Short story from Diona Dorr

Vengeful Seduction

Curvanna, her name slid off of his lips, smooth like melted butter. His pulse sped up while his body reacted to the biological working of his manhood. “Dammit!” he cried out. The voices in his head began to taunt and laugh hysterically, causing him to have shortness of breath. As he stared at the screen he couldn’t resist the beautiful woman before him. Curvanna displayed velvet smooth milk chocolate skin, the ride of her hips curved like a winding road, almond-shaped dark eyes, and lips full; the perfect shades of pink and brown. In his world her very essence was forbidden. She was the serpent, he was Eve. The thought of wrapping his tongue around her swollen clit, made him salivate. The voices in his head responded with “It’s just one night. Your wife, your kids, no one would have to know”. He leaned back in his chair, as his temple started to pulsate. He sat up abruptly, yearning to stare Curvanna face to face, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but her soul was dark, as if she had lost herself. He had to get to closer, closer to HER…

Curvanna stood still, covered in her emerald green silk robe, staring out the glass window. Looking down from her classic yet chic styled condo, onto the city. Her thoughts began to eat away at her mind. “Clayton, he was tall, fair-skinned, and warming. The way his smile met his high unforgiving cheekbones, and the touch of his textured hair was enough to make her heart melt.” They had met at the tender age of 16. A pure love it was.” Curvanna punched the glass with a solid thud,and soon after  wiped her hand hard on the glass staining it with her pain. Letting out a cynical laugh, she started up the matte black winding stair case. Each footstep in sync with her heartbeat, she made it to the top, turning on her heels, and took a slow right. Feeling enraged, she stared at the door no more than arm’s length away as her knees buckled, and she stumbled to the floor. Her chest heaving, a single tear surpassed the corner of her right eye. “I’m doing this for you,” she whispered. Standing up with one hand over her stomach, Curvanna left a kiss of endearment on the door. She knew what she had to do and who to do it for. As she slipped on the white dress she said, “White looks amazing with red.” It had an opening that traveled down to the small of her back, the bust area lined with jewels to draw the eye toward her breasts. As her natural curly-coily hair fell down her shoulders she looked in the mirror while simultaneously lightly touching her chest. “I’ve been in the military for a few years now, you’re the core of my existence, and I want to make you my wife!” Clayton’s words stung like a bee in the womb of a rose. She walked over to her closet and pulled down a red velvet box with a lock attached. She hid the key inside the panel of her bathroom wall. Hastily unlocking the box she pulled out a Glock 22, suppressor attached. She kissed the gun with the same endearment as the door and made her way to her client.

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Essay from Donal Mahoney

 

Back Then and Write Now

When I began writing in 1960, there were no website “magazines.” Print journals were the only place to have poems published. Writers used typewriters, carbon paper, a white potion to cover up mistakes and “snail mail” to prepare and submit poems for publication. Monday through Friday I’d work at my day job. Weekends I’d spend writing and revising poems. Revising poems took more time than writing them and that is still the case today, decades later.

On Monday morning on the way to work, I’d sometimes mail as many as 14 envelopes to university journals and “little magazines,” as the latter were then called. Some university journals are still with us. Some are published in print only and others have begun the inevitable transformation by appearing in print and simultaneously on the web.

“Little magazines,” especially those published in print without a presence on the web, are rare in 2012. One might say, however, that their format has been reincarnated in hundreds of website publications that vary in design, content and frequency of publication. Depending on the site, new poems can appear daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, semi-annually or annually. For many writers, these websites are a godsend. Some “serious” writers, however, still feel that a poem has not been “published” until it has appeared on paper.

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Poetry from H.R. Creel

Mad King
a mad king sits on his high
horse, remote control
in hand
his castle smells of feet
and old milk
his reign an endless one
of terror until his wife
doesn’t answer from the
polka dot bedroom.
Road Map
 
I’ve got a road map
to the stars
Going to meet a famous
person or two
Maybe one of them
will offer to marry me
and we will walk on celluloid
A forever fantasy life.
 

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Poetry from Cassandra Gauthier

You Were Supposed To Be Watching

 

You were supposed to be watching

As I draped the black robe onto my shoulders

And placed the square cap onto my head.

But instead

You draped yourself into a bar chair

And placed your hand around a cup

 

You were supposed to be watching

As I walked across a green field

And sat down on a hard chair.

But instead

You walked across the black parking lot

And sat down on a soft car seat.

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Poetry from Angelica Fuse

Step Back
 
step back
a moment
strap on new
eyes
do not jump
so quickly
to judgment
wash away
the pain you
wallowed in
become
who you were
always supposed
to be.
Pigtails
 
don’t put
pigtails on me
they are only
handlebars
don’t try to
pin me down
define me
I will break
through the walls
of definition
don’t try to size
me up
or I will shrink
you down.
 

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Poetry from JD DeHart

John Ramm (appearing at Eunoia Review and at Writing Raw)
When first domesticated, John was given
A power tie and a mug with antlers
He was informed about corporate life
Now he paces in the offices
Snorting and bucking, attempting to climb
The heights are sheer
This is what his hooves are made for
They talk about him at the water cooler.
 
The Ballad of John Ramm (appearing on VerseWrights)
Munching twigs, scenting
the air, hidden in a thicket
of leaves, brambles, thorns,
agile feet take him to flight
but not soon enough
Hailing a cab, trying to make
his way to work, he remembers
distantly what it was like to be
in the wild, but that was so long
ago, it seems like a different
animal lived then
While others preen, he pummels
While others rant, he rams.
Legend of John Ramm (appearing on Squawk Back)
Not sure why he spells his name
with two m’s sometimes. Maybe
it’s just been that long.
You can tell by the way he sniffs
the day, it’s not all good here. He
wants you to think it is. We all do.
How are you, I’m fine. Do they
even give you time to answer? I
sit across, study his antlers, want
to set him free. But his handlers
just won’t let me.
Like Ramms at Play (appearing on Venus in Scorpio)
He was a creature of the forest,
at work and at play,
then forced into an office.
But all that has been said before.
Now the family
must manage the remains,
decide if they will return
to the forest glen, scamper
and rut, or make the continual
business climb.

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