September 2006 Submissions

Monthly Challenges

Ole Texas Pete

A crochety ole man
Didn't seem to like life.
Hated everyone
Cussed all
Kids were the worst
Always into something
Ole Pete got in a jam
Gambling was his forte
Never knowed him to cheat
But no one noticed
One day it happened
Young fella came to town
Where's the poker games
Pool hall someone said
Young fella went
Got in a game
What's your game young fella
Poker's my pleasure
The cards delt
Sudden fella drew a gun
Shot Ole Texas Pete down
He had cards up his sleeve
Everyone jumped up
Carried Ole Texas Pete to a table
No one found a card
Young fella went to jail
Found guilty and was hanged
MORAL
What goes aroung, comes around

Joter 

Baby Blues

Time passed quickly

All so new, the sounds you make

The gentle coos. Little fingers curled in mine

A soft caresses to mark the time.

Alone in a world full of crime,

You’re my angel my only bind

In a time I thought had past, no reason to live, it had long since past

Into my life came a little grace, with such a blessing angel face.

Now you’re here, I couldn’t imagine anything less.

So full of fear my heart is griped

Will I be enough, will I do what’s right.

Hard to decide, one can never tell. This life is always built to fail

Will one day you decide, I wasn’t enough, didn’t treat you right

Didn’t love you?

All these questions plague my heart; at night I weep feeling ripped
apart.

But as I hold you, against my breast, baby blues no longer felt.

Lupa Dedanna

The Tops

ingredients spread out

the kids all amiss

it’s time for her to bake

pretty as a picture

tasty so tasty a treat

lick the bowl

yummy on the face

lick the beaters clean

tongue finding every bit

nothing left just rinse and wash

butter was the best

all yellowy smooth

baking cake smell

through-out the entire house

awaiting the timer clock

slice the tops off

make it flat as can be

decorate so pretty

while we feast upon

what we nicknamed ‘the tops’

Baked with a mother's hand
ingredients simple but pure:
vanilla, flour, sugar;
a concoction of cocoa, sugar
melted and poured on top
overflowing onto the plate;
little fingers anxiously poised in place as
she served this humble cake
each birthday for five children.
As for birthday candles
there were none;
a luxury unaffordable
but not missed
as I now miss her smiling face.

_______________________________

Yellow cake
melted chocolate
overflowing onto plate;
pleasant memories of
a mother's warmth.

No birthday candles
none missed;
only her face, smile, hands,
the apron she wore.

Savored memories
of birthday cake
sweeter than icing
on a candle-less cake.

Margaret C. Rigsby 9/05/06

Weekly Challenges

Genta Hughes

His Voice

his voice beckons me
his eyes beckons me
his scent, his aura,
his everything beckons me..
yet, where it once beckoned me to freedom

it now beckons me to hell

his voice beckons me
his eyes beckons me
his scent, his aura
his everything beckons me..
yet , where it once beckoned me to freedom

it now beckons me to hell

where as once  i ran toward
now i can't run from

for he beckons me to come.


bren vidrine
sept. 26, 2006

This I did from some cards I made for myself and my writing students.  You pick a card and write anything related to the card or inspired by it.  Mine said, simply, Totally In Synch.


Totally In Synch

I was 15, you were 14
I was all that
until I saw you
then I knew
I was noting without you
But we were both
unsure of ourselves
and of the other yet
We were nothing alone
Only our eyes danced
with each other
If only we'd been
totally in synch
My kids and your kids
they'd be ours
If only we had been
totally in synch
our worlds would be one

~Corina Carrasco

A snap, a blink
and a twitch
before, they suffered
they ached
and died

My snap, my blink
and my twitch
that's all it took
now they prosper
they laugh
and they live

Corina Carrasco

Sunset
vibrant, inviting
glowing, calming, energizing
mosaic, portrait, impression, collage
chasing, descending, welcoming
indulging, mystifying
night

Corina Carrasco

~ The Perfect Crime ~

It was dubbed “the perfect crime”, the scandalous murder of Sydney socialite Deanna Gable-Huntley and her much younger husband Cameron in their harbourside mansion the year before. The journalistic vultures swooped down on the Neutral Bay home for a feeding frenzy the minute they sniffed a story in the air, making the jobs of the New South Wales police force that much harder. Trampling the crime scene for first pictures and a front page scoop, despite being ushered from the grounds details of “the perfect crime” followed fast and freely throughout the days to come. It was hardly surprising that the whole thing became a media circus before long which in turn made my job a whole lot easier.

The new millennium began like any other year without much thought to the Y2K scare that had some stocking up supplies and preparing for the worse when come midnight New Years Even 1999, the whole world was thought to shut down, leaving everyone in mass disarray. But New Years Eve came and went – and nothing. At least, not the Y2K kind. Then I’d switched on the television the morning of January 1st to the news of a horrific murder the night before in exclusive Neutral Bay. The smiling face of Deanna Gable-Huntley stared back at me whilst a reporter at the scene relayed the dramatic events surrounding the double murder, while the other victim her husband Cameron’s name thrown in as an afterthought. I exercised the use of the remote control to silence the media’s gruesome dissection and cast the whole thing aside on my day off. As a barrister in criminal law, I didn’t particularly want to hear about such details at home when I lived and breathed them at work during a trial. In fact, I never thought I’d spare more than a passing thought of the events again. I was wrong. In March of 2000 I received the referral from a solicitor friend of mine from Uni for his client. A Mr Vance Gable.

Vance presented with an air of flirtatious charm that seemed to follow him where ever he went, and my office was no different. My receptionist was the first to fall under his spell, melting under his dashing smile as she announced his arrival over the intercom for each appointment. My secretary also. And then there was me. As soon as I saw Vance Gable all my strength and bravado dissipated and I found myself a blubbering schoolgirl again despite my 35 years and intensive studies of torts and precedents. He knew how to work the room and all who were in it, which is why I had questioned his innocence. He was almost certainly intelligent, albeit fickle, thinking money could buy him everything, but as I spent more time with Vance, I discovered a side to him I suspected not many others got to see.

As an only child and born into money, Vance was incredibly insecure. He craved love and attention which I doubted his mother showed much of after he took on a personality of his own sometime after toilet training. From then he was handed from one nanny to another as he mother pranced her way from suitor to suitor and from bed to bed. Though she paid for the best schooling and bought him everything he could ever want, the one thing for which he yearned more than any of it was her unconditional love. A mother’s love. Despite her indifference of him Vance loved his mother deeply and was so obviously devastated by her death, having never got the chance to form a proper relationship with her. And it was this that the police and DPP saw as a window of opportunity and a clear motive for the horrific double murder. A crime of passion. What I saw was a lonely insecure young man who hid behind a mask of dancing eyes and a brilliant smile. Whilst intelligent, he didn’t appear smart enough to pull of this “perfect crime” and then find himself in the suspect trap. He had charm, but nouse? I didn’t think so.

Months were spent in hearing and trial preps, while we went over the events leading up to and on that New Years Eve, witness reports, forensics as well as the lives of Deanna and Cameron. The DPP apparently had enough to charge him and bail had been set in the vicinity of $1 million, which was chicken feed to Vance, so he was released pending trial.

Late one evening Vance and I were going over his statement and that of witnesses in my office. He’d been snapping the entire meeting and was obviously feeling the pressure of being in the media spotlight. After all, his mother was the Deanna Gable-Huntley, patron of many local charities and glamorous socialite, and the media was eating up the whole trial process. He’d been keeping a brave front and I began to feel for him.

“Time for a break, I think,” I sighed, setting side the bulging file of papers I held. “Would you like a coffee?”

Vance sat back rubbing his eyes undoubtedly tired from reading pages and pages for what seemed like hours. He’d held it together for so long I half expected him to break down right then and there so obvious was his frustration. I made the coffee and set it on the table in front of him.

“I think we can do it,” I reassured him. “The DPP may think they have a strong case but there are plenty of holes in some of the witness’ statements. And with those I can give the jury grounds for reasonable doubt.” Placing my hand on his shoulder, I smiled. “You’re doing fine. I don’t know how many victims’ families I’ve seen that have completely fallen apart under circumstances like these, but you’ve held it together well. Don’t let the vultures beat you.”

He grabbed me before I knew what had happened, holding me in a vice-like grip and fire staring from his blue eyes. Fear momentarily ran through me before I realized what I saw was passion, not murderous intent. For months I had remained neutral and kept my emotions in check, but when those strong arms embraced me and those eyes as the deep blue sea gazed into mine, I knew I could no longer fight it. All my sense and sensibilities went out the window, my knowledge of morals and ethics were cast by the wayside as I was overtaken by my passion for this man I’d wanted since he’d first walked, no strutted, into my office in March. On trial for double homicide? I didn’t care. All I cared about for the first time in my life was the here and the now with Vance.

I’d never flirted with danger so forcefully before, and though I knew it was ethically inappropriate, Vance and I continued our clandestine liaison. With his trial looming closer it wasn’t unusual for us to spend so much time together, or to be seen leaving my office in one another’s company. But no one else saw what went on behind those closed doors. Some nights not many preparations were made as there was of love. Or was it lust? I thought I knew the difference, but maybe I didn’t. But gosh it was memorable. Then a month before the trial was set to begin, I put my foot down and said no more until after he was acquitted. If we were to win this thing, we needed…I needed to go in fully prepared and completely functional against my opponent.

“Ok, the party went into the New Year downstairs while upstairs your mother and Cam were brutally murdered,” I read from police transcripts, though the details were carved into my memory. “No weapon was ever recovered, though the police believed it to have been discarded into the harbour, despite their never having found it. Thirty-two stab wounds, whilst Cam suffered only a slash to the throat.

“In comparison to your mother’s wounds, his was quick and neat. Your mother suffered incredibly with multiple stab wounds to the stomach, chest, groin – this was personal, Vance,” I pointed out. “Someone hated her enough to make her suffer. Yet Cam was merely a victim of opportunity. Who hated your mother enough to do something like this? And with a whole house full of guests downstairs on New Years Eve?”

“Who? Take your pick,” Vance spoke despondently with a shrug. “She pissed plenty of people off despite her popularity. It could have been anyone she screwed with – or maybe someone’s wife? My mother wasn’t a saint, and although she was married to a guy my age, she still climbed into other men’s beds – some of them married. Maybe it was a jealous wife? I don’t know.”

“Well, we have to find someone or something to cast enough reasonable doubt on the jury.”

Vance looked at me desperately. “You think we can?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

And I really did. It was a strong case the DPP had against Vance, and although I found plenty of holes in the witness statements which I would bring up in court, I still needed something to steer the jury’s eyes away from my client and show them another scenario and the possibility that someone else was responsible for this horrible crime. The media called it perfect, but how perfect was it if Vance really had killed them and was then caught? Not very clever, nor perfect. And it was my job to use the DPP’s evidence to our advantage and show the jury an alternative, a plausible one. But was my judgement clouded by my emotions that had developed for my client?

The trial began at the beginning of December, and my opening statement outlayed all the evidence the prosecution had and would use as I deftly fed them little tidbits to whet their appetites of what I would deliver to them in the course of the trial. The DPP were equally swift to move and opened with some damning witness accounts of arguments seen between Vance and his mother, which were portrayed as threatening. On cross examination I danced to the tune played but changed the tempo when it was discovered those witnesses harboured a grudge towards my client as women scorned in the afterglow of a lost love, whereupon being discarded for the next woman. They each desired to see Vance pay for running out of them, therefore discrediting the DPP’s witness and scoring point one for Vance.

The second day saw a team of forensic specialists under the microscope which went on for days, in an attempt to show how my client in a fit of rage brutally murdered his mother and slashed his step-father’s throat – a man the same age as Vance himself. But without a weapon, the DPP’s case on that score was on shaky ground. Unless they could prove the knife was in my client’s possession at any one time, they couldn’t really tie him to the crime. And it was this that the whole case rested on. The DPP knew it, Vance knew it and I knew it. And it was my job to show the jury that they knew it too.

So when the DPP rested and I began our defence, I brought in psychologists who outlined Vance’s underlying depression and despondency, testifying his incapability of committing such a heinous crime when the idea of violence repulsed him. I introduced then Vance’s traumatic childhood at the hands of the absentee father who abandoned both him and his mother early in his life. A father who beat both of them regularly, hospitalizing him on numerous occasions, as well as his mother, whom he endeavoured to protect. The prosecution jumped on this, seeing it as an opportunity to go towards motive. I didn’t see how and objected. The magistrate agreed. Seeing some of the jurors nod their agreement, I mentally struck another point in our favour.

Throughout the trial, the jurors, the media and the public got to see a different Vance Gable than the one that had been previously portrayed. Newspapers and magazines had created a circus out of the whole event, and in the end that worked to our advantage. Although trial by media was always an unpredictable force, this time it helped play our hand.

Three days into our defense an anonymous tip to the Daily Telegraph lead police to the location of the missing murder weapon in the poolhouse of Deanna’s friends and neighbours, Dale and Greta Simmons. The couple had been at the New Years’ Eve party where Deanna and Dale had flirted under the watchful eye of wife Greta. The discovery of the knife threw a whole new light onto our case, and I sought an adjournment until 28th December, when court resumed after Christmas, for further investigations. But it didn’t matter – I saw the looks on the majority of the juror’s faces. Although I didn’t want to pin my hopes on them I found I couldn’t help myself, and allowed myself a small smile as we left the court.

Christmas was not a quiet one for me, as I and my associates delved into the lives of Dale and Greta Simmons. We discovered that Dale and Deanna had been having an affair, which had been going on for some months. As many of their friends knew, chances that Greta Simmons was aware of the fact were greatly increased. Everyone, it seemed, knew of Deanna Gable’s carnal habits and even more so, her penchant for younger men. But when Deanna had cast Dale aside for a younger replacement, it wasn’t long before Dale became the prime suspect in Vance’s place. So we went back to court after Christmas to seek a dismissal of all charges against Vance, but the DPP saw it only as a smokescreen stating that the discovery was circumstantial, as Vance and Greta Simmons had been having an affair, Vance himself could have slipped the knife into the poolhouse at any time. The magistrate sustained my motion and the trial went ahead. But I came prepared, and for the next two days called witnesses to Dale’s heated confrontation with Deanna at the party and threats made to her, which Deanna had simply laughed off. Dale had last been seen ascending the stairs at the party, disappearing shortly after. Deanna and Cameron were never seen alive again.

Upon summation, I recounted the facts as they were, refreshing the juror’s memories which had lead us to this point, reminding them of the Dale’s part in the scenario. Our case had once relied on the missing weapon, but now that it had appeared, it now rested on Dale. Feeling a small victory within as I took my seat after summation, we waited while the jury filed out to make their deliberations.

It didn’t take them long. Before we had finished lunch, they’d reached a verdict and we were making our back to court, holding our breath as we watched the jury take their seats. Their faces seem to give nothing away. Vance and I stood to our feet as the magistrate asked the jury if their decision was unanimous, to which they answered it was, then read the verdict.

To count one of the murder of Deanna Gable-Huntley - not guilty. To count two of the murder of Cameron Huntley – not guilty.

The courtroom erupted in cheer as Vance threw his arms around me in jubilation, kissing me firmly in full view of everyone, camera clicks and flashes surrounding us. We were bound to be headline news in tomorrow’s paper, I suspected, with Vance’s acquittal an aside to what the media will make out of the kiss. But somehow that wasn’t important. We’d won. Vance was declared innocent. It didn’t take long for the hoards of reporters to swoop upon us as we exited the Courthouse, while I noticed Dale Simmons wasn’t escaping their clutches either as police zoned in on him for questioning. And after a brief statement a beaming Vance bid his gratitude to the public for believing in him before we left the throng behind. It was over.

Vance and I held a private celebration in what was now his Neutral Bay mansion, overlooking the city reflections of the harbour. I’d pushed any uneasiness aside at the knowledge that this was where his mother and her husband had been murdered a year before, dismissing the thoughts as quickly as they’d appeared. But that was to be my downfall I was soon to discover.

It was New Years’ Eve 2000 – exactly one year since the double murder. Twelve months ago where did I think I would be spending New Years’? Not in the harbourside mansion where the murders occurred, that’s for sure, but that’s exactly where I was. Why? Because I had been attracted to Vance Gable since I first laid eyes on him, and he was a player. I had been foolish to believe that I was anything more than a means to an end for him. Yet I had done so, and here I was now on New Years Eve in the very bedroom just inches from where the bodies had been. And Vance seated in the chair opposite, turning the gleaming knife over and over in his hands, watching and waiting for me to make a move. But I was too frozen with fear to do anything but remain where I was. It was all could do besides mentally kick myself for being so stupid.

Arriving early for New Years’ with Vance, I’d found the place deserted. I called out and when I received no response, I foolishly let myself in and pattered about. After ascertaining he wasn’t downstairs, I decided he must still be getting ready and decided to surprise him, a playful smile playing on my lips. As I ascended the stairs piece by piece I discarded my clothing until I reached the bedroom door. I positioned myself seductively in the doorframe and quietly opened the door. Turned out the surprise was on me!

Vance and Greta Simmons were in bed entwined in the throes of naked passion, while I stood there humiliated wearing nothing but a smile that was frozen in shock! I’d known Vance was a player, but I also thought the prosecution had been clutching at straws when they claimed he and Greta had been having an affair. Obviously I had been wrong about a lot of things.

Now I lay on the bed he and Greta had just been in, my hands tied to the bedposts, as I relived the past nine month since Vance first came into my office up to now. He had charmed me and I’d fallen for it. Added to that like the first class barrister I was, I had him acquitted of the brutal double murder of which he’d been accused though it was obvious now he was indeed guilty. Vance Gable had played me – he’d used me to get him off and continue his liaison with Greta Simmons, while framing her husband for the murders with the missing weapon materializing in the Simmons’ poolhouse. The perfect crime. Almost.

“You weren’t supposed to find out, Lillian,” Vance had said. “You and I were just going to run its course and fizzle out and Greta, in her grief over her husband’s crime, would seek comfort and find it with me. That was how it was meant to play out, but you had to come sniffing about, didn’t you? You couldn’t let it be.” He looked more pointedly at me now. “Come on, admit it, you always knew in the back of your mind that I’d done it, yeah? I saw the way you looked at me sometimes, just a flicker, but it was there. And then today, you came snooping by early. You weren’t supposed to be here for another hour, but you couldn’t help yourself. You had to try and find out that little bit more about it, and what makes me tick.”

“I – I thought…” I stammered helplessly.

“You thought we had something?” he snickered. “We did. Briefly. But my dear Lillian, you were my barrister, a means to an end. A way out of a sticky situation. That was all. Don’t get me wrong, it was good while it lasted, but that’s all it ever was.”

“I was going to say I thought you were innocent,” I managed to say. “I believed you.”

“I played the part well, don’t you think? The innocent victim accused of murdering his beloved mother and her toy-boy husband,” he sneered. “When I really was guilty all along. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? The jury found me innocent. And the police are looking deeper into Dale Simmons now, thanks to Greta. She’s been wonderful. She kept the knife for me and when we thought it was the right time, we planted it in their poolhouse, which Greta hardly ever uses, but Dale is always tinkering about in there. Had to be careful when it was placed there so he didn’t find it before we needed it to be found.”

“You can’t think you’ll get away with it,” I whispered.

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, Lilian,” he smiled smugly at me. “Thanks to you, I have. I can’t be tried for it again.”

“Why though? Why kill your mother?” I wanted to know.

“Why?” his face darkened now. “Because not only was she a bitch who threw people away like yesterday’s trash, she liked younger men…and I mean MUCH younger. Boys even. Boys like me. Like I had been.”

My face must have registered alarm because Vance began to smile an evil smile. “Yes, that’s right. Mummy dearest used to take me to her bed from my pre-pubescent years until I became too old for her tastes. Cam was really too old for her as well, but she had to have a handbag for her charity dinners and functions, didn’t she? May as well be someone young and handsome, and whom she could sleep with. So she opted for the younger version of a husband, whilst still screwing the boys from the local high school.”

“But Dale Simmons? I thought she was having an affair with him?”

“Oh yeah, she did…when he was 15,” Vance spat. “Dale hated her. Almost as much as I did. Enough to kill her? The police think so now, don’t they? That was what they argued about at the party. He knew what she was like, carried her little secret because he didn’t want others to know she’d been his sugar mummy then threw him away when he left school. But she’d began paying a little too much attention to their twelve year old son, and Dale was afraid his son would become another one of her pre-pubescent quests. Greta was too. So that was when she and I hatched this little plan,” he was smiling now. “The perfect crime…to end her perfect life. Greta wanted a divorce but not the custody battle, I wanted my mother out of the way, and Dale….well, Dale wanted her away from his son. It was the perfect plan for everyone. Only Dale didn’t know anything about it. So I killed her. Cam walked in the middle of it so I had no alternative but to kill him too. Just a quick slash across the throat and it was over quick for him. But mother dear….she suffered.”

He spat the last words out with such hate I never knew he was capable of. I’d only ever seen Vance Gable the gentleman, now I was seeing Vance Gable the murderer and psychopath. He killed his mother in cold blood and set another man up to take the fall. He was right – it was the perfect crime. Except that my part in his cosy little plan never included my finding out the truth. I knew what my fate was to be if Vance and Greta were to escape justice. I just prayed it would be over quick too, but I intended on getting some forensic evidence to link Vance and Greta to what was to be the murder of his barrister, naked in his bedroom. Even if they were to redress me afterwards, forensics will know the difference. I needed DNA before they killed me, so I hatched a plan.

“We both know what you’re going to do to me, Vance, so am I allowed one last request before you do?” I mustered up the courage I needed to go through with it.

“Of course,” Vance smiled. “What’s it to be?”

“You,” I looked at him seductively. “If I’m going to die, I want to feel you one more time. For old times’ sake. Come on, Greta’s not here…and you know you want to.”

Vance hesitated. This was obviously not what he had anticipated, but I knew him well enough to know he also couldn’t resist. Here was a beautiful naked woman sprawled on the bed before him, offering herself. He didn’t have to think twice while I had to shut my eyes and pretend I was enjoying it as much as I knew he was. The fact was I hated every minute of it, but this was the only way. As a solicitor I knew what the police would look for in a crime scene and I had to gather as much as I could. Then when the time came for my Oscar-winning performance, I began biting Vance’s neck and crying out in what he would perceive as ecstasy. I also knew the harder I bit the more excited he became, and I could sense the moment was upon me now as he yelped with a final burst of pleasure and with that I sunk my teeth as deep and as hard into his neck as I possibly could and ripped the skin clean away. Vance was clutching his neck, blood seeping through his fingers.

“You bitch!” he screamed.

I could taste his blood in my mouth and spat some of it out as I pushed the chunk of his skin under my tongue. Forensics will find it, but Vance won’t know it’s there. His blood on the sheets, the floor and my body, his skin and DNA in my mouth, his semen inside me, and my bite marks on his neck and shoulders. That ought to be more than a start for police to look into him, added to that, I’m naked in his bed, tied to the bedpost. I could almost die happy. I smiled at Vance.

“Thought I’d give in without a fight?” I spat, then sneered at him. “You’ll never get away with this!”

“I already have!”

The last thing I saw was the gleaming knife in front of me before Vance slashed it across my throat. I hadn’t been able to tie Greta to the scene, but as I gasped my last breath before exsanguinations I smiled at Vance knowing that I had taken with me enough DNA evidence to end his freedom forever. And then I can watch him from my place in Heaven, burn in hell.

© Christina aka Stina
22nd February, 2006

Angel

I Love You Funny

I love you funny

I love you sad

I love you moody

But when you’re bad…

You make me feel mean

You make me feel hurt

You make me feel pain

But what’s even worse…

My heart feels broken

My body feels tense

My love feels betrayed

But it makes no sense…

Your head seems to be clear

Your heart seems to be good

Your life seems to be needing

But only if you would…

Tell me what you think

Tell me when you’re in pain

Tell me how you feel

But know it’s not in vain…

Because I love you funny

I love you sad

I love you moody

And even when you’re bad…

Denise Carew ©

Direction

You ask where is my direction,

So I answer, “towards correction.”

I am filled with joy and peace,

and experience days of sweet release

I always look up to the sky

when I start to ask all the whys.

He is the answer.  He is the way.

He is the reason for every day.

But here on Earth, I look to you.

I’ve found a soul honest and true.

You are faithful, sweet and giving…

You have a strong drive for living.

It says in the dictionary for ‘direction:’

“guidance/supervision of conduct or action.”

“Power of choosing” is shown for ‘choice.”

All from Webster; not from my voice!

You now know what guides my direction

and have known the target of my affection.

The question is what guides the choices you make?

How long before you loose everything at stake?

As corny as it may sound, Jesus is the light.

When all is down, only He can make things right.

Trust in Him with your every decision,

and you’ll never have to ask about my direction.

Denise Carew ©

My dearest Jerry,

I suppose most people think writing letters are old fashioned in this
day of
e-mail access, or being able to just pick up the telephone and call but
I am
of the opinion that there is nothing like a handwritten letter that
arrives
to your mailbox just for you. Hopefully you will look at the envelope
and
see that it is from me and that will bring a smile to your face.

I feel that in light of our soon-to-be wedding that I would like to
tell you
some things about myself that you may not know, things that just
haven't
come up in our many conversations.

First, I would like you to know that for a man, you seem to be perfect
for
me. Sincerely though, I must tell you that I have thought this before
and
have been ultimately wrong! In light of these former relationships I
would
just like to lay down some ground rules. Does that sound controlling?
I
really don't mean to sound controlling but I just cannot live with
someone
in good conscience without first telling you how I truly feel about
certain
things. I hope you will not take any of this the wrong way.

1) Do not in anyway try to take my identity away. I will keep my
birth
name. I hope this will be agreeable with you. Having taken a man's
name in
the past and upon the relationship turning sour, I have truly regretted
not
keeping my name. Besides, my identity is important to me. I think we
can
agree upon this as I know how important yours is to you.

2) I have children. I realize that you already know this but from
past
experience I am compelled to tell you that they are more important to
me
than anyone else in this world and always will be. I expect you to
treat
them as your own, if you do not feel you are able to accept these
terms,
please say so now. If after we are married, should any of this change,
I
can promise you that if you compete with them, you will not win.

3) I do not need you to save me. I have been an
independent-free-thinking
person since I was a small girl. I believe in doing good, trying to
achieve
justice for all and I do have many causes that I support. I am sure
you are
aware of some of these. Should you disagree upon any of my causes or
the
time or money that I use for them please remember this: Walk with me
or get
out of my way.

4) In the past, I have found that men tend to take a woman for granted
after a time. I want you to know that if you cannot put me first
(right
after God, of course) and treat me as an equal and as a partner not as
chattel, speak now. This is a fair warning act of goodwill.

The last piece of information that I want to share with you, my
darling, is
this:

5) I have been raped, beaten, verbally and mentally abused in
different
relationships. I have been swindled and made to look a fool. Make no
mistake; if you even attempt to hurt me in any of these ways, I will
kill
you. If I can't find you, I will hunt you down and kill you. I am
sure
that you agree that people do not need to be treated as I have so
candidly
detailed for you in paragraph number five.

I hope to see you tomorrow night for dinner. Please sign below and
return
to me by registered-express mail.

All my love,

Mildred

________________________________________
Date
Signature

PS: I am sure you will agree upon a prenuptial agreement. After all,
we
are very like-minded!

By Margaret C. Rigsby 09/16/06 -Word count: 706-

Glow
by Margaret C. Rigsby

Anxious anticipation entwined with
tender memories of past outings
so many years ago,
I sit in wonder of life's unscheduled paths.

So many clothes carelessly discarded
on to my bed
as I continually change
desperate to look my best.

My O.C.D.* is operating in high gear
as I wrestle with rituals
trying to be on time.
My glow of love, respect and maternal pride
emanates as this

towering handsome man
steps out of his new truck.
Our eyes meet;
distance, differences disperse
our destination becomes our beginning.

8/29/06
Revised 09/13/06

For Chris.

*Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

~Her Words Flowing Like a Brook~

Babbling wet brook
Roaring, flowing, never still
Every minute long
Nimble fingers typing swift
Voicing  her words of wisdom

bren vidrine
sept. 13, 2006

Rays of sun
forecast its intent
upon the sand
Gulls silhouette the sky
screeching their approval
Waves high in the air
call a last retreat
And I
I sit in idle content
to watch the sun
bid a fond
goodnight

Joter

If Birthday Candles Could Talk
by: FlaIsleGirl@aol.com

   Glowing in red and orange, the lone flame atop a candle flickered
as a fairy dancing in the moonlight. The cake on which it sat was iced in blue and white. 
   "I need to be strong," it said to itself, "a tiny baby is very sick on its first birthday.  I need to do all I can to bring happiness to this family."
   The baby coughed and the mother rushed with tears in her eyes to adjust a ventilator.  It would be good for the lungs, the doctor had told Mom, to keep the humidifier going at all times.  The baby gasped again as Mom rushed to his side, the lone birthday candle on the cake continued to glow. .
   "I know to let the light of God touch that sick child," the candle said,  as it flickered in the night  "I want to bring hope to this family, the candle said as it saw a bible near the bedside of the child. The mother had placed it there to pray.

    The tough lone candle, continued to burn until Mother came and blew it out.  Than it rested another year.

    From the shadows of the kitchen, three candles burned atop the birthday cake.  The child was three and still coughing. The young child smiled as he saw how brightly the candles were burning, and as he giggled, the candles cried, wax dripping like tears down their sides as they burned. 
   "This child's fever is as hot as my fire!"  The third candle screeched as she saw the young boy fall in faintness. The mother blew out the dancing flames and rushed her asthmatic son to the hospital.  It had been three frantic years with this sick child. 

   "We are a sign of hope,"  said the third candle to the fourth on the day of the fourth birthday. "We will continue to burn more every year.
That is our job.  To show hope for this sick child."

      The years went on, and life continued in this pattern. Eventually,
The child grew into a little boy who was running outside and climbing trees and flying kits. The mother would worry as her child would get out of breath easily, but she wanted her child to have a normal childhood. She loved him so.

   As the candles on the cake continued to glow year after year, the asthmatic boy would blow them out. Mother smiled happily, for he seemed to be getting stronger and stronger every year.


Than finally, on his thirteenth birthday, something awesome happened!

    "WOW!"  "WOW!"  The flames were playfully illuminating a kitchen full of balloons and presents and friends.  They glowed like cheerleaders at a football team. "All right now, lets see if you can blow us all out at once" The thirteen candles burned brightly and and robustly as ever, for another year had been added to this young boy's life.   They teased the young teenager by glowing strongly, making him squint in their light.  "C'mon, let's see if you can blow ALL of us out! C'mon, c'mon.."


    With lungs as healthy as the winds of a hurricane, the young boy accepted the challenge and blew all the candles out! There was much laughter and happiness as Mom turned the lights of the room back on.

  "We have done our job," The candles said as they drooped slightly on the cake from the heat of their flames "We have done our job.  This child is well!!" "We've done it!"


   Birthday candles are a sign of good things.  They tell of another year in your life, and although your life may be one of stress, or sickness, or heartaches, the candles burn for you every year.

  They are a sign of the inner flame of hope and love in all of us  and if if they could talk...
they would tell you that no matter under what circumstances you are faced in life, never give up, for a new candle awaits you every year.

She sits in her room that’s a bit cluttered. She lets out a restless sigh and looks around the room. Boxes and totes filled with this and that. Memories mostly, of times that she wishes she could relive. Those times were happier times. Times when she didn’t have anything to worry about except what she was going to wear. Now she is well aware that all the fun times are over. She has a son to worry about, bills that have to be paid, and people that are always pushing the tire swing that her emotions cling to. Her tire swing used to be brand new and her emotions fluttered around it. Now that tire swing is tattered and is bald in places exposing the threads of her life. The rope that the swing hangs from at one time was thick and new. It was the best rope you could get, now that rope has turned into a thread. Too much pushing and too many emotions clinging to it could cause the rope to snap and the old bald tire to come crashing down.
She takes a deep breath, and tells herself that life sucks and then you die. Yet each day she continues to get up out of her worn out bed and try to drudge through the day.
She looks at the boxes and totes and decides that tonight is not the night to tread through old memories. They only make tomorrow look worse.
SLM2006

Just A Heartbeat Away

You are always in my heart
no matter where you are.

I look to my heart,
to get me through moments...

moments of being alone,
moments of wondering where is he,
moments of why can't he have his arms around
me,
moments of .....
stupid insecurity.

I look to my heart,
remember your words, your promises.

Your promises of love,
your promises that are always said in truth,
your promises that have crept into my life,
your promises to make me your wife.

I look to my heart,
and see your face, your eyes, your lips...
and hear your words.

You are always there,will always be there, forever...
just a heartbeat away.

Bren Vidrine
2002

"Chasing Butterflies"

One step. One step. One step. I try to concentrate on what I had just rehearsed the night before, but my mind can not help to wander; wander back about two decades. Back to when I first held her tiny frame in my arms, I remember that first cry, which was like a melodic symphony to my ears.

My mind pondered on when she ran a 104 degree temperature at one year of age and her Mom and I rushed her to the hospital, certain of the worse outcome, only to find out that a minor ear infection was the culprit. I remembered when she was three. She would carry her yarn-haired doll whom she affectionately "Samantha" around with her everywhere and insisted on a place being set for her toy playmate at the dinner table.

Perhaps one of my fondest memories of her childhood was her game of chasing butterflies. One day in particular stands out in my mind. She was running around with her purple toy net, laughing and giggling, attempting to catch a stripped butterfly, which seemed to be dancing in the wind along with her. She turned to me with those huge coffee brown eyes and said "I love butterflies Daddy!"

I said "Do you love butterflies more than me?"

She smiled the biggest smile and said "Of course I love you most Daddy!"

My thoughts were interrupted and I found myself standing at the altar with my daughter, looking more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

"Who gives this woman to this man?" said the preacher.

"I do." I say, forcing back a lump that I feel coming up in my throat.

I turned to kiss my "Baby Girl" on her cheek and realized that she is now a woman. I go and take my place beside my wife and grab her had and smile.

-yolanda brown9/06

If Birthday Candles Could Talk
with corrected typos...darn keyboard gremlins...
(c) September 10, 2006, Lisa C. Wright

If my birthday candles could talk, I wonder what they would say?  

Would my very 1st birthday candle tell me something silly I'd done and make me laugh?

Would my 2nd birthday candle clear up some confusion about what was actually happening back then?  Would I finally learn the truth as to who my birth mother really is?  No one in the family will answer any of these questions in my mind.

What would my 3rd birthday candle tell me?  Would it tell me of how my feet were showing signs that I'd inherited my Dad's genetic disorder that back then was simply called Pescavis but is now know as Charcot-Marie-Tooth disorder?  Would my birthday candle warn me not to let anyone change my feet in the future?

What would my 4th birthday candle tell me?  Would it know from whom my "mysterious" presents truthfully came from each and every year?  Were they from my true birth mother?  I sure wish all of these questions could finally be answered.

What would my 5th birthday candle tell me?  Would it tell me how to ride my new bike?  My Dad is always on the road because of his work and too busy to teach me how to ride it?  Or would it let me know that my friend and neighbor, Tim Jackson, would be more than happy to teach me to ride it?

What would my 6th birthday candle tell me?  Would it know how much I love my first-grade teacher, Miss Riggs?  She was always so nice to me and helped me learn so much.  She always smelled so nice, too.

Would my 7th birthday candle warn me that doctors would ruin my feet with their bad "corrective" surgery.  Would I be warned that my feet would be crippled from then on for the rest of my life?

Would my 8th birthday candle tell me about the mean third-grade teacher who would make fun of me for being a cripple and encourage the students to laugh at and shun me, too?

If only all of these birthday candles could talk!  I'd have been able to avoid so much pain and misery in my life.

Would my 19th birthday candle warn me that my Dad was going to die in just two weeks?  Would I have been able to say "Goodbye" to him instead of regretting not being able to do so for the rest of my life?

Would my 30th birthday candle let me know this would be my last birthday before Breast Cancer took my Mom's life?  Would it tell me that the cancer was going into her brain and that she'd be saying all kinds of off-the-wall things that I believed as being true?  So much confusion could be cleared up if only birthday candles could talk.

Like my last birthday; my 45th, would it have warned me of all of the cancer growing in my own body?  Would it have told me if I'll survive? Or would it tell me to say "Goodbye" to all of my loved ones while I still have time to do so?

If only birthday candles could talk.

The way I see it, if I hadn't met my abusive ex-monster, I never would have met my soulmate, Tommy.

Everything happens in God's time; not mine.

The way I see it, it I hadn't been without TennCare (Medicaid) I might never have the wonderful & generous staff (my earth angels) at Hope Health Clinic

Everything happens in God's time; not mine.

The way I see it, If I didn't get this cancer, I'd still be waiting and fighting for SSI-Disability.

Everything happens in God's time; not mine.

The way I see it, if I hadn't had to wait for my SSI-Disability, we wouldn't have the means to furnish our new home.

Everything happens in God's time; not mine.

The way I see it, if I things weren't so uncomfortably crowded here, I would not have noticed the ad for the new apartments for low-income disabled persons.

Everything happens in God's time; not mine.

Therefore, the way I see it, I'll be healed from this cancer in God's time; not mine.

Peace & Love Always,
Lisa C.Wright

Over Coffee

Over coffee you told me you loved me

That we would never part

That I could trust you for always

With the fragileness of my heart

Over coffee you proposed marriage

For ever and ever you said

Nothing would come between us

All of my fears just fled

Over coffee I told you my secret

Our baby was on his way

Seven and a half months and counting

Your smile was my sunshine that day

Over coffee we planned our retirement

All the wonderful places we’d see

England and Ireland and Scotland

And a cottage beside the sea

Over coffee you said you were leaving

That our dream would not be fulfilled

That cancer had claimed our future

And the beat of my heart was stilled

Over coffee we talk each morning

You still help me plan my day

A day filled with loss and mourning

And pain that won’t go away

 KayDee Ward  Sept 2006

As we all know, Australia's own Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, was tragically killed on Monday morning (11am Australian time) whilst filming a documentary on tiger sharks on Queensland's Great Barrier Reef. Not by a shark or a croc, as one might think he would go (maybe even Steve himself!), but through a tragic accident by one of nature's most placid animals not even considered dangerous. A StingRay. Called that simply for it's barb (tail). I myself was never a great fan of his, but I do know he did a lot for Australian tourism, conservation and wildlife etc. And I know he was loved by our American neighbours!
Sometime after hearing the news I penned this poem, which I would like to share with you all. I hope you enjoy it. Please, feel free to comment.

~ In Memory of our Mate ~

Crikey, have you heard the news
that hit the world today
About how an Aussie icon
became the one who got away.

Swimming off a Queensland reef
just doing what he loved
Being at one with nature when
struck by a Sting Ray's barb.

A gentle soul who wrestled crocs
and lived life passionately,
Australia's own ambassador
though unofficially.

He brought tourism to our shores
and helped make us aware
That quarantine matters to us all
and of wildlife everywhere.

A real fair dinkum Aussie bloke
what you saw was what you got,
An enthusiasm so infectious
that he never knew when to stop.

He came, he saw and conquered all
a man larger than life
Living each day as his last
till the moment that he died.

He was the Crocodile Hunter and
Steve Irwin was his name,
A heart of gold that touched the world
that we'll never be the same -

Crikey, what a giant loss
such a tragic twist of fate,
And while the world now mourns his loss
Australia's lost a mate.

© Christina aka Stina
4th September, 2006

Biker's Romance

By FlaIsleGirl@aol.com
 
 

     Perhaps it was the electrifying way he took charge, especially during their romantic moments that gave her reason to stay with him.                             "C'mere," he'd say as he gruffly grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him. Then he would pick her up, carry her to the bed, and begin with gentle kisses down her neck and chest. His kissing was much like the way a volcano erupts, she thought as she licked her lips, savoring every moment.  He would start out slowly, softly, and then keep on going until the kisses could not stop. They were the kind of kisses that brought a buzz to her ears, numbing her senses and putting her in a state of delirium that let her body be totally his for the taking.
   Or maybe she liked him for the excitement of his motorcyle. It was a beautiful bike, black with red cromed wheels. A Harley Davidson. She loved the excitement of it! She loved riding behind this handsome man, with her arms tightly around his waist. And in the summer time, she loved the feel of the wind on her near naked body, the tatoo of a butterfly showing above her breast.  But in the winter, when it was too cold to show it off, a man had to find it for himself, she thought.
    She walked to the window, her black leather boots squeaking, as she parted the chiffon curtains that captured the moonlight's sheen. The frost on the window pane melted as she pressed her face to look outside.  She heard the roar of a cycle. She would enjoy a ride with Gil, and she was dressed to go with him in black leather jacket, pants, and gloves.  
   Then she shuddered...maybe it would not be Gil!  Maybe it was one of the gang members. She hoped that it wasn't Stitch!  Stitch had made his appearence at her house one night, and kept staring at her in ways she did not like. He was an extremely repulsive man with a scar on his left cheek.  She was Gil's woman, she had tried to tell him, and although she found it exciting that another man wanted her, she wanted to be faithful to Gil. 
   "Bitch,"  Stitch said as Clarissa pushed him away.  She was abhored by him. 
   "Never tell Gil I was out here!"  His eyes were glaring like red hot coals, for it was an unwritten rule in the biker's clan to take another biker's woman without his permission. 
   "No, I will never tell him, Stitch. Just stay away from me." She tried to remain cool as she wriggled out of his grasp.  Her skirt was above her knees as she turned around abruptly to push his hand off it's hem.
   Angrily, he ran his hands through her cascading yellow hair, than yanked her towards him, pulling it hard.  "If you do, I may have to get even," he warned with a snide laugh, and then strode off toward his bike and roared away.
    Gil! No one was like her Gil. He had hair down to the middle of his back, the color of black coal.  And his eyes, they danced with the colors of warm brown when he smiled.  And when he made love to her, they became wild with eroticism. His face was rugged and his whiskers sometimes chaffed her tender skin. But she loved that.  He was strong, and well built, with a masculine chest that she loved to run her hands over, or to bury her face in when she was cold.
    
         As the motorcyle got closer, Clarissa could see that it was Gil.  Her heart beat frantically and excitedly that he was here.

   The biting cold hadn't stopped Gil from running, as the gang had said it would. Gil's mind raced back to what had happened. The gang told him that if he ran away, they would find him. They would kill him.  When he heard these words, with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth taped shut, he was a bit scared, but he did not show it.
        In the bottom of his leather boot was a knife, and he knew that soon the men would sleep, because they had been drinking very heavily. So he waited until the time was right to get the knife out of his shoe.  He was used to this kind of thing, for he was a member of the BkTigers Bikers, and he knew how the men would act. The time had come when he had enough. They planned on robbing the 1st National Bank.  Oh, he had sat in on the planning, right up to the last minute details, so he knew exactly what they were up to.  But when he had joined the BKTigers Bikers it was because he had loved riding motorcycles. But things were going wrong, obviously, and he had to get out.  But he knew too much, too much to escape now, and he had made the mistake of letting the men know that he wanted out.
 
       "You think you can get out of this club now? You're a part of it, and you will always be.  We may have to kill you now, because you are a squealer."
       It was a tall gruff man named Stitch, with scars and tattoos and a cigar that he waved across the room as he talked.  "We don't work that way," he said as he tied the knots tighter. "But since I like you, and always thought of you as my son, I'm going to let you think it over. Give you another chance."  He poured more whiskey into his glass, "Morning, maybe you'll come to your senses and tell me you'll stay with us. If not.....I have to kill you."
 
   Stitch's sentences were already slurred, and his eyes were dropping.  Only a few more minutes, and he would be out, Gil thought as he felt the knife with his toes at the bottom of his boots.

  As soon as the snoring started, Gil kicked his shoe off and the knife fell to the floor.  With his toes, he picked it up and held it while he lowered his bound wrists to the knife and rubbed until the knife cut through the ropes. Free!  He was free to go.  He had to get Clarissa, though, or they would surely use her to find him, for they knew that she was his woman.
 
   The snow fell in big, fat flakes as he sped away into the country.
    His hands were numb from gripping the handle bars of his bike. He had held onto them like his life depended on it, his knuckles locked in a death grip as he went to get his woman.

Finally, he arrived to see Clarissa running toward him.

     "Clarissa! We have to get out of here fast, babe" he said when he saw her.  He did not have too much time to explain, but said simply, "I left the clan.  And they will come for me, and you." He talked from his bike, as she ran to him.  She asked no questions, and hopped on the back of his cycle, her arms tightly grasping his waist. He grabbed her and kissed her deeply when he felt her arms around him. His kisses melted her like snow in the summertime.  She need'nt be told more than once to come to her man! 
     "Your tatoo," he said staring,  "it's still there?"
     "Of course, " she said as she exposed that part to him. He kissed it with delight. "Clarissa," he said smilingly as he reved up the cycle, "Better cover up in this cold."
     It was a couple of hours of driving before Gil came to a stop. 
The icy winds whipped his face as he took Clarissa in his arms. His numbed hands could not feel her warmth as he slid her off his bike.
    "There is shelter over there," he said to her. She was beautiful, yes, but also thin and frail, and he wanted to get her out of danger.
      He pointed to an old house behind a clump of trees beyond a barbed wire fence. "I will make a fire when we get there, it will be warm." His voice was gentle and the long hair on his back was wet with  snow. Clarissa had rested her chin on his back as they sped away in the cold. Her warmth melted the snow.
     "We'll find shelter before they find us." He told her,
but worry was in his voice.
       As they headed for the abandoned house, the snow crunched beneath them.
     Clarissa shivered, her perfect white teeth chattered as she tried to huddle closer to Gil.  She had dreamt of this moment.  She alone with this wild, beautiful man. At last, she too was free, and she licked her red lips again as the excitement thrilled her.
      Than suddenly, Gil's head snapped around quickly. His lips tightened and his eyes widened.
        "Quick! DOWN!" he ordered Clarissa. With a fierce plunge, they hoped off the bike. He pushed her to the ground as he hid the cycle in a nearby gully. Then he crouched next to her as she groaned, his hand on his weapon.
       "SHH!!" He ordered, "Don't make a sound." In the distance, he could hear the roar of motorcycles in the cold night. They were closing in on them. They were coming.
       There was a popping sound, and then another, and another.
       "We know you are there! You can't hide!" Their voices were harsh and cold.
      "Roll!" Gil commanded. Clarissa felt her heart go out of her throat. But she swallowed her fear. Then she saw Gil's gun. He pulled it out from beneath his coat. It was shiny and black, and cold.

      ROLL.....yea......I gotta roll.......yea...oh gawd I gotta roll 
 
      Bam Bam!  Two more shots rang out. Clarissa scudded to the nearby gully. The cold, frozen snow cut into her face as she fell, making it bleed.
     Gil follwered her. She felt his heavy body on top of hers, sinking her deeply into the snow. He was trying to hide her. His arms were in front of him, gripping the gun. He held his breath as the men roared by on their bikes, not seeing them. He watched until he could no longer see the men, but stayed down on top of Clarissa to be doubly sure that they were gone.
     Clarissa slid her hand down to feel the gun. She was more curious than anything, and winced as she deftly stoked the long barrel. Then, for a second, her hands brushed Gil's. It was flesh touching flesh, until Gil withdrew his hand. Gil's body stiffened out of anger at her. He had so much to teach her.
     "Lesson number one.....Use this, for your life will depend on it!"
and he gave her the gun.
    "What have I gotten into?" She thought as she felt the cold hard steel in her hands, the excitement of it thrilling her.
    "It's for your protection."  He said as he pulled her up on his bike.
She examined it. "Are you going to show me how to use this?"
    Gil did not answer her, as he was thinking about getting out of sight.
They sped off for the abandoned cottage, where he knew they would be safe for awhile.  He would build a fire there to stay warm. But soon they would have to leave.



The biting cold couldn't stop him from running, as the gang had said it would.  They told him that if he ran away, they would find him. They would kill him.  When he heard these words, with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth taped shut, he was a bit scared, but he did not show it.
        In the bottom of his leather boot was a knife, and he knew that soon the men would sleep, because they had been drinking very heavily. So he waited until the time was right to get the knife out of his shoe.  He was used to this kind of thing, for he was a member of the BkTigers Bikers, and he knew how the men would act. The time had come when he had enough. They planned on robbing the 1st National Bank.  Oh, he had sat in on the planning, right up to the last minute details, so he knew exactly what they were up to.  But when he had joined the BKTigers Bikers it was because he had loved riding motorcycles. But things were going wrong, obviously, and he had to get out.  But he knew too much, too much to escape now, and he had made the mistake of letting the men know that he wanted out.
 
       "You think you can get out of this club now? You're a part of it, and you will always be.  We may have to kill you know, because you are a squealer."
       It was a tall gruff man named Stitch, with scars and tattoos and a cigar that he waved across the room as he talked.  "We don't work that way," he said as he tied the knots tighter. "But since I like you, and always thought of you as my son, I'm going to let you think it over. Give you another chance."  He poured more whiskey into his glass, "Morning, maybe you'll come to your senses and tell me you'll stay with us. If not.....I have to kill you."
 
   Stitch's sentences were already slurred, and his eyes were dropping.  Only a few more minutes, and he will be out, Gil thought as he felt the knife with his toes at the bottom of his boots.

  As soon as the snoring started, Gil kicked his shoe off and the knife fell to the floor.  With his toes, he picked it up and held it while he lowered his bound wrists to the knife and rubbed until the knife cut through the ropes. Free!  He was free to go.  He had to get Clarissa, or they would surely use her to find him for they knew that she was his woman.
 
   The snow fell in big fat flakes as he sped away into the country. He had escaped by cutting the ropes while the men slept in their drunkenness.
    His hands were numb from gripping the handle bars of his bike. He had held onto them like his life depended on it, his knuckles locked in a death grip as he sped away to get Clarissa. He spoke to the thin, blonde woman behind him.
 
"There is shelter over there,"
 
He pointed to an old house behind a clump of trees, just beyond a barbed wire fence. "I will make a fire when we get there, it will be warm. His voice was gruff and the long hair on his back was wet with the melted snow. Clarissa had rested her chin on his back as they sped away in the cold. Her warmth melted the snow.
"We'll find shelter before they find us." He told her,
but worry was in his voice. It was in his belly, it was in the air.
 
So they left for the abandoned house, Gil's arm around Clarissa, the other hand guiding his black motorcycle. The moonlight cast eerie shadows on the road as the walked. Their leather boots crunched in the snow.
 
Clarissa shivered, her perfect white teeth chattering as she tried to huddle closer to Gil.  She had dreamt of this moment.  She alone with this wild, beautiful man. At last, she too was free, and she licked her red lips as the excitement thrilled her.
 
Than suddenly, Gil's head snapped around quickly. His lips tightened, his eyes widened.
 
"Quick! DOWN!" he ordered the young woman. With a fierce plunge, he pushed her to the ground. He crouched as she groaned, his hand on his weapon.
 
"SHH!!" He ordered, "Don't make a sound." In the distance, he could hear the roar of motorcycles in the cold night. They were closing in on them. They were coming.
 
There was a  popping, and then another, and another.
"WE know you are there! You can't hide!" Their voices were harsh and cold.
 
"Roll!" Gil commanded. Clarissa felt her heart go out of her throat. But she swallowed her fear. Then she saw Gil's gun. He pulled it out from beneath his coat. It was shiny and black, and cold.
 
ROLL.....yea......I gotta roll.......yea
 
Bam Bam!  Two more shots rang out. Clarissa scudded to the nearby brushes. The cold, frozen snow cut into her face as she fell, making it bleed.
 
Gil follwered her. She felt his heavy body on top of hers, sinking her deeply into the snow. He was trying to hide her. His arms were in front of him, gripping the gun. He held his breath as the men roared by on their bikes, not seeing them.
 
She slowly slid her hand down to feel the gun. She winced as she deftly stoked the long barrel. Then, for a second, her hands brushed Gil's. For a second, it was flesh touching flesh. Then Gil withdrew his hand.
 
"Lesson number one.....Use this, for your life will depend on it!"
and he gave her the gun as he hoped on his bike.
 
"What have I gotten into?" She thought as she felt the cold hard steel in her hands.  But the excitement of it was thrilling.
 
"It's your protection."  He pulled her up on his bike, and they sped off for the
abandoned cottage in the thicket ahead.
   Gil knew that they would be safe there. But tomorrow, they would have to leave.
 

Busing at the Kraus Elite

After my bathroom break Julie jumped my ass. So what if she is the
head
waitress or server as she called herself?

"You're taking too many breaks, Simmons. Don't forget you have tables
to
bus. Remember this is the evening rush which provides for all of our
salaries including yours!" Damn, what a bitch, Simmons yeah, right she
can't
even call me by my first name.

"Table 4-C needs your attention, they are already seated. They do not
look
like the kind of people who like to wait." she walked off.

I grabbed my tools of the trade and headed to 4-C as I felt the
adrenaline
pump. Her stinging words didn't bother me much now, not after that
last
line. I begin to smile.

I walked up to their table noticing that they were well dressed, you
know
those hifluiting types. The woman wore enough expensive jewelry to
choke a
horse. The man was dressed in one of those designer suites with a
black
briefcase sitting beside his chair on the floor.

"Good evening," I smiled with my glazing eyes. "I'm Jeff and I'm your
busboy tonight. I apologize that I am just now cleaning this mess but
I was
busy with another table." There, that is what they wanted to hear.

The man nodded as if I really didn't exist and I noticed they were in a
deep
and kinda heated conversation. I smiled as I begin to clear the table
being
as polite as possible. I figured if they were this pissed at each
other
before the first course, this would be interesting.

I tried to ease the dinner plates, the glasses without disturbing them
but I
couldn't help but hear what they said. My senses were heightened from
my
recent bathroom break and I could tell that these two uptown people
were not
only not happy about being together; they were talking about splitting
stuff
and who got what and when.

The woman looked up at me briefly as I lifted the bread platter, I
couldn't
help it.it was unavoidable that I broke her concentration. "Could you
just
hurry this up?" It seemed more like an order than a question and it
really
pissed me off as I looked at her spoiled-rich-girl face, her high-class
clothes and felt her condescending attitude.

"Yes, mam.I just want to get all of this cleared away so that you can
enjoy
your dinner." Bitch! I'll see how long I can make this last and I
smiled
my handsome white-teeth smile.

"So you think you can just have the house scot-free?" The man was
really
pissed.

"So you think you can just get off scot-free after ruining our marriage
with
that little twat?" I think the woman was even more pissed.
Interesting, I
thought. Typical you blame me, I blame you divorce talk. I mean this
wasn't
the first time I had heard it.

I had all the dishes on my tray which I set on my fancy-mancie rollway
cart.
"I'll be right back to wash up that mess." They ignored me but their
voices
were getting louder.

Damn, who needs this shit? Time for another bathroom break so I headed
there as soon as I dropped off the dishes in the kitchen clearing area.

I pulled out my stash which I had in a little silver container complete
with
a little silver spoon for a quick pick-me-up. Snort. Ah, that's
better.
Not only do I have this crummy ass job but I have to take all of this
condescending shit from all of them rich people who look at me like I
am
trash. Well, piss on them all and piss on Julie too. How can I be
expected
to do this shitty job without some creature comforts, especially after
that
fight with the wife last night? I looked in the mirror. Hell, maybe I
should model. I mean I do have that type build; I have good
cheek-bones or
is that what the girls are supposed to have? I mean I have these dark
eyes
and curly black hair and the olive skin that I see on the covers of
those
fancy-mancie magazines. Then Belinda wouldn't be bitching about how
little
my paycheck was. I felt better but a little dizzy so I washed my face
with
cold water. It was going to be a long night.

"Simmons! Are you in there again?" That shrill voice took my attention
away
from the mirror and I closed the stash tucking it in the pants pocket
of the
shitty black busboy clothes.

I opened the door and there she stood, hands on her hips. "Sorry, I
think I
ate something that didn't agree with me." Yeah! Like the food here, I
sheepishly hung my head trying to hide my lie.

"Okay, Simmons. Please get back to table 4-C. I am afraid they are
going
to leave before they order." she stalked off shaking her head from side
to
side. Yeah, lady, well things are tuff all over!

I got everything ready to wipe down their table like a good boy doing
what
he was told. Man, I don't deserve this shit!

"Listen, what gives you the right to part of my income or my business?"
and
she retorted almost before he had the words out of his mouth, "What
gives me
the right is that you started your business with my money, you pig!"

"Excuse me; I'm just going to wash this mess up. I know you don't want
to
eat on a messy table." I smiled trying to lighten things up. I don't
even
think they noticed me as I cleaned all of the crap off their table,
took off
the linen table cloth and was just starting to unfold the clean one
when all
hell broke loose.

The woman stood up real fast, bent over the table glaring at the man
and
said, "I wouldn't have dinner with you if you were the last man on
earth!"

Then the man stood up. Whoa, he was bigger than I thought, taller too.
Looming over the table as he picked up his briefcase he said, "I had
hoped
that we could be cordial Gail. However, if you want to do it the hard
way,
then I will see you in court."

I took a couple of steps back not wanting to get in their way. She
took the
bag she just picked up from her lap and smacked him on the side of the
head.
Wow! This is a show, makes for good entertainment. I must have had a
snicker on my face because the hostess had her evil eye on me as she
ran up
to the table.

"Sir, madam is there something wrong here?" She shot me some kind of
accusing look.

"Well, this woman just assaulted me!" He rubbed his face which was red
and
kind of indented in places. I wonder what she carried in that bag,
smiling.
This was better than "Court TV!"

The hostess asked the man if he would like her to call the police.

Suddenly as if a light switched on in his head he seemed to be kind of
rational again.

"I am truly sorry for this outburst and public display. It was rude of
us
to bring our differences into your fine establishment." He was talking
like
some kind of diplomat to the hostess. He handed her a one-spot. "I'm
sorry, maybe this will help," then he looked at me apolitically. "I'm
sorry," he said. Yeah to me he said he was sorry.something about for
me
having to listen to their fight. He saw my name tag and said, "Here
Jeff,
sorry." and the dude handed me fifty-bucks!

"No problem, man, I mean sir." The woman had already stomped out at
the
beginning of the passing of the money. Then he turned and left
briefcase in
hand, head held high.

Weird shit, I was thinking how they ought to keep their problems at
home
when Julie's voice jerked me around to attention.

"Table 5-F, as soon as you're finished here." That was it, that is all
she
said.

So I finished up there and since I had some extra money in my pocket, I
didn't
take another bathroom break that night.

Yup, it is damn right entertaining work sometimes.

by Margaret C. Rigsby
September 2, 2006

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