here." She bit the statement out.

I got all up in her personal space--something I knew she hated--and growled in her ear, "It's cute when you think you have any say, baby, but believe me when I say that the likelihood of your being here for more than ten additional seconds is slim to fucking none."

I slipped my arm around her waist and pulled her close, making certain to demonstrate just how useless it would be for her to struggle as I walked her out of the bar. The scent of lemons wafted to my nostrils, teasing me with something I needed more than anything else. God, it had been so long since I'd held this woman. Too damn long. Three seconds was too long, and it had been two months.

"Get in the car." I pressed the button on my keys to unlock the door, and waited for her to slide into the vehicle.

"What the hell possessed you to go in that dump?" I finally snapped as I pulled out of the driveway.

"What made you go in there?" She retorted.

"Thirst." I snarled. "What do you need to talk to me about? Make it quick, you don't live that far from here."

Silence filled the car.

"Cara. Speak."

"I am not a dog, Donavan." She crossed her arms and looked out her window.

"And I'm not gonna live forever. Get on with it, woman."

"...I missed you."

Well, gag me with a spoon. Was this some kind of joke?

I verbalized the thought.

"No, Don, it's not a freaking joke."

"You're the one who walked out on me, Care."

"I am well aware of that, thank you."

"That means you can't just come back and expect me to fall to my knees, thankful that you deigned to return."

She closed her eyes and bent her head a little.

"I know that, Don. I don't want you to. I fully expect to have to beg a bit here."

"What's the point of this, Cara?"

"I made a mistake, Don. I was jealous of...her."

I hit the brakes outside her apartment building, and turned to stare at her.

"Don't you dare lie to me."

"I'm not lying, damn it! What do I have to do, or say, to make you believe me?"

I wanted desperately to believe her--god knew, this little elf of a woman had dropped me to my knees when she'd walked out on me because of a kiss that wasn't even my fault.

"It broke my heart to leave you, Don. I could barely look at myself in the mirror after..."

"I'm sure you managed." I muttered.

She wisely kept her mouth shut at that.

"Get out, Cara."

"Don."

"No. You know what, babe?" I smiled. "I'm too damn good for you. You could've stuck around to find out what happened that night, but you just assumed that I was enough of an asshole to cheat on you."

I opened my jacket pocket to pull out the tiny black velvet box I'd been carrying around for three months and tossed it in her lap.

"Consider that a parting gift. Maybe the next time a guy falls head over ass in love with you, you'll give him the benefit of the doubt instead of jumping to conclusions."

Her lips parted as tears filled her beautiful eyes.

"Now get the hell out of my car."

She slid out, her entire body stiff and her eyes glued on that damn box, her fingers tight around it.

I hit the gas and never looked back.

In The Dark

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 04:46:00 +0000

This story is inspired by Gone by Matt Nathanson! I like his music. I think you should too. Listen to Gone while reading my story, okay? OKAY. :D p.s. I know the formatting is messed up. There's only so much time I can spend with blogger before I'm so frustrated I'm cussing between words.

It’s not because I’m a private person.

Or because I like to be alone.

All of our happy moments happened here, our feet dangling in the water as the sun warmed our back. My fingers would dig into the soil, shifting through the centuries old dirt, finding new treasures. Smooth, rough, round, lumpy, plain, colored. They were all beautiful rocks and I kept them in the box Joe gave me.

He kissed me here, too. Our first kiss ever, and whenever I close my eyes, I can feel his lisps brushing across mine, my heart pitter-pattering. It was the feeling of freedom, that I could do anything, when he kissed me.

I can still smell summer, freshly mowed grass and barbecue smoke rising from the condo complex across the river. The warmth from the sun disappearing and the water tickling my numb feet as it turned colder, night growing near.

His touch on my lower back, each finger making my stomach do somersaults. He’d rub my back and my stomach would flip flop again and again. Then his hand would rest on my legs, and I would suddenly notice the little prickly hairs from not shaving.

Those summer nights were perfect. We would sit on the bank, toes dipping into the water and our lips moving together. Each touch brought us closer.

When I open my eyes, all I see is snow; dirty snow on the ground, silent snow falling from the sky. Everywhere is snow.

Everything warm I remember is gone: his touch, his love, the sun, the laughter. Happiness is replaced with sadness.

When summer was gone, so was the Joe I knew. Winter brought along a scarier Joe.

I touch the bruise forming on my cheek and blink back tears.

Heartbreak Beat: The Inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (Jenna) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 01:43:00 +0000

I've gotten several comments on my story from yesterday, including one really awesome email, and I've just got to say...you guys rock! Coming up with a story yesterday was horrible. I spent all of my second period personal finance class, and part of my third period pre-calc class, trying to figure something out. I slaved over the keyboard. I scrolled through old stories, trying to find something--anything--that would fit.

I'm a huge music person. My iTunes library has 7.2 days worth of music (and it's constantly growing), and I have fairly eclectic tastes. Yesterday, while I was searching for something to write, the perfect song came on--the Psychedelic Furs' Heartbreak Beat. Something clicked, and the spontaneous flash fic was the result.

I was going to do a three-part story based on one I did way back in sixth grade (which got me a 103 out of 100 on a humanities project), but I didn't have time to go back and pound out the details. I was supposed to post Tuesday, but things got away from me, and, well, since Heartbreak Beat turned out so well, I'm glad they did!

My first week here at Literature and Coffee ends on Saturday, and I'm hoping I can squeeze out another flash fiction. Can't wait!

I welcome you all to Literature and Coffee. See you all around! :)

Heartbreak Beat

noreply@blogger.com (Jenna) — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 23:17:00 +0000

She danced into his life one night, accidentally bumping into him while she twirled to the songs showcased by the city park's free outdoor concert. The songs were nothing special, and some of them weren't very good, but they carried a good beat. And so they danced together, reveling in the beat even after the bands had gone home and the evening light became a darkness lit only by stars and flickering streetlights.

Before they parted ways, they exchanged phone numbers and promises to meet for coffee in two days' time. For those two days, he knew the hell only known by single men seeking to impress the woman that could only be the girl of their dreams; the woman so beautiful and perfect that, even though there was no way in hell it could go anywhere, the man hoped and prayed she would consent to be his--or perhaps he, hers, if only she would let him.

He didn't forget the important things. He slept, he ate, he took care of his responsibilities. But the entire time she danced through his mind, whirling in tune to the beat that had kept them together all through the concert. Every woman he passed looked like her. Every thought wound its way back to her. What if he made himself look stupid? What if he said the wrong thing?

They'd talked during the concert and after, and she still agreed to meet him. But what if it was only to tell him to leave her alone, or to make fun of him, or to set him up to look like the world's biggest moron? What if she wasn't there? What if she was?

He'd been burned before, and he'd been embarrassed. But he had to give it a chance, right? Maybe, if it all went well, they could go dancing again.

Coffee went well--so well, it turned into dinner. So well, dinner turned into an invitation for a second date. So well, the second date turned into a third, and so well that soon they spent hours together just listening to music, sharing favorite bands and reminiscing about the "good old days" of wailing ballads and lamenting the trash on the airwaves now.

They danced and they talked, about the little things and the big things, until they fell asleep to the stereo's lullaby.

Beneath it all, he could feel something. A beat, not unlike what they first danced to, thrumming out a tune that both scared and excited him. Woven thick with melodies and flourishes, it seemed to be the heartbeat of life itself. When they danced, it was to this tune. When they made love, it was merely an extension of this dance. The nervous flutter of his heart on their wedding day, too, was this tune.

The beat never ceased--it was there through it all. Every life event bolstered it and added layers, until, after their first grandchild was born, it reached what seemed to be an impossible high.

They danced together every day, to the static-ridden music that was all the old stereo could wheeze, until the day came when she couldn't dance any longer. He danced for her, because she would never let him stop, even when the beat began to fade and she began to grow thinner. When the illness confined her to the hospital bed and it was all she could do to move, he played music for her from that ancient stereo, and he shuffled back and forth in the only dance his creaking joints would allow him.

The day he woke and could no longer feel the beat was the day he knew. The cracking speakers croaked out one last song--their first song--and then they, too, ceased to be. Though they were now as dead as his beautiful, once-dancing wife, he couldn't bear to throw them out. They screamed and wailed with static and white noise, and it became his new beat--the beat of a heart that had lost its song; of a man whose life had become empty.

When he was forced to move into the old folks' home, the stereo got lost in the transition. The last vestiges of the beat vanished, and all was silent. The only beat was his heart, screaming a broken wail so different from the life beat. The heartbreak beat cut him deep, and he began to believe that beautiful song would never be heard again.

Until the night, sixty years after that fateful concert, he heard it. Soft at first and then louder, the beat returned, and his heart, long dusty and cracked, began to heal. Though his body began to wear, the life beat coursed through him, until the day he was able to dance again, with speakers that worked and a woman who had never truly stopped her dance.

[Photo from We Heart It.]

March's Theme

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 14:30:00 +0000

March's theme is a story involving a broken heart OR St. Patrick's Day.

also! March's theme idea for a broken heart comes from the talented Dawn Embers and her *drumroll* The Broken Hearts Blogfest, which is March 13-15.

Lightbulb Moment

noreply@blogger.com (ashelynn hetland) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 15:15:00 +0000

A redhead girl scratches her head, chewing on the pencil. "Hm." Then: lightbulb moment. She grabs a few napkins, scribbling whatever idea popped into her brain down on the napkin. Another girl slides onto the chair next to her. Red grins at her.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," Red replies. "I have a brilliant idea."

"Oh?"

Red smiles again, bouncing in her seat. "Yeah! You want to start a short story blog with me?"

"OHMYGOD, YES."

Red twirls in her chair, her hair flying behind her. "Yay!" She pulls out her phone, tapping away quickly. "This is going to be so much fun."

"It will be." And Red's email flies through the Internet-sphere, reaching some of her favorite people, who also agree to be contributors to the blog.

And that, my friends, is how Literature and Coffee came to life. Stay awhile. Grab a latte and take off your shoes.

You're in for a treat.