The Lesser Flamingo Literary Magazine: Welcome to the bumper seventh issue of Lesser Flamingo! Poetry and short prose by Isabelleann Newbill(Guilty and Piece of Work), Daniel Gallik, Levi Wagenmaker, Donal Mahoney, Robert Demaree, Parker Tettleton, David Whitehouse, KJ Hannah Greenberg! Epic-length poetry by Gavin Broom! Films Atavar and The Damned United reviewed by D Jason Cooper and David Whitehouse! Keep it coming for the next issue in July … http://www.lesserflamingo.net/current-issue.html SOLD! My new poem...Cat People to Hazard Cat:) Dear Theresa, What a wonderful poem. I would love to post it on Hazard Cat. All I need from you is a statement saying this is your own work and that you allow Hazard Cat to publish it. Also, I need your PayPal address so I can pay you $5 upon publication. Thanks for submitting, Lisa http://hazardcat.blogspot.com/p/submissions.html Tomorrow May 18, 2010 the poem Harry and I wrote together, Izabelle, goes live at weirdyear... http://www.weirdyear.com/ May 19, 2010 my poem Island of the Dolls goes live at yesteryear... http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ May 21-May 29, 2010 my short story The Death Farmer will be featured in installments at weirdyear.. http://www.weirdyear.com/ May 24, 2010 my poem Authentic will be featured in yesteryear... http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ June 3, 2010 my poem, Converations With Jimi Hendrix goes lives at http://www.weirdyear.com/ Now live... May 16, 2010 http://www.dailylove.net/ my poem Meditative State. Butterflies Don't Always Fly Free...May 13, 2010 http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ Lost Lady... http://www.dailylove.net/ A Small Wish...flash piece http://everydayweirdness.com/ http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ Frozen Water poem...May 10, 2010 Bred of Land and Sea By Theresa C. Newbill and Lee Thompson ~4-28 2010 http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ SOLD to DARKER magazine: www.darkeronline.com Dear Theresa and Harris: I have attached an Agreement for publication of your story, "Silent Scream," in the first issue of DARKER, which will be going live this coming weekend. Please review the Agreement and return it to me with your signature. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask. You can sign by printing it out, signing it, and returning it to me via e-mail or FAX, or you can simply sign electronically by typing your names on the appropriate lines, in all lower-case letters, between two slash marks. For example: /theresa c. newbill/ That electronic signature will be sufficient. A couple of additional comments: 1. I do mild editing of stories, as you will see in the Agreement, but nothing that affects the artistic integrity of the story unless the authors approve. Once specific instance in this case: there are two sentences in the story that use asterisks in place of (presumably) foul language. I typically avoid anything that appears to be censoring of a story, because people reading it often assume that the site censored it. I will put whatever words you desire in place of the asterisks - just let me know. It can be mild or strong language; either way is fine with me. 2. I almost chose this story as a featured story, but decided to go with one that I had previously chosen. The evocative language you use in this story is the sort of thing I'd like to see more of. Many editors / critiquers, etc. will tell you that modern writing should be spare. Lean and mean. That's fine, but in my view there is far too little of the sort of story you've submitted here. I'm a fan of the likes of Lovecraft, Angela Carter, Caitlin Kiernan, etc. So - thanks for submitting something written in this style and feel free to submit your work in the future. Take care, Rob, Editor, DARKER http://www.theworldofmyth.com/ Perpetual Motion and Fearless http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/?zx=6fbd3d2704bdb73f Silent Scream written by Harry (Harris Whitman and I) http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/?zx=89a14d287e6174ff The Cleansing http://www.writingraw.com/poetry.html#Idea%20of%20Me Writing Raw.com My poem, The Idea of Me is live under the pen name...Belle Green. . All Things Girl Magazine... http://allthingsgirl.net/writings/ Featured are a couple of my poems... The Rise of a Warrior Her Name Is Aida The Road Back Home Again Check out the whole magazine including a profile on New York Times best selling author, Joshilyn Jackson and the yummy actor Philip Anthony-Rodriguez:) http://www.allthingsgirl.net/ Pagan Imagination Magazine http://www.paganimagination.com/Pagan-Poetry.html Lost Lady Ying Yang Faithful Enemy Authentic, Butterflies Don't Always Fly Free and Liquid Imagination Poems were accepted into Liquid Imagination Magazine. I have been an author at Liquid Imagination Magazine since its conception. My work is archieved there. http://www.liquid-imagination.com/
First Place Winner~Poetry Contest http://www.eclecticflash.com/contest.html http://www.eclecticflash.com/con_1po1.html
Monsters Next Door issue 8 http://www.amazon.com/Monsters-Next-Door-Issue-Eight/dp/1448684528 Mausoleum Memoirs http://www.houseofhorror.org.uk/#/mausoleum-memoirs/4534166362 Liquid Imagination: http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Issue5/PoemsIssue5.html http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Issue4/PoemsIssue4.html http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Poetry3.html http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Poetry2.html http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Poetry.html http://www.liquid-imagination.com/Stories.html Freelance interviewer for Sonar 4 Magazine: http://www.sonar4ezine.com/staff.html Hope Moon Anthology http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/hope-moon/8228696 Isabelleann Newbill (me) has some work in this beautiful anthology:) Buy it! https://www.createspace.com/3412875 :) I'm in there with all these kick ass writers:) Love it! Calliope Nerve has just accepted one of my poems for publication:) Details to come. http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/ Belle Green (me) Infidelity http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2010-01-16T01%3A30%3A00-05%3A00&max-results=20 and a number of other pieces here under the name Belle Green http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2010-01-27T00%3A30%3A00-05%3A00&max-results=20
Caper Journal publication http://caperprompts.wordpress.com/ Lost Lady by Theresa C. Newbill aka me:) and much much more... To keep up with all my awards and publications go to: isabelleann123 myspace and ask for an invite. The Idea Of Me written by me:)... in case you missed it you can still catch my work being read on the radio right before the very sexy horror writer, Jason Hughes is interviewed. http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Sonar4Magtalkshow
Nominations and the final list for the ladies and men of horror 2010 are out and I got in! My name is first on the list:) YIPPEE! Sonar4 released names of Women and Gentlemen of Horror 2010! The Men: John "jam" Miller A.J. Brown David W. Landrum James Stewart Robert Eccles Eric S. Brown Michael Hanson Brian L. Porter Martin Turton Jason Hughes The Women: Theresa Newbill Myrrym Davies Deborah Walker Dawn Hullender Sam E Cox Carole Gill Elizabeth Hetherigerton C.A. Dawson Loretta Sylvestre BellaDonna Drakul The official notice: http://www.nextcat.com/profile/blog/BlogView.aspx?path=sonar4publications.blog.258260
A number of my erotic writings are also found here: http://indigodreams.name/main/page_and_again_last_night.html A number of my poems are featured in this little erotic anthology available to all of you! http://indigodreams.name/main/page_bookshop.html
Anthology - and again last night... ISBN 978-0-9561991-8-8 100 pages of love poetry from around the world - £7.75 U.K. £10.00 R.O.W.
My flash/poem The Idea Of Me will be played on Nov 15th sometime in the beginning of the Sonar 4 Mag. Talk Show that starts at 6pm eastern time on Sunday. The link is: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Sonar4Magtalkshow
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Izabelle
Izabelle by Theresa C. Newbill and Harris Whitman
She giggles, invading his housewith her cutting-edge gadgets,the same ones she conceals ina Victorian tote with a photoof her favorite author.
He watches her undress; vintagetea gown embroidered with insetlace falls off her shoulders, pasthips, to delicate white ankles.Two black cats hiss in unison,
their fur standing on end. Classiccountess boots strut, synchronizedin their movements, purposefulin their intent. He finds parallelsto her in his own life;
he’s under her influence, turned onby her malevolent mind. She’s inher bra and panties now, nearly nude,sucking in her lower lip; she nods,constantly keeping an eye on him.
There’s a Smith&Wesson .38 revolverhe keeps locked in his nightstand. Hethinks about it as she climbs into bed.He smells the faint, primal odor of her femininity
as she straddles him, her hands slidingup and down his naked body in a gameof shared physical chemistry. Her teethscrape across his chest; he bleeds frommultiple bites and scratches,
his body throbbing, pulsating betweenpassion and pain. A faint smile thentaunting smirk causes him to have amomentary jittery, unsettling feeling,but he likes the way
her dark eyes mock him. His heart races,skips a beat, as she displays a leathersatchel. He braces himself; the sound ofcold hard steel, sliding, metal on metal;a straight razor
glistens in the moonlight from an openwindow. Titillation turns to terror; asmall, smooth, serene slice rakes overflesh, sweet fluid to sample. She lickshis cheek, kisses him deeply,
forcefully, his own blood mixes with heressence. She gently runs the backsideof the razor across his shoulders, to thecenter of his chest, slowly down past his stomach,
stopping just above his excited manhood.She looks at him, letting out a lasciviouslaugh, smacking his face, removing herpanties, holding them up playfully. Leaningin, her erect breastsacross his
bare chest, she stuffs her underwear in hismouth. Half a bottle of Bacardi Rum follows,he gags; her fingers touch his lips,shhhhhh. Silken brassiere sways on theheadboard he's tied to. Lemongrass from asmall carafe makes contact with open
wounds, igniting a firestorm of anticipationin death's caress. A breeze ruffles herlight brown hair as he penetrates her. He canfeel as she disengages psychologically fromhim. Panic sets in before the climax.
She's learned that making love to a man doesn'tmean he will have any love for her, and she'swilling to rectify her mistakes. His endingis a predictable one, while her name and truenature, remain a mystery.
She giggles, invading his housewith her cutting-edge gadgets,the same ones she conceals ina Victorian tote with a photoof her favorite author.
He watches her undress; vintagetea gown embroidered with insetlace falls off her shoulders, pasthips, to delicate white ankles.Two black cats hiss in unison,
their fur standing on end. Classiccountess boots strut, synchronizedin their movements, purposefulin their intent. He finds parallelsto her in his own life;
he’s under her influence, turned onby her malevolent mind. She’s inher bra and panties now, nearly nude,sucking in her lower lip; she nods,constantly keeping an eye on him.
There’s a Smith&Wesson .38 revolverhe keeps locked in his nightstand. Hethinks about it as she climbs into bed.He smells the faint, primal odor of her femininity
as she straddles him, her hands slidingup and down his naked body in a gameof shared physical chemistry. Her teethscrape across his chest; he bleeds frommultiple bites and scratches,
his body throbbing, pulsating betweenpassion and pain. A faint smile thentaunting smirk causes him to have amomentary jittery, unsettling feeling,but he likes the way
her dark eyes mock him. His heart races,skips a beat, as she displays a leathersatchel. He braces himself; the sound ofcold hard steel, sliding, metal on metal;a straight razor
glistens in the moonlight from an openwindow. Titillation turns to terror; asmall, smooth, serene slice rakes overflesh, sweet fluid to sample. She lickshis cheek, kisses him deeply,
forcefully, his own blood mixes with heressence. She gently runs the backsideof the razor across his shoulders, to thecenter of his chest, slowly down past his stomach,
stopping just above his excited manhood.She looks at him, letting out a lasciviouslaugh, smacking his face, removing herpanties, holding them up playfully. Leaningin, her erect breastsacross his
bare chest, she stuffs her underwear in hismouth. Half a bottle of Bacardi Rum follows,he gags; her fingers touch his lips,shhhhhh. Silken brassiere sways on theheadboard he's tied to. Lemongrass from asmall carafe makes contact with open
wounds, igniting a firestorm of anticipationin death's caress. A breeze ruffles herlight brown hair as he penetrates her. He canfeel as she disengages psychologically fromhim. Panic sets in before the climax.
She's learned that making love to a man doesn'tmean he will have any love for her, and she'swilling to rectify her mistakes. His endingis a predictable one, while her name and truenature, remain a mystery.
Silent Scream
Silent Scream by Harris Whitman and Theresa Newbill
In the stillness of her studio, she studies the stranger so she can capture his essence. He has put forth a projection, the perfect portrait of the person plaguing her dreams, turning them into nightmares. He has come to her in the shadows of night, hauntingly summoning her in a dance of death.
The solitary skylight projects radiant beams of moonlight as it hits the mirror, magnified by a lone flickering candle illuminating the canvas. She is safe there, her sanctuary from the outside world. The sights and sounds do not penetrate the protective walls of her accomplice workspace.
She has selected the tools of her trade, the oil based paints that will bring forth life, where once there was nothingness, the abyss. Sky blue shimmers as cerulean saunters in, shifting the shadows with shades of light and life; a burst of fresh air sweeping across the canvas. His silhouette starts to take shape; gentle brush strokes of titanium white blend with brilliant yellow and a hint of cinnabar, slowly manifesting his being, captured on canvas.
Trees in all their magnificent colors with leaves of emerald, sap, deep viridian green, take shape; burnt umber, burnt sienna bark; the taproot giving them life. A solitary cardinal, terra rosa belly, venetian red wings with transparent maroon highlights; give depth, movement, honing in on a cherry tree. Done for the day, she will add more color and details in the morning.
Rising up from her slumber, sunlight hitting her face, she wakes up drenched in sweat with the sheets kicked back, the duvet strewn from the bed. Immediately she walks to her painting, ready to get back to work, lifting the muslin sheet draped over her work. She gasps, dropping her easel and the draping cloth.
Where once there were bright blue skies there is now a dark purplish blue-black atmosphere. The beautiful blazing bright orange sun has been transformed into a Payne’s gray moon with raw umber craters and a pock marked face. An ominous black hawk with piercing eyes swoops down, talons outstretched towards the lifeless gray brown tree with barren branches.
The radiant figure has been replaced with a hideously deformed blue gray representation with skeletal features; hollowed out sunken furrows with blood red crimson eyes, black slits piercing back at her, human heart dripping life’s fluid in his right hand, a sickle in his outstretched left hand, droplets of blood trickling down from the finely honed shimmering steel gray blade. With an evil smile, he looks right through her, not back at her, as she runs from the room.
With every few strides she stops frozen in place by the sheer terror. Her nightgown soaked with sweat, stained with paint, flowing down her arms with wet sleeves; her whole world, changing overnight into something totally unknown. For years she has seen angels in the faces of little children, sketched out the innocence of common sea gulls ledged on a hillside rock, rooted there by wind and sea then choreographed into flight by her own hand, yet today she is shielded by darkness, her thoughts half shadow half light.
It all started two days ago while on the subway along the elevated tracks. It was cool and the Hudson River seemed to gleam surrounded by a possessed mist that circled then dispensed in waves into the night air. The car sufficiently isolated or so she thought, except for a mother and child. The child had a relentless and uncompromising force in his eyes that captivated her very essence. He looked primitive, like an abstraction void of youthful freshness, and she felt as if she was viewing him through fixed glass.
He glared at her with piercing eyes, devoid of life, transfixed, as if in a trance, clutching a well-worn Ouija board. Through her peripheral vision she noticed him occasionally coughing up blood as the frequency of vibration on the train increased slowly sinking then rising with speed and forward momentum. It was as if a centrifugal energy was pulling her away from the center. At that moment she could think of nothing but colors, colors that projected intuitive sympathy.
When she regained composure, she could see a fully packed subway car filled with suits heading home from a hard day at work. This caused her no distress, in fact she was relieved. Sometimes her artistic visions took on the illusion of singularity; it helped her focus, concentrate on a particular object for creative representation although it was the first time she had spent what seemed like hours transfixed by the scenery of this particular mother and child.
Every now and then she rested her eyelids by closing them, taking in small glances, a still photograph of the images in front of her. That was when she saw him, the handsome man who looked directly into her eyes with a pleasantly exhausted demeanor. He had a symmetrical pattern to his face, an eagerness and yearning even through the jettison waves of brooding conformist that she found so alluring. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at him, dreaming him into a different background in her mind’s eye, one where light and life flourished beneath a lone cherry tree.
There was a gray invisibility abound the folded paper he carried tucked under his arm, and around his briefcase. She was in a somnambulist kind of state when she heard a voice say, “Fuck my job! Fuck everybody”, followed by a loud boom, which propelled her into the air spinning, pinning her against molten strap handles, bars and steel.“No no no no no! She said, as rapid eye movements maneuvered through absolute darkness, the accoutrements of metal drowning out her cries.
In her nightgown at home she remembers in fragments, a tingling sensation surging through her chest upward into her throat. Startled, she walks back to the painting determined to understand what is going on with her body, with her brain. She is conscious, ALIVE, despite the overwhelming presence of death. The frame has been bent but she quickly shapes it back to normality. With frantic strokes of her paintbrush, she begins to restore the painting, but her left arm becomes weak, her lips turn blue, she tries to call out for help, silently screams, her lungs tighten, vocal chords paralyze, unable to speak.
She is in the painting with him! Bonded to him by one split second when the g-force maximized her into a bloody, dirty clump of teeth and gums.The oil painting falls on top of her white linen gown, the painting outlining her body on the hardwood floor, her earthen body fading away, leaving a relief where her physical form once was, her pained mirror image now captured on canvas embraced by the dark ominous stranger. The panel dripping, dripping with…
blood, blood...
“Whose blood is that?" the nurse asks the little boy in a frantic high pitched shriek, alarmed by the sight of deep, thick, sticky crimson spreading out across the floor."
Four months in a sanitarium had him recuperating from the events of that faithful day. Physically he was better, but mentally, emotionally he was silent, his speech taken from him in an instant, indelibly etched, forever present in his young mind. He has the ability to talk but refuses to do so. Instead he chooses to communicate a different way. He paints.
“Whose blood is that?” the nurse asks once again.
The little boy points to the Ouija board, as the lady and the stranger appear in lightening reflexes, harbored by an abstraction that steals your days, breaks your spirit, demands your soul yet he struggles with language, with the images raked and rounded on a portrait, as he stutters saying…
“I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t, and she, she did.”
In the stillness of her studio, she studies the stranger so she can capture his essence. He has put forth a projection, the perfect portrait of the person plaguing her dreams, turning them into nightmares. He has come to her in the shadows of night, hauntingly summoning her in a dance of death.
The solitary skylight projects radiant beams of moonlight as it hits the mirror, magnified by a lone flickering candle illuminating the canvas. She is safe there, her sanctuary from the outside world. The sights and sounds do not penetrate the protective walls of her accomplice workspace.
She has selected the tools of her trade, the oil based paints that will bring forth life, where once there was nothingness, the abyss. Sky blue shimmers as cerulean saunters in, shifting the shadows with shades of light and life; a burst of fresh air sweeping across the canvas. His silhouette starts to take shape; gentle brush strokes of titanium white blend with brilliant yellow and a hint of cinnabar, slowly manifesting his being, captured on canvas.
Trees in all their magnificent colors with leaves of emerald, sap, deep viridian green, take shape; burnt umber, burnt sienna bark; the taproot giving them life. A solitary cardinal, terra rosa belly, venetian red wings with transparent maroon highlights; give depth, movement, honing in on a cherry tree. Done for the day, she will add more color and details in the morning.
Rising up from her slumber, sunlight hitting her face, she wakes up drenched in sweat with the sheets kicked back, the duvet strewn from the bed. Immediately she walks to her painting, ready to get back to work, lifting the muslin sheet draped over her work. She gasps, dropping her easel and the draping cloth.
Where once there were bright blue skies there is now a dark purplish blue-black atmosphere. The beautiful blazing bright orange sun has been transformed into a Payne’s gray moon with raw umber craters and a pock marked face. An ominous black hawk with piercing eyes swoops down, talons outstretched towards the lifeless gray brown tree with barren branches.
The radiant figure has been replaced with a hideously deformed blue gray representation with skeletal features; hollowed out sunken furrows with blood red crimson eyes, black slits piercing back at her, human heart dripping life’s fluid in his right hand, a sickle in his outstretched left hand, droplets of blood trickling down from the finely honed shimmering steel gray blade. With an evil smile, he looks right through her, not back at her, as she runs from the room.
With every few strides she stops frozen in place by the sheer terror. Her nightgown soaked with sweat, stained with paint, flowing down her arms with wet sleeves; her whole world, changing overnight into something totally unknown. For years she has seen angels in the faces of little children, sketched out the innocence of common sea gulls ledged on a hillside rock, rooted there by wind and sea then choreographed into flight by her own hand, yet today she is shielded by darkness, her thoughts half shadow half light.
It all started two days ago while on the subway along the elevated tracks. It was cool and the Hudson River seemed to gleam surrounded by a possessed mist that circled then dispensed in waves into the night air. The car sufficiently isolated or so she thought, except for a mother and child. The child had a relentless and uncompromising force in his eyes that captivated her very essence. He looked primitive, like an abstraction void of youthful freshness, and she felt as if she was viewing him through fixed glass.
He glared at her with piercing eyes, devoid of life, transfixed, as if in a trance, clutching a well-worn Ouija board. Through her peripheral vision she noticed him occasionally coughing up blood as the frequency of vibration on the train increased slowly sinking then rising with speed and forward momentum. It was as if a centrifugal energy was pulling her away from the center. At that moment she could think of nothing but colors, colors that projected intuitive sympathy.
When she regained composure, she could see a fully packed subway car filled with suits heading home from a hard day at work. This caused her no distress, in fact she was relieved. Sometimes her artistic visions took on the illusion of singularity; it helped her focus, concentrate on a particular object for creative representation although it was the first time she had spent what seemed like hours transfixed by the scenery of this particular mother and child.
Every now and then she rested her eyelids by closing them, taking in small glances, a still photograph of the images in front of her. That was when she saw him, the handsome man who looked directly into her eyes with a pleasantly exhausted demeanor. He had a symmetrical pattern to his face, an eagerness and yearning even through the jettison waves of brooding conformist that she found so alluring. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at him, dreaming him into a different background in her mind’s eye, one where light and life flourished beneath a lone cherry tree.
There was a gray invisibility abound the folded paper he carried tucked under his arm, and around his briefcase. She was in a somnambulist kind of state when she heard a voice say, “Fuck my job! Fuck everybody”, followed by a loud boom, which propelled her into the air spinning, pinning her against molten strap handles, bars and steel.“No no no no no! She said, as rapid eye movements maneuvered through absolute darkness, the accoutrements of metal drowning out her cries.
In her nightgown at home she remembers in fragments, a tingling sensation surging through her chest upward into her throat. Startled, she walks back to the painting determined to understand what is going on with her body, with her brain. She is conscious, ALIVE, despite the overwhelming presence of death. The frame has been bent but she quickly shapes it back to normality. With frantic strokes of her paintbrush, she begins to restore the painting, but her left arm becomes weak, her lips turn blue, she tries to call out for help, silently screams, her lungs tighten, vocal chords paralyze, unable to speak.
She is in the painting with him! Bonded to him by one split second when the g-force maximized her into a bloody, dirty clump of teeth and gums.The oil painting falls on top of her white linen gown, the painting outlining her body on the hardwood floor, her earthen body fading away, leaving a relief where her physical form once was, her pained mirror image now captured on canvas embraced by the dark ominous stranger. The panel dripping, dripping with…
blood, blood...
“Whose blood is that?" the nurse asks the little boy in a frantic high pitched shriek, alarmed by the sight of deep, thick, sticky crimson spreading out across the floor."
Four months in a sanitarium had him recuperating from the events of that faithful day. Physically he was better, but mentally, emotionally he was silent, his speech taken from him in an instant, indelibly etched, forever present in his young mind. He has the ability to talk but refuses to do so. Instead he chooses to communicate a different way. He paints.
“Whose blood is that?” the nurse asks once again.
The little boy points to the Ouija board, as the lady and the stranger appear in lightening reflexes, harbored by an abstraction that steals your days, breaks your spirit, demands your soul yet he struggles with language, with the images raked and rounded on a portrait, as he stutters saying…
“I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t, and she, she did.”
Stride
Stride written by Theresa C. Newbill
..love is not shown in the broadcasting of feelings,but in shouting them silently to the fading moon.
If for a few still moments love bubbles in its own universe,let me become addicted to the moon’s faraway tragedy.
I am tired of pretending, it’s true, but tell me anyway,if words plume in lingering raindrops, then sleep in tragedy.
..love is not shown in the broadcasting of feelings,but in shouting them silently to the fading moon.
If for a few still moments love bubbles in its own universe,let me become addicted to the moon’s faraway tragedy.
I am tired of pretending, it’s true, but tell me anyway,if words plume in lingering raindrops, then sleep in tragedy.
Master of Suspense~Alfred Hitchcock
Master of Suspense ~ Alfred Hitchcock written by Theresa C. Newbill
He heard melodies die in broken silenceamong the hermitage of missed morningprayers and breakfast; not quite the DonJuan of his youth, obesity hitting its mark,making its way into intelligent conversationsof one, amidst admiring glances in a mirror.
"We have an appointment this good evening",his voice deliberately misleading and even alittle dangerous, anticipating what wouldoccur at dinner if he decided not to alterthe perks of his external behavior but instead,enjoy them, using them to feed his ego.
Making peace with the realization that thisnew found relationship was emotionally charged,he set forth the transition from great thinker togreat writer knowing very well he had a full-fledgedproblem on his hands, one with a lot of expectationsthat would eventually evolve into swirling
movements of intimacy with a whole newaudience. This dance of sequences would revealvarious stages of intimate relationships, theconnections forged between all participants,hot, frenetic, exhausting, humorous; the lastdip, horrific, savored in a pas de deux,
relished and choreographed between theacceptable and unacceptable, appropriateand inappropriate wrought on by the complexityand heartache of human nature. The episodes,easier to negotiate on film, the dance, moreatmospheric.
To pretend had preceding pages, immersion indiversity, temptation to run half-hazardly mad…“And now if we take it a little…bit…slower,between breaths…” the balance becoming aprecursor to the uncustomary offering of fear, withno hint of concession.
He heard melodies die in broken silenceamong the hermitage of missed morningprayers and breakfast; not quite the DonJuan of his youth, obesity hitting its mark,making its way into intelligent conversationsof one, amidst admiring glances in a mirror.
"We have an appointment this good evening",his voice deliberately misleading and even alittle dangerous, anticipating what wouldoccur at dinner if he decided not to alterthe perks of his external behavior but instead,enjoy them, using them to feed his ego.
Making peace with the realization that thisnew found relationship was emotionally charged,he set forth the transition from great thinker togreat writer knowing very well he had a full-fledgedproblem on his hands, one with a lot of expectationsthat would eventually evolve into swirling
movements of intimacy with a whole newaudience. This dance of sequences would revealvarious stages of intimate relationships, theconnections forged between all participants,hot, frenetic, exhausting, humorous; the lastdip, horrific, savored in a pas de deux,
relished and choreographed between theacceptable and unacceptable, appropriateand inappropriate wrought on by the complexityand heartache of human nature. The episodes,easier to negotiate on film, the dance, moreatmospheric.
To pretend had preceding pages, immersion indiversity, temptation to run half-hazardly mad…“And now if we take it a little…bit…slower,between breaths…” the balance becoming aprecursor to the uncustomary offering of fear, withno hint of concession.
Speak
Speak written by Theresa C. Newbill
...and what if no one spoke of secrets carriedin hearts, or of fools that no longer whisperwords about the night's claim to moments withinthe dignity of simple truth.
If there are wicked things to come from voice,then let voice be my omen; let it visit afterdark, intent on being shattered piecesof broken glass,
blinding light into a kaleidoscope of pain. Iprefer the honesty that comes from listening,when I tremble with rain and life disappearsinside of this,
and I am left sitting alone with thoughtsof you, where a crazy grin and green martinissing about the loss of love, until words fallaway, and every bit of color has gone.
...and what if no one spoke of secrets carriedin hearts, or of fools that no longer whisperwords about the night's claim to moments withinthe dignity of simple truth.
If there are wicked things to come from voice,then let voice be my omen; let it visit afterdark, intent on being shattered piecesof broken glass,
blinding light into a kaleidoscope of pain. Iprefer the honesty that comes from listening,when I tremble with rain and life disappearsinside of this,
and I am left sitting alone with thoughtsof you, where a crazy grin and green martinissing about the loss of love, until words fallaway, and every bit of color has gone.
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