Rapture
by Blair Shapiro
This feeling creeps up on me.
takes over my body,
smacks me in the face,
takes me to another place.
My mind is filled
with your image,
I’m thrilled.
I’m elated and disturbed.
My feelings need to be curbed
because what you’re feeling is unclear.
The lack of reciprocity I fear.
And your body feels so warm,
entwined into mine
in perfect form.
I could linger with you
as long as you want me to,
never yearning to check the time,
this feeling I feel is incredibly sublime.
Where will this lead?
And what do I need
to put my mind at ease?
Just tell me you want me, please.
Stones
By Tom Leventhal
They were small and fragile looking in the palm of my hand. I turned each of them over, examining the delicate markings etched into them in a fine script that I could not read. The man stood next to me, hovering as though he was afraid that I would put them in my pocket without paying for them and disappear.
His breath was hot on my face as I turned to look at him, reassure him. We were standing on the open sidewalk in the hot sun.
“How much do you want for them?” I asked.
He just looked at me and shook his head in short, furtive strikes.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. He hadn’t spoken a word since he first approached me and put them in my hand. At first, I thought that he was panhandling and had had shaken my head no. It was at that moment that he took my hand and placed them on my upturned palm.
He just looked down at my hand and shook his head again. For some reason, I was scared to pull out my wallet and show him money. Would he grab it and run? I reached into my pocket and pulled out a few bills folded together. I held them up and unfolded them one at a time hoping that he would stop me when his price was met.
He was startled by my actions, shaking his head in a wider, more violent arc and pushed the money away. He took my other hand and wrapped my fingers around the two small objects and held it against my chest. This done, he turned and loped down the street. They were mine now, but what would be the cost?
Author/Storyteller-Thanks, Sister Joan
By Rick Fowler
As young man, I never considered myself a writer, a wordsmith, or a word worker. In fact, I felt more comfortable in the woods or on the water, in a gym or on a football field then I did putting a pen to paper. Indeed, allow me to chase partridge in the morning, take some notes and answer a few questions in the afternoon, and that same night score 14 points and grab 7 rebounds seemed to be a recipe for a perfect high school day in 1970.
Nevertheless, the seeds were cast to my entrance into authorship (or is it simply story telling) that year when Sister Joan assigned an outdoor article to me one day in Journalism Class. The assignment was to investigate why kids went deer hunting, which had been successful, and then paraphrase their stories of hunting into an interesting article.
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she needs someone to tell her
By Boyd Johnson
she shone gold
with beerlight
and hopes
so high
you could climb them to the stars
and see
everything thats good about anyone.
it was the death of her.
no matter how many times
you lied
to her
the gold shines through.
if you’re the next guy,
give it a good once over.
keep it shining.
and tell her
to put the drink down.
