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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 3, 2020 6:36:04 GMT -6
This writer is very talented with romantic story telling  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 3, 2020 11:42:18 GMT -6
YES!!
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 3, 2020 11:46:56 GMT -6
7. A Lie is BornDec. 12, 2012 was a dreary uninspired winter day, and also the day I returned to relive the beginning of the lie. It was 43 years ago when I first came here at the tender age of 23 in high spirits... high on life, high on being young; and I have returned a battle weary 66 year old crone, no longer high, but still functional. I had returned to Woodstock or to be more precise, the Woodstock Music Festival Museum in Bethel Woods, NY.
In early June of this year, the Museum Administrator called and asked me to come to the museum in December to have my photograph taken standing next to the photograph of me taken those many years ago.
They were going to be exhibiting photographs taken that weekend that “made history”, so to speak, and there was a picture of me coming out of the first aid tent with my cut hand wrapped in bandages. Her enthusiasm was palpable as she went on and on about how terrific it would be to take my picture standing next to that photo taken so long ago. I couldn't help but muse how cruel it was to put an old woman next to a photograph of herself when she was still young and fresh. I declined at first, having no wish to relive the memory of that time, having made my own personal history that weekend, one that still haunts me to this day; but they were persistent and I relented.
It was summer, and I was on vacation from work the week of the festival. My boyfriend Drew and I were staying at his getaway farm located on route 30 about 1/2 hr. past Hunter Mountain, between the towns of Grand Gorge and Stamford, NY. It was 50 acres and the previous owner still kept yearling cows on the land in consideration of other favors, like supplying us with wood for the stoves from his charcoal briquette business. The house was old and damp without central heat, insulation, or hot water. There were huge ornate wood burning stoves and grates in the ceilings for the heat to rise to the upstairs bedrooms. We had an electric heater in the bathroom to warm the detached toilet seat before utilizing it. We heated the water in an old milk can on top of the wood burning stove to fill the tub for baths. During snow storms, the wind blew snow through the walls and there would be a pile of snow on the floor all along the walls of the front rooms of the house. It was cold to say the least. I bought footed one-piece pajamas like babies wear, and slept in a sleeping bag that was rated for ten below under the covers on the bed, and still found that the metal snaps of my P.J.'s got so cold that I had to wear Drew's t-shirt under them.
Drew and I had been seeing each other exclusively for the past 2 years, and we were discussing marriage. Since being with him, I haven't seen a movie, gone to a play or a concert, or even seen any of my friends. In the beginning I tried to bring him around my friends; but he behaved so badly that I was embarrassed and stopped trying. It wasn't that I didn't like hunting, target and skeet shooting, camping, hiking and generally macho stuff (although I did dislike sitting around bars and drinking), but I was so much more and this wasn't my life, it was his...his friends....his choices. Sometimes, if I really wanted to do something, I would insist and he would give in; but reluctantly; and I knew he'd make sure I didn't enjoy myself. He agreed to go to the Woodstock Music Festival with me and we had bought tickets. The festival was originally planned to be in Woodstock, NY, which was only about an hour's drive from the farm; but then the location was changed to Bethel, NY and the driving time was doubled. We readied the camping gear and loaded the car Wednesday night so that when we woke up Thursday morning we could get an early start. Thursday morning arrived and that was when Drew told me he didn't want to drive that far and "we" weren't going.
That's when I lost it, I was furious, I grabbed my purse and car keys, and left the house, slamming the door behind me. He didn't stop me, didn't even try, didn't give an inch, and that made me even angrier. I guess I had reached the limit of the amount of crap I would take from him, knowing I deserved better, deserved some respect and consideration. In my mind, I was through with him, and his ugly drunken rages. During the drive, I had time to think about how a right wing hawk like Drew would have fared among the left wing war protesters, and knew I had been foolish to try to get him to go with me. I was determined to have a good time without him. As I got closer, the traffic started to back up and then crawled along. Just before we stopped completely, I was feeling reckless and generous, and picked up a hitchhiker, who it turned out was a local resident and knew a back way in, and that is how I got lucky and was able to avoid the traffic jam completely. My hitchhiker was also tall, good looking, well-muscled and tan, so maybe I wasn't being generous at all, maybe I was just being reckless.
We didn't bother to exchange names and barely talked, just listened to the music on the radio and sang along. He took out a joint and lit it, then passed it to me. It had been awhile since I indulged, and I coughed on the harsh smoke on the first take; but then settled down and drew the smoke deep into my lungs, held my breath and felt the radiating pleasure spreading through my body. Everybody reacts differently to pot, some get paranoid; but not me, I get happy, almost euphoric, and of course since pot tends to amplify our senses, I had a tendency to have amplification in localized parts of my body. Then there was that moment when everything got quiet...we looked at each other and both knew what was to come. I pulled over into a copse of trees along the side of the road and we indulged our amplified body parts that were now screaming for attention. I woke up about an hour later and my hitchhiker was gone, I shrugged my shoulders, started the car and went the rest of the way to the festival on my own.
43 years can erase a lot of memories, and yet some stand out like bold print on a typewritten page. I remember mud, losing my shoes in the mud and spending the rest of the weekend barefoot. If my memory is sketchy, perhaps it can be blamed on the fact that I was stoned for 3 days, even though I didn't bring my own, everyone was so happy to share. I remember naked bodies, a couple lying on a blanket, running out of food, and toddlers running around with no diapers on. I remember a few men and a lot of sex. Had I been sober, I probably would have felt depressed at the shallow emptiness of it all; but I was high and euphorically happy, and thought I was having a good time. I remember listening to the lyrics from the Grateful Dead song "High Time", and they spoke to me; made me wonder if I really wanted to end things with Drew, or was I just testing him, to see if he cared.
“You told me goodbye…How was I to know…You didn't mean goodbye…You meant please don't let me go?”
I thought about Drew and tried to remember the good times...there weren't any...then I knew I was done with him, I knew I deserved better, so I never looked back. About a month later, I found out I was pregnant. Can you imagine what a rude awakening that was...not to know who of the few was the father, or even what their names were. It was about 6 months later that I found out that Drew had enlisted and was killed in Viet Nam, and that is when I concocted the lie. Most people assumed the baby was Drew's anyway, so; I told my son, "your father and I were going to get married when he got back from Nam; but he didn't make it back". I was punished for my lie years later when my son, my love and my light, went to war like his "father" and was killed in action, way too young. Only the cruelest of fates would have a parent outlive their child.....
As I stand here posing next to my photo waiting for the photographer to snap my picture, the tears start to fall, and I cry uncontrollably. The Caption Reads: "Nostalgic Woman, She Was Part of History." The End ~ ~
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 4, 2020 6:22:18 GMT -6
So much unhappiness and tragedy in this story, especially losing her son too in war.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 4, 2020 9:08:30 GMT -6
I agree, Rick. Very, very sad.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 4, 2020 9:25:55 GMT -6
8, He'll Ask Me To Dance Again Jay I’m Jay, and I have never been to the My Time Dance Studio before tonight. As I entered, the interior projected a garish 1930s Art Deco motif. Greenish, glow-in-the-dark, semilucent plastic tubing wrapped around the hand railings separating one sitting area from the next. Tiki Torch electric lights are evenly spaced within the sitting areas. As I walked to an empty table, the dance floor felt well-made and had a slight dancer’s bounce to it. The dance band matched the studio’s interior. It was the big band sound from the 1940s as played by an Art Deco seven-man band. The bass drum had a strand of green lights embedded around its circumference that flashed when the drum is struck. For ballroom dancers, however, the Crooner Seven Band embodied the blessed sound of the foxtrot, waltz, and swing. Donna I’m Donna. Kathy, Stella, Marta, and I are going to the My Time Dance Studio for an evening of dance and banter. We entered, paid ten dollars each, got our free soft drink, granted hugs and hellos to acquaintances, and found a table. Marta, our Brazilian samba specialist, started grumbling because the Crooner Seven Band is samba-less. “Oh, look; it’s the band with the flashing green light drum,” she said derisively. “Better the flashing green light drum than the flashing red light blouse you’re wearing,” Stella countered. “You know what my momma says, Miss S, ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it.’” “Well, yes,” Kathy interjected, “we know what your momma says. So, by all means, please sit at the front of our table so you can lean over to adjust your shoes when interesting men pass. Jay As I settled in, I began to search the room for women to dance with. I saw a table with four women sitting together. I scanned the table to see if any of the women fit my dancer profile. I don’t mean “profile” as though I was shopping for a roast. I am fifty-two healthy years old, so I look for women forty to fifty-five years old. I am six feet tall and weigh 170 pounds. I prefer to dance with women who are slender and have a matching top and bottom. Donna I knew when Stella gave Marta a hard time about her red-light blouse that we were going to have a good time. No one seemed tired from work and childcare or from babysitting their husbands. Only Stella and I don’t have a husband to babysit. The other two only talk a good game when men are the subject. It was a divorce, five years ago, that paved my way to dance. I wanted to meet healthy, active men. I enjoyed the ballet and jazz dance classes Mom had me take in junior high school. Consequently, I found myself at the Let’s Dance Studio in the capable hands of Martin, my dance instructor. Martin was blond, tall, and lean. His dancing trousers outlined a most interesting convex curve as they draped downward from his back. There lingered between us an implied promise that something more than dance would be explored after I made one more payment for gold-level lessons. My mom asked me why I didn’t try to find a guy in my accounting firm to dance with, instead of paying for dance lessons. Mom didn’t know that the men in the accounting firm were so sedentary they couldn’t generate a movement in the restroom, much less on a dance floor. Martin moved me as in cha, cha, and cha. As was predestined, Martin transferred his primetime attention to a wealthy woman with beautiful silver hair, a surgically supplemented face and wrinkled, dried-up skin sagging from the back of her upper arms. Consequently, I abandoned the warm tutelage of the Let’s Dance Studio. Jay My eyes naturally settled on a woman at the table of four. She was tall, slender, and in her forties. Her medium length hair was coal black. Her face was actress thin and, to her credit, I saw no public tattoos. She wore a simple black dress, and her jewelry was blingless. A man approached the table and asked her to dance. I had met the man before, and he was a nice guy. He was, however, a little chubby and had a comb-over that rivaled the mane of an unkempt horse. Donna Captain Marta gave the up-periscope order, and we began to slyly scope-out the room for prospective dancer partners. Four tables from us sat a man I’d never seen before. He was tall, well-proportioned, had salt and pepper hair, and was about fifty. Eight eyes inauspiciously swept over him. The whispered verdicts contained three “Okays” and one “Hell yes.” Sonar Kathy reported a ping from the mystery man. It seems that he was also checking us out. In particular, Kathy thought he was looking at me. The Crooner Seven Band started off with Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust.” I saw Bob stand up to look for a dance partner. I gave him a nod, so he came straight to our table and asked me to dance. I have known Bob for several years. He’s a good guy and knows everybody, but he can’t dance. I digress. Bob’s bald. He has sixty-one hair strands he uses to cover his entire head. Why do men do that? Women know that male sex hormone causes baldness. A woman is lucky to find a fifty-plus-year-old man who still has sex hormone. If it can pluck the hair off of his head, it can knock the socks off of me. As Bob rocked me back and forth, I ask him if he knew the mystery man. “Sure, I know him, that’s Jay. I know him from the Dance Palace. He’s a really good dancer.” “Is he straight?” I asked. “I think so. He used to go with a woman named Beth, but I heard they broke up.” “Is he a groper, Bob?” I digress again. What in the name of rap music makes a man think he can turn-on a woman by clamping his chest against her breasts and wedging his knee between her legs as they dance? The next time this happens to me, I swear, I am going to fake an orgasm just like Meg Ryan did in the restaurant scene in When Harry Met Sally. I’ll just stand there clinging to the man, yelling in an ever-rising crescendo, “Oh, yes, Oh, yes,” with my head arched back and eyes sealed by pleasure. “No,” Bob replied, “everything I heard about him says he’s a gentleman.” After I returned to our table, Kathy said, “Well, (Kathy is the holder of our collective well) what’s the verdict?” “Bob says he’s an okay guy.” Jay Stardust ended and next up was Andy Williams’s version of “Moon River.” “Moon River” is my favorite waltz and the waltz is my favorite dance. “Moon River” exudes movement so I was immediately driven to the table of four by an insatiable rhythmic instinct. As I approached, I bent over at her side and said, “Excuse me.” When she turned to look at me, I continued, “Would you like to dance?” Her sapphire blue eyes momentarily looked away toward one of her friends, but then returned to my eyes as she said, “Yes.” As I stepped down onto the dance floor, I said, “I’m Jay.” She said, “Hi, I’m Donna.” I said, “I love this song.” She smiled in response. The dance had just started, so the floor was not crowded. Assuming we could dance beyond patty-cake level, we had plenty of room to stretch out. As my hand went to her shoulder, she automatically assumed the classic waltz position as she demurely turned her head to look down her left shoulder, rather than over my right shoulder. I knew then that this lady could waltz. I waited until a new measure started and stepped forward in time with the downbeat, then up on my toes…two, three and then back, and down… two, three. I repeated the same step but with longer strides. She was right there with me. I began with a left-hand turn for three counts and then a spin on my right foot for the back half of the step. Donna felt me anchor my right foot to rotate her on that point, and she responded in kind. I began to feel as though we were ice skating. We rotated into two right-hand turns and then directly into a chassé. The couple behind us closed the distance with us when we slowed into the chassé, so I began simple, direct line progressive steps to regain that distance. As Donna moved backward in the progressive steps, she ad-libbed a subtle rumba hip waggle as she winked and smiled at me. I rolled my eyes at her improvisation and returned her smile. Donna The Crooner Seven started to play “Moon River.” “Donna,” Stella whispered, “don’t look up, but I think Mr. Okay Guy is coming your way.” I kept my eyes down. Jay stopped at my side and asked me to dance. I glanced at Marta to show some hesitation and then said, “Yes.” As we stepped onto the dance floor, he said, “I’m Jay.” I said, “Hi, I’m Donna.” As we stood ready to start dancing, I was confronted by the most serious question women face on a ballroom dance floor. Can Jay lead me in this waltz? Some men know dance steps, but don’t know how to lead. If a man can’t lead, I can’t follow, and we can’t dance. Jay has to take command. Ballroom dancing is not a feminist activity. The moment Jay stepped forward, I was gently locked into his grasp by the frame formed between his shoulders and hands. He knew what he was doing. I had no problem knowing what he wanted me to do. We did several spinning left-hand turns into a chassé and then outward into right-hand turns. Jay didn’t do anything fancy. He led me into simple patterns, but he danced those steps elegantly and in perfect time with the music. I began to feel as though our bodies had but one mind. As “Moon River” wound down, I began a silly-shuttle hip wiggle to see if Jay took himself too seriously. He simply smiled and rolled his eyes as if to admonish me. Good. Jay We had danced for a little over two minutes when “Moon River” slowed and then ended. I looked at Donna and nodded my head in approval. I took her hand to walk her back to her table. It was just a dance…a short-lived joint venture in movement. Nevertheless, we danced well together, and I will ask her to dance again. Donna Jay walked me back to our table and thanked me for the dance. I thanked him in return. None of the ladies said a word until Jay was safely out of earshot. Then Kathy said, (what else?), “Well?” I feigned hesitation so as not to appear too anxious to answer and then, with a sly smile, said, “He’ll ask me to dance again.” The End ~ ~ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 5, 2020 7:23:12 GMT -6
This was a fun story  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 5, 2020 12:12:23 GMT -6
It was. I could almost feel myself on the dance floor. Every move was so skillfully described.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 5, 2020 12:30:25 GMT -6
9, Better Offer Admitting I decided to give online dating a try wasn’t something I’d blab about to my parents even if I was almost 29. And no, worrying about what my parents thought didn’t make me strange. My dad was the first person to complain about everything. Like when he paid his monthly bills, only to then make a comment about the following month’s bills. But it wasn’t like today’s date would be profiled on an episode of NBC’s Dateline or give fodder to Law and Order SVU. I played it smart because by agreeing to meet in public, I was on Main Street at Café Yesterday where there would be plenty of witnesses.
The waiter shuffled over to my empty table. “Can I get you anything, Ashely?”
Yeah. I was one of those people who ate, breathed, and dreamed about coffee. Therefore, all of Café Yesterday’s employees were on a first name basis with me. Although I usually got my large cappuccino to go. I often crammed a quick coffee stop into my busy days of writing romance novels. Driving to town was enough of a break to clear my head when I got stuck on a writing issue, yet it wasn’t too long to prevent me from having a productive writing day.
“I should wait for my date,” I said.
Raquel twirled a strand of her purple ombre hair. “Fair enough.”
I checked my watch before looking back up at her. I mean, just because my date was ten minutes late didn’t mean it was the end of the world. I knew better than to have a meltdown. It wasn’t like something bad happened. I was also lucky enough to be sitting outside despite how fall was well under way as a result of the whistling wind from nearby trees. Although it wasn’t like the cold air bit my face, which was worth squealing about. I always dreaded winter.
But no. My parents convinced me to remain in the Northeast since they thought being close to family was important. Check that. Living near family wasn’t essential; it was mandatory. However, modern technology meant I could write anywhere. I usually just communicated with my editor and literary agent through email.
“Hold on. Maybe I’ll have my cappuccino now,” I said while she was about to walk away.
Raquel flashed a smile. “No problem.”
She went back inside, leaving me alone.
Nearby yelling made me shift my gaze. A woman and a guy in sweat pants, a tee-shirt, sneakers, and a backpack stood a few yards away at the end of the block. She sported a buttoned down long-sleeved blouse. The shirt was tucked into her khaki pants, and had a belt looped around them. Her salt and pepper hair was even wrapped in a bun. I even would’ve laughed if she wasn’t pointing her index finger at the guy. Being amused was unavoidable. My mother also always dressed up, even when she was gardening at home. She often had her hair in a bun too. Except Mom’s hair was auburn without any hint of grey seeping through.
But the woman’s physical appearance shouldn’t have been my only concern. Her scowl and lecturing with the guy made me continue dwelling on Mom. Like with how she always asked me when I’d find a guy and get married. There were only so many times I could listen to Mom asking those questions without clenching a fist or whispering some obscenity under my breath. Plus, I couldn’t forget about Mom criticizing my writing. Being a New York Times best-selling romance author wasn’t enough for her. She used my success to make me feel inadequate. She always mentioned her confusion about how my unsuccessful love life should’ve stopped me from writing romance novels.
But no. She failed to see the situation’s irony. I understood the feeling of longing for love. Sure. Having a couple’s relationship end with a happily ever after or happy for now ending was required by my publisher. But I made romance feel palpable by channeling my own frustration into my writing; yet I could never catch a break like my characters. All my previous first dates had gone wrong for one reason or another.
The worst part was Mom wasn’t 100 percent wrong. Finding a guy shouldn’t have defined my happiness. Although having something to do besides watching SEX AND THE CITY reruns on a Friday night would’ve been great. Yes. I had a few good friends, and I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. Yet there was a difference between platonic love and romantic love.
Whatever. Hopefully, my love life would sort itself out regardless of how frustrating it was. The important thing was being a successful author meant I could afford my own place and didn’t have to work at home. Except even having my own home had limitations. Mom sometimes stopped by my place without calling.
The woman and her son (who must have been arguing for at least a few minutes) walked over to a station wagon parked by the curb. The woman got in the driver’s seat, and the guy took the front passenger’s seat. But he had barely put on his seatbelt when the woman drove away.
And no. Assuming the guy was her son wasn’t presumptuous. Being a writer meant picking up on the little details—things that might’ve been irrelevant to other people. A backpack had been strapped to his back in addition to how it was Thursday mid-morning. Hmmm. Maybe. The guy had skipped school. Whatever. I had enough to be focused on without worrying about the kid and woman.
Footsteps pounded against the ground.
“Here you go, Ashley.” Raquel rested the cappuccino down in front of me on the table.
One touch of the glass made me take my hand off it after heat scorched me. The cappuccino was just too hot to drink. However, I would ‘ve been lying if I didn’t say it looked nice because it did. The cappuccino consisted of a thick layer of foamed milk for the first third of the glass while the remaining two-thirds was a bright mocha color. The cappuccino also happened to be topped with cinnamon.
“Thanks,” I said while fidgeting in my chair after checking my watch.
My date’s continued tardiness still wasn’t cause for panic. Even if he was now twenty minutes late. People got stuck in traffic all the time. Especially me. There was still a lot of traffic in a small place like Featherwood. Like between four and six in the afternoon by Exit 3 when people left work.
“No problem. Will you need anything else?” Raquel asked.
I shook my head. “No. I’m good for now.”
“Okay. But I’ll check up on you in a few minutes since your date will have hopefully arrived by then.”
I touched the cup and sipped some of my cappuccino. It was no longer scolding hot, and the mixture of the sweet and bitter flavors jolted my taste buds before I put the glass back down on the table.
Another gust of wind pushed a nearby soda can down the street, making me scoff. One would’ve thought a well to do town like Featherwood wouldn’t have littering. But no. That wasn’t the case since the littering concern seemed to have gone into a black hole like me wishing Mom would stop bugging me about marriage.
Whatever. No use in getting upset even though the Sierra Club would’ve had a fit if they knew about the littering problem in Featherwood. Sure. I might’ve been stuck in the small town I grew up in all my life, but at least I was a published writer.
“He’s still not here?” Raquel asked after once again stopping by my table and checking up on me.
“Maybe I should see if he contacted me.” I pulled up the dating app on my iPhone and checked if there were any messages from the guy.
Nope. No messages from SMILES25. Although sweat clung to my forehead. The app said the guy was within one thousand feet of me, yet there was no guy in sight.
My jaw twitched after I tilted my head. A man and woman were laughing as they approached an ice cream shop across the street. The chime on the ice cream shop’s door clinked. Then, I glanced at the photo of SMILES25, only to realize it was the guy that just walked into the ice cream shop with the woman.
Raquel furrowed an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
“Traffic isn’t the problem; he got a better offer.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy who was supposed to meet me for the date just walked into the ice cream shop across the street with another woman.”
Raquel sighed. “I’m sorry. But take your time. The cappuccino is on the house.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it; it’s the least I can do.”
I gritted my teeth. “Rescheduling our date four times should’ve been a clue.”
Her eyes lit up. “You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “But at least I dodged a jerk. Imagine if he showed up, we clicked, started dating and got married, only for me to think he’s Mr. Perfect until I catch him in bed with another woman.”
Raquel clenched her jaw. “Don’t even think it!”
So much for worrying about the guy being a predator. I should’ve been more concerned about him being a real jerk. Flaking out on someone without even lying and coming up with an excuse defined pretty shabby behavior. The End ~ ~ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 6, 2020 5:50:38 GMT -6
This one was not very romantic but still, interesting to read  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 6, 2020 10:13:47 GMT -6
You're right, but she was trying.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 6, 2020 10:41:34 GMT -6
!0. Hands of Steel, Not Today by John L. Yelavich This morning I had to go to the local hospital for some routine tests. I feel fine, but I guess my urologist wants to make sure that I am on the right path to wherever it is I’m going.
My first scheduled test was an ultrasound. There were six of us in the Radiology waiting room and by my observed calculations, I should have been number four in line. I have had these tests before and the last one was tortuous. The technician had hands of steel and she applied so much pressure that I thought I would need urgent care from the post procedure bruising.
Whenever I go out in “public”, I make sure that I wear my best cologne. You never know who you are going to meet along the way. Just because I have reached a mature age, doesn’t mean I should cast aside good grooming habits. I don’t waste it on the old guys I meet with at our trustees meetings, nor do I waste it on the birds, squirrels and deer that I see when I’m working in the yard.
Today’s cold, damp weather had awakened my slumbering aches and pains and I needed something to make me feel better about myself. My only hope was to have a young and pretty technician with a gentle, soothing touch to perform the procedure. That would help me forget about Mr. Arthritis visiting me today.
I sat quietly, waiting and watching as the patients were greeted by the technicians.
Tech #1: She was middle-aged, built like a fireplug and had man-hands; just not what I wanted or needed
Tech #2: Young twenty something male wearing coke bottle glasses
Tech #3: An older gentleman who could have been a Wilford Brimley look alike
Suddenly, nervous anticipation began to consume my thoughts. I was praying for a young girl with delicate hands, hoping that this ultrasound would be a little bit more enjoyable than the last one.
I soon heard my name being called and I looked up and was greeted by a young woman who looked like she was about twenty-five. She had a blonde streak in her auburn hair and her makeup accentuated her naturally pretty features. She was blessed with a curvaceous figure that her burgundy scrubs could not hide.
She was all business. There was no friendly chit chat. The only words she spoke were, “hold your breath, breathe again and you smell nice.” I lied on the bed in a heavenly state as she used the applicator like a magic wand and rolled it across my mid-section.
She did her thing and then it was over.
I said “is that all there is?”
And she said “yes.”
The experience was like a memory of a date gone wrong. You get that one lucky break and take out the girl of your dreams. She is gorgeous but you soon find out that just being pretty doesn’t always go along with a warm personality. The evening falls flat and you are left more than a bit bewildered. That hopeful dream date soon morphed into a nightmare.
I proceeded to the next station for a blood test and was greeted by a young blonde with a smile as big and bright as the sun. Just by the warmth of her voice, you could tell that she was blessed with a sweet personality. She was a breath of fresh air. Unfortunately the test was over and done so quickly that there was no time for pleasant conversation.
I walked to my car, thinking that even though there were gray skies above, today just might have the makings of a lucky day.
I’m home now and reality has kicked me in the head. I’m not twenty-five anymore and my only consolation is that my ninety year old neighbor, Phyllis considers me to be her eye candy. The End ~ ~ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 7, 2020 5:18:25 GMT -6
I hope doctor visits are never the highlight of my day!  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 7, 2020 12:16:56 GMT -6
LOL and how would you like being eye candy for your 90 year old neighbor?
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 7, 2020 12:40:43 GMT -6
11. The Lemon Sherbet Cafeby Alicia Aitken
Emily Chambers stood on the wooden decking that surrounded her cafe watching the tide slowly come in. Just over a year ago, she would have chuckled bitterly at anyone who dared to tell her that this is where she’d be. At that time, she was at her weekly hospital appointments fighting the feelings of hopelessness and disappointment.
Still, here she was, relishing another day at work whilst being able to look out at the sea. Technically it was not the sea, it was the Thames Estuary but the town was called Southend-on-Sea, it had a beach that you could walk on, sit on and sunbath on and people regularly swam in the waters, in Emily’s mind it was the sea.
The Lemon Sherbet Cafe had been open for three months. It was born out of two loves. Lemon Sherbets, that reminded Emily of her dear nan. She always had a bag of them wherever she went. Then there was the beach. Through her darkest times, the beach had been her constant friend. She would often walk along the stretch of sand or sit for hours thinking. The past few years had been complicated and tough. It was the calmness of the beach and the water that had provided some light in Emily’s life. The Lemon Sherbet cafe was a refuge, not only could you get your usual teas, all manner of coffees and food but you could listen to music, watch films and talk books. Emily wanted it to be a place that would be part of the community and mean something to everyone.
The cafe had floor to ceiling bifold doors along the back and down the sides, which opened fully on warmer days welcoming the beach inside. The floor was tiled and in one corner there was a wall mounted TV surrounded by multi-coloured bean bags and shelves full of old books that people donated. On every table there were daffodils and yellow and white stripped napkins to match the parasols out on the decking, the cafe was brightened with evergreen plants and paintings from local artists hung on the wall. The Lemon Sherbet Cafe, in Emily’s opinion, was exquisite and everyone wanted to sit and enjoy the serenity around them.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it.” Juliet, the assistant manager came and stood next to Emily. “I’m taking my grandchildren down the pier after my shift today, perfect weather for it.”
“Hmmmm, it is.” Emily replied dreamily and Juliet carried on checking the tables. Emily stared at the pier that was sat to the left of the cafe. Some of her best memories had been walking to the end with her parents and sister, sitting together having chips and ice-cream and then excitedly getting the train back. The pier was an institution in its own right, it was the longest pleasure pier in the world. Like Emily, it had experienced its share of disasters and turbulent moments, there had been many fires in the past, not to mention it had been hit by bombs and fishing boats too. Emily and the pier were still standing strong and unwilling to go.
Emily’s dark green leather strap watch, the last gift from her partner Devon, read 6:55am. Five more minutes and the doors would open, she hoped Devon would visit today. She had invited him when the cafe opened, it hadn’t seemed right that he wasn’t here to share all this with her. When they were trying for a baby they had often spoken of owning a cafe on the beach together, another shared dream. After 4 long years of trying they were still childless, in the end it had all become too much. They had lost themselves and neither of them understood what their relationship had become. Emily knew she had let the bitterness take over and twist her into a different person, she was angry and in pain and often Devon got the brunt of it all. Emily forgot that Devon too was suffering.
“Shall I open the door?” Juliet called across.
“Yes, let’s get this show on the road. I can already see some dog walkers milling around waiting.” Emily smiled, the cafe brought a joy to Emily she never thought she would feel or deserve.
Juliet turned the sign round to read open and waved at a regular walking with their dog.
“Excited for this evening?” Juliet asked. “I finished the book last night, I’ve been telling my George all about it, I’ve told him he has to read it.” George the ever-patient man thought Emily to herself.
“Anxious to tell you the truth. I hope it all goes to plan.” Emily said honestly, it was important that their first book event went well. Marianne, a local author, who Emily’s oldest sister went to school with, had said she would be happy to come and talk about her new book and support The Lemon Sherbet Cafe. Marianne was somewhat of a local celebrity, currently five of her books had been published, she supported the community through various projects and generally she was known to everyone as one of the nicest people they had met. In short, Marianne was a bit of saint.
“Look at what you’ve achieved so far in such a short space of time. It will be another success just you wait and see petal.” Juliet smiled and warmth radiated from her.
“I hope you’re right, maybe Devon might come tonight.” Emily said wiping down the top of the bar for the third time that morning. She cleaned a lot, it settled her nerves when they threatened to take over.
“You two are meant to be, I’m sure of it. If not tonight, he’ll come back soon.” Juliet tapped her arm and wandered into the kitchen.
Emily had emailed Devon to let him know about the book event and again apologised for the way their break up had transpired. She felt guilty and was desperate to reach out to him, to have him back in her life again. When they split, she convinced herself it was what she wanted but as time went on, she realised with such clarity that Devon was the one for her, she had let trying for a baby overtake everything, she had been consumed with it. Towards the end of their relationship both were exhausted, it seemed the only conversations they ever had were about having a baby, they went to countless doctor appointments, visited the hospital many many times, a round of IVF, it was their entire focus. When it all failed, Emily assumed the next step would be to break up, to give Devon a chance with someone else. She shut down the conversations of adoption, surrogacy, she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, she abandoned the idea of going on holidays, taking a break together. Emily was emotionally, mentally and physically worn out and hid away from the world and all things Devon.
There was never an argument as such or an official statement that they had broken up, Emily just left. The first couple of months were a blur and Emily barely remembers what she did, everything was on autopilot. One morning while sitting on the beach sipping coffee and admiring the view, Emily thought about the past, of her and Devon trying for a baby and how selfish she had acted and felt ashamed at how much she took it out on Devon, who only ever loved and supported her. From that day forward, Emily fully accepted her situation and moved forward, life was to be enjoyed and she was still young, only 32. There was a whole life time in front of her, maybe with children and maybe with Devon. She could only hope.
The early morning customers started to trickle in and take their places, the aroma of coffee mixed with the salty air filled the cafe. So many of her patrons had at one time or another expressed how much they loved this place, it filled Emily with pride that one of her dreams had come true and that people appreciated it. Emily and Juliet together started working through the customers taking orders, serving and reminding them of the event that evening. The morning disappeared and as Emily predicted the cafe was busy, with many people waiting outside for a table to become available for lunch.
“The day flies by when you’re having fun!” Juliet said to Emily when they were both behind the counter getting drinks. “You must be the most popular cafe around here.”
“It’s crazy, I never thought it would be loved this much. Ah, here’s Ben.” Emily said and they both waved him over. Ben was the newest recruit and the youngest at the tender age of 18, he was brought in to work the lunchtime and evening shifts although the way things were going Emily would be able to offer him more hours. They would need all the help they could get through the summer.
“Wow, it’s packed today.” Ben said grabbing his apron and looking at Emily for his directions.
“I’m going back to the kitchen so can you work the tables with Juliet please?” Emily asked.
“Sure thing.” Ben said and gave Emily a lopsided smile.
The day continued to pass by at speed and after closing for two hours to set everything up for the evening, Emily put the black placard outside welcoming the guests for the author event. Emily herself had changed into a smarter outfit and had done her hair and make up for the evening, she wanted to impress Marianne.
Emily poured 3 glasses of champagne and handed a glass each to Juliet and Ben.
“Cheers!” Emily said and clinked their glasses, the cold champagne slid down her throat and awoke the butterflies in her stomach. Juliet dimmed the main lights and all three admired the ambiance. The fairy lights which hung across the cafe glistened and twinkled, from the outside Emily imagined the place looked magical.
“She’ll be here soon.” Juliet said excitedly and knocked back the rest of her champagne in one.
“Everyone has been talking about tonight.” Ben joined in on the excitement, although he had admitted five minutes earlier that he had never heard of Marianne or read any of her books. The three stood awkwardly waiting for Marianne and guests to arrive, the movie night last month was the same, the calm before the storm. The moments of silence and peace before everyone descended and they would be rushing around for the rest of the night.
“oooohhhh Marianne is here!” squeaked Juliet and rushed to pour the champagne.
Marianne walked through the door, a picture of elegance and grace, draped in a red flora maxi dress with her long dark hair flowing down to her waist. Emily heard Ben’s breath catch as he caught sight of the goddess. Behind Marianne was her plus one which she had told Emily would be accompanying her this evening.
Emily smiled her biggest smile and started to walk over to greet them, she suddenly felt her insides turn and her heart pound.
“Devon” Emily whispered. The End ~ ~
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 8, 2020 6:42:48 GMT -6
Wow, what an ending! Good story |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 8, 2020 12:06:46 GMT -6
Yes, Rick, I was not expecting that.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 8, 2020 12:20:26 GMT -6
12. She Needs To Go She had to get away. The timing wasn't ideal, but when was it ever? Her boyfriend of six years proposed last month and she had said yes. They met at one of the Marist College dining halls. He was a junior, she a sophomore. There might have been a slight drizzle outside that afternoon. Since that fateful day, they've been together. The two of them were happy together, but there was nothing particularly special about their relationship. Did she love him? She was kind to her, she knew that. Her boss, an attractive woman in her mid thirties, hadn't approved her last minute request for a week off. What a bitch. Not deterred, she bought her ticket to Europe anyways with some of the money her and her fiancé had put aside for the wedding. He was surprised she wanted to get away for a week, but supported her decision nonetheless. So kind. She conveniently failed to mention to him the plane ticket she bought was one way. Oh well. Three months later...in bathroom stall at De Club Up in Amsterdam, she snorts a line of coke she scored from the bouncer with a lady she had met at the same club a week prior. There's a message written in black magic marker on the stall door, and although her Dutch is adequate, neither her nor her newfound friend can read it, do to their level of intoxication. She's done a lot of cocaine the past month and has lost some weight because of it. House music blaring from the resident DJ rattles the bathroom floor. Six hours from now, she's supposed to board a plane back to the States, but that is of no concern to her now. If she misses it, she misses it. The same thing happened last month and the month before that. Her friend asks for toilet paper and she pulls out a roll from her purse. Always handy. As she wipes, they argue over where to go next. Her friend has spent most of the night grinding up on some rando and wants them to go back to his flat. She has no interest in being the third wheel and lets that be known. A lady in six inch stilettos bangs on the stall door and yells at them to hurry up. What a bitch. They tell her to buzz off. Even with the music pounding, they can both hear that someone left one of the two bathroom sinks running. The line of coke has her feeling good and she no intention of leaving the club anytime soon. Besides, she looks damn good in the lavender dress she borrowed from the friend alongside her now. Outside, there's a street vendor that sells herring. Among all the arguing and commotion in the bathroom, they both suddenly realize how funny their current predicament is. Each doing bumps as the other one pees. They laugh so loud the ladies in the other stalls can hear. The two of them embrace for an extended moment and help each other wipe the residue off their noses with toilet paper. All cleaned up, the twosome agree to reconvene in the bathroom after another hour on the dance floor. Banging on the stall door comes once again from the bitch in stilettos. Words are exchanged as they leave the stall. For the first time, she notices the restroom is dimly lit red. That would be the last thing she would notice that evening, as the rest of the night became a blur. She awoke 3pm the next afternoon on the futon of that rando's third floor flat. Flight missed. Oh well. Still wearing the lavender dress, she knew she had remained faithful to her fiancé. They corresponded via email. He sent one daily, she responded weekly. Odd she thought, that he had so much to say and she so little, though she was the one exploring the world and he was the one stuck in his daily routine back home. Three kids could be heard kicking a soccer ball down below. Would she marry him? Once her money ran out and there were no more couches to crash on, then yes, yes she would marry him. Lethargically looking out the living room window, she pondered why she kept pushing back her return date? The answer was obvious, yet saying it aloud was not. Saying it in person to him would be even less so. How could she tell her fiancé she felt more alive in a bathroom stall with a relative stranger than she had in the past six years with him? Back on the futon, staring at the crack in the ceiling, she laid in silence. Was it raining that day they met at Marist? She can’t seem to recall. The End ~ ~ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 9, 2020 5:53:18 GMT -6
This is not a good match for romance but it was an interesting story  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 9, 2020 11:18:54 GMT -6
I totally agree!!
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 9, 2020 11:25:10 GMT -6
13. The Princess and I by Larry Lefkowitz The indefatigable Geraldine, who at work wanted to introduce me to a suitable young woman, and tried, without success, on a number occasions, spotted me sitting in the company cafeteria. She had in-tow this time a prettier-than-usual candidate and seated her and herself at my table. “I want you to meet our new worker, Nataliya,” she said in that breathless voice of hers. “She is a real Russian princess.”
The woman reddened slightly. ”Mazel tov,” I said, adding “Chorosho,” “good” – one of the few Russian words I recalled from the period in which I tried to teach myself Russian. I doubted she understood Yiddish, as Russian princesses didn’t learn the language. I rejected the notion of grabbing her hand and kissing it, as Melvin Douglas had done to Greta Garbo in the movie, ’Ninotchka.’
Although the matchmaker thought the Russian princess bit would impress me, I wasn’t crazy about Russian royalty. The czars had been anti-Semites. Their motto with respect to the Jews was “Kill a third, convert a third, and banish a third.” As a youth, I thought that the last czar murdered by the Bolsheviks had it coming to him. This history I did not lay on Princess Nataliya, nor the fact that as a youth I had admired Trotsky, the Red Army commander who was a distant relative of mine. Not a time for comparative lineage. I wisely let Geraldine do the talking, blah blah blah, including praising me as intelligent and that “She wouldn’t introduce just anyone to Nataliya.”
“Princess Natalyia,” I couldn’t resist correcting Geraldine. She gave me a withering glance, suspecting that I might have been using the prefix ironically. However, she warmed up to me considerably after I assented to her suggestion that “Since Nataliya is new to our city, perhaps you would like to show her the town.” I shot a quick glance at Nataliya to see how this suggestion went down with her. Apparently positively, because she smiled at me and nodded, “I would like that very much.” It was my turn to redden. She was a real looker. Buxom with the “heavy Russian beauty” that Tolstoy or somebody described. I had always had a thing for zaftig women. So much so that I was willing to violate my rule: Never date women from work. If you later break-up, it could make the workplace unpleasant.
I had never dated a Russian princess, only American Jewish princesses, as the more spoiled ones were called; I had found most Jewish women to be anything but spoiled, pleasantly down to earth, although finding one who could tolerate me may have been at the nub of the problem. Maybe I would do better with Russian princesses, if the cliché ‘opposites attract,’ was correct.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” chortled Geraldine, her work finished. She stood up and nodding to various co-workers, made her way out of the cafeteria. Her bubbling, friendly personality made her a popular colleague among the company’s employees.
Silence ensued. What do you say to a Russian princess? In my case something stupid. “Are you really a Russian princess?”
“It depends on whom you ask. There were so many rivalries and claims to the throne and being related to the czars, that my family says yes, but others disagree. We claim that we are
Romance Lefkowitz 1466
related to a noble family that existed in Russia until the Bolshevik Revolution. The ones not killed fled the country to Paris where they took jobs as taxi drivers and such.
Apparently seeing that I was somewhat flustered at her pedigree, she added, “I won’t bite.”
That, of course, won me over, as a sense-of-humor in a woman was for me de rigueur.
I tried to think of a clever retort, or if not a retort, at least something humorous. I rejected as fatuous Woody Allen’s query whether the correct spelling of the Russian ruler’s title is “Czar” or “Tsar.” To break the silence, I asked, “Are you related to Anastasia.?” I had seen the movie about the daughter of Czar Nicholas who claimed that she was Russian royalty and had survived the murders of her family by the Bolsheviks. A claim which caused conflict between supporters of her claim and those who disputed it.
“Ah, you know about that?”
“I saw the movie.”
“Until this day, my wider family talks about her. We – they – the family dispute her claim.”
I switched tack. “Well, I can show you our fair city, if you are still interested.”
She put the hand of her arm rich in bracelets on my own. “I would like that very much.”
I confess a shiver went up my spine. Whether because of her touch, her beauty or her pedigree, I wasn’t sure. I pictured Rasputin, the Russian mystic and self-styled holy man, charlatan according to others, turning over in his grave.
“Well, time to return to work,” I said. I took her phone number, stood up, and resisted the impulse to bestow on her a deep bow as I had seen Russian aristocrats do in the old movies. After a final glimpse at her blond hair with its braid curled on the top of her head like a halo, very Russian in my estimation, I walked away. Stay tuned ~ ~ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 10, 2020 5:01:00 GMT -6
This story is off to a most intriguing start |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 10, 2020 13:15:15 GMT -6
Nataliya had a smile like Grushenka in the movie ‘The Brothers Karamazof,’ but then I had a tendency to romanticize things. Maybe that’s why I was still single – the women couldn’t come up to my expectations. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to pursue a Russian princess. Suppose one thing led to another and I had to introduce her to my mother. She would be upset, no doubt imagining my getting married in a Russian Orthodox cathedral with everyone crossing themselves as we walked down the aisle. I wondered if Geraldine had told her that I was Jewish. I took Nataliya on a tour of the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Japanese cherry trees, topped off by the Phillips Collection, the scene, alas, of many a futile attempt on my part to pick up a date. I would sit next to a prospect and pose how much I enjoyed the concert or the paintings on the wall in order to impress them. Maybe the women saw through me. I adopted a restrained approach with Nataliya, letting her comment on the paintings, confining myself to nodding or verbally agreeing with her. She was smitten by Renoir’s life-size painting ‘Luncheon of the Boating Party,’ with its vibrant colors. When I had picked her up, I noticed that Natalya wore her hair long on her shoulders, less off-putting than the Russian bagel-on-head braid she wore at work. During the tour, Nataliya was charming. What did she see in me? I wondered. Maybe simply a guide, and nothing more. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Nataliya to inform me as I said goodbye to her after taking her home, that while I was a delightful companion, etc., etc., she couldn’t continue seeing me. But continue she did. Although we had mutually agreed that at work none of our colleagues would know about our dating, some knew. Geraldine taking matchmaking credit, I assumed. At some point I would have to raise the fact of my being Jewish. It could be a real obstacle given her royal Russian pedigree. I hit on a stratagem. “I like to folk dance. Would you like to come, Nataliya?” She would. I didn’t add that the folk dancing was Israeli folk dancing. I told her so only when I picked her up to drive to the dance site. After she had fastened her seatbelt, I simply blurted out, “The folk dancing is Israeli folk dancing.” “Easy to learn,” I added weakly. “Fine,” she said. I pictured her total lineage wondering what ever happened to the gala imperial balls held in the Winter Palace. And yet she seemed not at all bothered. Nataliya was a quick learner. I enjoyed especially the couple dances with her. On the way to her residence after the dance, I came out with it. “Natasha, you know that I am Jewish?” “Of course. Geraldine told me before she introduced us. She feared it might be an obstacle.” “And it was not?” “No. I was never a functioning Russian princess. Closer to a Jewish American princess. I dote on lox and bagels.” I tried not to show my relief. “My best girlfriends are Jewish,” she said. “So, when we were introduced and Geraldine told me you were a Russian princess and I said ‘mazel tov’, you knew what it meant?” “Certainly. Your ‘chorosho’ was a bit harder to decipher. Your Russian pronunciation needs improving.” When I introduced her to my mother, it would be easier than I thought. The End ~ 💘 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Mar 11, 2020 5:09:05 GMT -6
I liked this story and its happy ending  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Mar 11, 2020 14:42:10 GMT -6
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See you all more tomorrow. Happy Friday/weekend everyone 
See you all more tomorrow. Happy Friday/weekend everyone