THE VOWEL MOVEMENT

Their lips met in a titillating kiss, hearts throbbing, hands exploring. “Darling,” she whispered—the tender embrace ushering the eternity, her sweet breath on his, their lips locked, “My darling . . . ”

Just a minute. Apart from the obvious gawkiness of the piece, she just couldn’t talk while kissing, could she? No, that won’t do. Too bad. The Writer only had to wrap it up now, just the ending, just the riding into the sunset part. But the well was dry. Up to that point everything was going so well with this romance novel number ten. Nine love stories done, published and gobbled up by the tenderly disposed ladies. Number ten was assembled pakati-pakati-pak. A well-oiled machine. Two lonely people find each other in this cold and overwhelming world. He, Lance, a handsome brute, a bit over muscled yet exquisitely sensitive and irresistibly vulnerable after his four tours of duty in Afghanistan with the Green Berets, a loner and a hero favoring comfy armchairs, books by Washington Irving and Ralph Waldo Emerson, chamomile tea, earth tones, soft loafers and wool cardigans. She, Jane, a free spirited 5’10” beauty with wavy auburn hair, 130 pounds, size G bra and sparks of mischief in her large green eyes—the only heir to the Lockshman’s Kosher Dill Pickles fame—erudite and witty and longing deeply for the love she never knew.

A chance encounter. A stroke of fate. His attempted suicide fortuitously interrupted by her timely yet inadvertent appearance. Their first desperate love making scene (he was, of course, ALMOST too big for her), the passion, the upturned furniture and twenty eight earth-shuttering, spectacular and breathtaking orgasms later she is his forever. Then their getting to know each other stage, more out of this world lovemaking and lots and lots of intimacy, understanding and ultimate in tenderness and endearment—the true love. Then the tragic misapprehension—somebody said something to a wrong somebody, ill-intentioned or perhaps not, which came across the wrong way to and bam! The tragedy. Lovers driven apart, the love slashed and seared as if by a sharp knife (or, rather, by a dagger—a more interesting word—or a scalpel?), the sensitive souls anguished way beyond the tolerance threshold of mere mortals. Oh, the sweet agony of heartbreak suffering!

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“My name is Michael Priv. I was born in the Soviet Ukraine, escaped to the USA in 1979. A Civil Engineer by education and a Construction Business Consultant by trade, I am and have been since 1987 an avid student of Eastern philosophies, especially Tao, Buddhism, and Scientology–their modern reincarnation–especially as they apply to everyday problems and could actually be used to help people.” -Michael Priv

To read more short stories by Michael Priv, or to learn about his two novels, Friends of Fred and Forever Dead, visit his website at www.thetawire.com

To contact the author, send him an email at Michael@thetawire.com.

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Locus of Water

“Water is an essential element of living things, and a circle represents infinity, harmony, and unity. When a droplet of water falls on a flat surface, it creates a circle. In previous works, I have used circular elements as a metaphor for cells. In “Locus of Water,” I have used circles in a way such that they seem to be drawn together into clusters by some unifying force exerted by a condition of belonging. The clusters represent the location of the essence of life, and the way in which all living things are themselves an organization of smaller elements. The arrangement of the circles implies movement of water toward its locus.”

– Seiko Tachibana

seikotachibana.com

From the artist:

“My paintings call upon a heightened experience of nature and a modern day social constitution. The characters of my paintings are at times detached and others confrontational, and together they create a discordant atmosphere despite their picturesque first impressions.”

-Leila Cartier
lcartier@post.com

Click here to see more of the artist’s work.

About the Battlescape Series:

“With nature as the holiest of places, my paintings combine the use of landscape painting with Baroque virtuosity and illusion, anthropomorphizing natural elements, to create mysterious, monumentally scaled portraits of a spiritual journey or condition. The path of spiritual growth is often equated with internal struggle or combat between good and evil. I narrate that conflict indirectly, depicting a battleground rather than a battle itself. As sites of pleasure and pain, anxiety and tranquility, these intimate and contemplative “Battlescapes” mirror the human interior where man is constantly both revitalized and victimized by his own psychological surroundings. I use imagery – complex in signification and often steeped with literary, symbolic or historical reference – purposefully to keep secret and/or to reveal narrative.”

– Kristen van Diggelen

See more of the artist’s work at www.kristenvandiggelen.com.

Contact: kvandigg@gmail.com

No Air

i had not stopped to think about your smile and my heart beat fast as i walked up and down the terminal steps, throwing glances at the opening overflowing with next day returnees.

The streets were crowded and i could barely make you out somewhere across the spinning sea of swimming faces.

i laughed nervously feeling the slow collapse of my breathing pattern.

no air,

as we walked in our small beginning, sat cross-legged in the grass, passing a feeling back and forth.

i don’t remember if you sat next to me as we bumped and bruised our way back home or if the door was locked when we finally reached our destination.

i don’t remember if you put your hand on my face or if i could hear your heart beating through your chest.

all i can recall is the lack of oxygen escaping into me, my sure inability to breathe, the simplicity in my thoughts as there was no air.

it was getting close to midnight when i walked you down to the street.

we stood locked in mystery for what could have been a moment, might have been a lifetime.

the bus tossed itself around the corner and we left it there.

i shouted something as i crossed to other side, as i fell away from you, and then you were gone.

swallowed by the light-less street.

i sat on the stoop for a long time, engraving every second of every minute with you, into me.

i watched the pale pink of morning place its soft touch on this city.

i watched the anxious beings in their early Saturdays, pacing quickly through their thoughts.

i watched the teenage romantics make up and break up.

the mother clasping her child’s hand as she balanced the imbalance of life.

i watched myself let go of you, of this.

i watched the earth over grown inside this

and the vines wrap around it.

the tendrils of green cradle it in their arms.

and then,

i got on a plane

and left it there.

letting the air run wild through my veins.

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Iris Grace is a young poetess and San Francisco resident.  To contact her about her poetry, send an email to iris_grace92@yahoo.com.

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Artist Mission Statement:

“As an environmental artist, my mission is to produce murals and recycled artwork for civic exhibitions. I’ve found that art is a solution and can be used as a creative instrument for expanding people’s perception and knowledge about our environmental challenges. I enjoy organizing eco-art projects in which art is used as a way for encouraging environmentalism and awareness in young people. I’m hoping to develop more projects that merge art and conservation efforts to intensify the environmental arts genre and support a culture of young environmentalists.”

-Tree Rivera

To see more examples of Ms. Rivera’s eco-art project, visit her website at treerivera.yolasite.com.

HOW IT STARTED

It started with a smile one day.
It started with a touch.
How was I to know he felt that way,
That I could mean so much?

You hear these things sung in songs,
Or written in sweet rhymes.
You never think these things are true,
That they can happen in your time.

But hearts, they crave,
And hearts, they long,
And hearts, they run away,
Until the day that they find home,
And then forever stay.

He touched my hand.
He touched my heart.
He touched my soul as well.

Then one day I was given away,
Inside my wedding veil.

He gave me his heart.
He gave me his name.
He gave me his babies too.

And never have I regretted the day,
That to him I said “I do.”

-J’Rie Elliott

J’Rie Elliott is a poetess as well as a contributing editor of Synchronized Chaos.  To contact her, send an email to dixiepoet@gmail.com