Green Elixir

The dark restaurant swirls with colored lights, rainbows sliding by, striped rain across his face. Lime brightness catches his eyes, their jade milkiness lit by a fire within. Magic's tendrils pull at the air, and when his fingers brush hers she pretends not to notice, only half-heartedly rebuking her gaze as it tries to glance sidelong at him.
He is endearingly rumpled tonight, having pulled a now-discarded dress shirt over his hunter-green T in an attempt to fit in with the more formal dinner party. Another emerald flash and she notices he is leaning closer, offering her his bottled green elixir. She acquiesces to the color that has now become her poison, laughingly drinking to her demise.
His fingers grasp hers and she follows him to the dance floor, Latin music beating through the concrete and into her bones as she lazily sways to the melody, losing herself. Her skin is flushed with more than the heat from the bodies packed around them and she suddenly breaks free of the cocoa arms loosely circling her waist. She breathes deep, gathering her thoughts. This isn't her, and yet, it feels right, as if it should be, as if it is. She closes her eyes against the hot pulse pounding in her throat and when she opens them again he is in front of her, waiting to make her his prisoner.
She breathlessly accepts.

They are in his car and he fiddles with the radio, almost nervously, she thinks, and this calms her.
It feels so taboo, he and she, soft vanilla cream and dark, heavy, delicious mocha. She feels almost smothered by the palpable chemistry in the tiny cabin of the vehicle; instinct tells her to escape. Danger edges the breeze sighing through the windows and like prey she senses his predatory vibe.
She must leave. She must resist. Her hand is on the door handle but his hand is on her neck, forcing her eyes to his...and then she is under his spell, captive Duchess to the rebel Lord and God help her, she relishes the fire on her skin.
They lean in...

"Wait," he whispers. He holds her there, the summer air like a symphony of electric sparks, heat and colors and the cold shiver of impending regret. Heat melts ice, though, as his lips find hers. He is passionate and demanding, his full mouth like a drug. He knows what she wants without knowing her at all and in the midst of her scattered thoughts she marvels at the irony.
But he is dark earth and she the white moon, and in reality she knows they exist in two opposite worlds, two different planes.
She feels a prick of sadness, but for what she doesn't know. Scaling Mount Everest seems less formidable than a pursuit of happiness with this green-eyed Wizard. She sighs her goodbye, ignoring the slight protest of her heart.
But magic left its mark.

She still tingles at the memory.

The Twilight Conundrum

Don't get me wrong. I'd love for Edward Cullen to "Bite Me." To clarify, this is the book Edward, not Rob Vomit-son. However, I have some qualms with this new film adaptation...

That body, those teeth, that face, so hideously wrong. Her inflection-less drone is like nails on a chalkboard, her eyes dead rather than fierce with consuming love for Edward. The palpable chemistry which should send tremors of envy and desire through the veins of onlookers instead falls laboriously flat.
Rosalie definitely just ended a contract with Baywatch, Jake needs to visit Cinderella Wigs for a more believable 'do, and Jasper? Well, he would definitely be more into Alice if she were a man.
Need I mention that ALL of them should be signed up for acting classes?
As was befitting my prediction, this movie has evoked the fandom of thousands of screaming tweens, most of whom have never read "See Spot Run", much less the 400 page dream-turned-Vamp-series novel. "This will provoke teens to read more," I've heard it said. And ok, so perhaps after they watch Hollywood's raping of the story they go out and buy all four books, devouring them in week - if they never read a book in their lives again, to what avail was it all?
Personally, I am getting sick of the obsession. At this point it's all I can do to avoid seeing Vomitson's face plastered EVERYWHERE, on every magazing, in every airport bookstore, trailers and tv spots - even my damn Facebook is littered with ads sporting his failed attempt at "brooding." At first glance I often confuse it for a constipation medication advert.
Thanks to Youtube I met another malady in this monster of a movie - ha, alliteration and puns make writing so much fun. I wanted to weep at Bella's Lullaby. And NOT in awe.
Ok, so Yiruma's "River Flows In You" isn't exactly an original composition made for Twilight; however, it truly sounds that way. It speaks without words - the music has a voice all its own. The feelings evoked in the melody are quite magnificent and almost indescribable. Hmm, let's see, did they try to use such a similarly moving melody in the movie? NO. Ha, Bella's Lullaby sounds like a bad circus soundtrack, high tinkling keys and harsh undertones, like a musical interpretation of the scowl Edward reserves for Jacob. It makes Bella's near-narcoleptic reaction to it a joke.
I have seen Forks with my own eyes, stayed at the Forks motel, posed in front of the highschool. I've eaten in the two restaurants in town and made friends with a member of the Quileute tribe, the "Leader of the Pack" as she described herself. I gasped at the view as I came around the bend in La Push, and collected sand from First Beach. The white birch is exactly as Meyers described it. I have scars from the thorns that we pushed through in our search for the famous meadow; I'm still thanking God we didn't get irrevocably lost in the thick wood.
No, I haven't seen the movie. Honestly, I don't care if I ever do. I'm boycotting it, in fact. As my friend Ashton wisely advised, "It's a rental."
Still, no one can accuse me of not being a true fan. I'm just OVER IT.

Congrats, Hollywood. Without garlic, crosses, or Holy Water, you have successfully slain this Vampire Saga.

Flicker

She knew.
She has always known.
She has tried to fight the reality of her doomed future since her fifteenth birthday when, like a flash, it all became clear.

She forgot, though, when his eyes met hers that day on the train from London to Paris. Laughter twinkled at her from across the aisle as she peered at him over the top of her novel. She wanted to dismiss the thought that his sapphire gaze was meant for her, but he never stopped staring. Funny, she'd sworn off men, especially those men who smiled at her this way, trying to communicate with no words. She'd declared them all fops, incapable of sending one intelligent thought into her head.
She was good at reading minds.
She thought about telling him off, furrowing her brow, or shooting him daggers with her eyes in an attempt to discourage his probing glance.
But she didn't want to.
Something had set the butterflies in her stomach free from the cage where she held them captive all these years. She dropped her gaze to the printed page for the fourth time, desperate to speak to him, fearing for her heart if she did.
And then, for one moment, a fur-coated woman stepped between their gazes; she felt a tremor of panic in her chest at the loss. As his visage disappeared from view, she vowed from that moment to never lose sight of him again. And so she was decided.
She belonged to him.

A sidewalk cafe on the Rue de Jean-Marie served as their first date. With any other man sitting across from her at the quaint table for two she might have winced at the cliche of it all, but with him she could believe they were the first star-crossed lovers in Paris.
He was so original.
He asked what her favorite drink was and ordered it himself, impressing her with his adventurous spirit. The sun shone off his Hershey curls, and when he threw back his head to laugh at her off-hand quip, her heart did a double take.
Their conversation might have been scripted, so seamlessly did it flow, their mingled laughter sprinkled throughout, spicy chemistry weaving its way around them to create a sumptuous recipe.
Daylight drifted away as they spent the summer evening by the Seine, and when at last the great disc slipped past the horizon, his divine mouth found hers with a sigh. It was a perfect fit, lips clinging together, their bodies hungry for more.
At the door to her hotel he laced his exquisite fingers through hers, his free hand under her chin as he directed her green eyes to his.
"Love is the thing, you know."
She laughed a tear into the warm palm cupping her cheek. Her happiness was uncontainable. They had finally found each other.
And now...

She turns from the black-curtained window, whispering to the moon to give her strength. Her fingers trail the mahogany edge of the wooden bed, its darkness like silk sorrow beneath her skin; she peers down, steeling herself against the onslaught of daggers which wait to shred her heart yet again.
His expressive face lies still, the lips which once laughed delight and ravished her under midnight's moon are frozen in death. She only touched a dead body once, years ago, at her great grandmother's funeral. She shudders at the memory. She knows how cold he will feel under her fingers, like glassy marble, souless and full of ice. No, she will cling to the memory of his warm embrace, the heat of wild nights, the fire of life which radiated from his azure eyes.
The candle-light catches the band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. He was hers for an entire year. It wasn't nearly enough.
And yet, she had always known.

She feels a warm hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, Nicole," she whispers to her best friend as the tears finally spill. She silently sobs into Nicole's embrace, the sorrow buckling her knees. She sinks onto the black leather couch, anger searing through her at the monstrous color. She wipes her eyes.
"I never had a right to love him so hard. No one is allowed to be that happy. The universe saw an imbalance. And the universe had its way."
Her voice is flat, as dead as the body in that cold coffin.
"And I knew!" she cries, louder. Her voices fades again to a whisper. "This was my biggest fear realized. To wait for the One. To find the One. To - lose - the One in the space of a heartbeat. I tried, I truly tried to resist the love that overcame me like a tidal wave when I caught his glance."
She stops, staring at the hardwood floor.
"But I couldn't help it."

Her friend speaks.
"Perhaps you are right, Ali. Perhaps there are always limits to our blessings. But maybe, just maybe, God was giving you a rare gift that only a few humans are privileged to receive. What if this man was a glimpse of your heaven? Hold that thought captive like fireflies on summer nights, let it glow within you and warm the frozen confines of your soul."

She blinks back impending tears as Nicole's words sink in. She knows her friend speaks truth. And she knows that he would agree with her friend. She rests her head on Nicole's lime-green shoulder.
"Thanks for not wearing black."
Nicole chuckles sadly.
"Are you kidding me? You'd lecture me and his ghost would surely find a way to haunt me. Besides, black was never suited to either of you. I've a feeling you've both got a rainbow of an aura."

Ali smiles as she feels the tiniest of flames begin to flicker in her soul.

Luck O'the Irish

Dork: according to the Webster-Miriam Dictionary, it means, in part, one who is a social misfit, or indulging in ridiculous antics.
If this be so, I am most certainly a dork.
Case in point – I attended a concert this weekend for Celtic Thunder, a collection of five gorgeous Irish men who can sing to melt the hardest of hearts. Josh Groban still is and forever will remain my number one Homeboy, but let it be said these men with incredibly sexy brogues run a close second.
Ashley and I were able to snag two of the only ten tickets left at the box office two hours before the show. We had a bit of time to kill, so - as always - we had to explore, pretending we had the guts to break through security, even if we didn’t actually do it. We found the forbidden backstage entrance and posted ourselves as inconspicuously as possible, casting furtive glances at the lone security guard. Could we take him down? I’d certainly love to spend an hour alone with Keith Harkin on his incredible tour bus. I’m sure I could eliminate any “performance anxiety” the beautiful lad might have had. >:-)
Suddenly we heard a commotion behind us and turned to see a flock of middle-aged women walking towards us, laden with gifts and coffee, Celtic Thunder paraphernalia galore adorning their clothes. Now, let me clarify for you non-dorks out there who wouldn’t know Celtic Thunder from Celtic Dragons. These men are barely men – in fact, the youngest is just fourteen! My glorious Keith has – thank goodness – crossed the legality barrier at nineteen, and Paul and Ryan, the “good” and “bad” boys of the group have recently traversed the thirty threshold. The only member who qualified in age for these homely groupies was George, coming in at the ripe old age of mid-forties. However, was his bald head the one plastered on their chests, hats and scarves? Nope, it was, sadly, the young pups…ones young enough to be their children.
I tried to be friendly and strike up a conversation but was quickly put off by her terse replies. I decided to glean what info on potential sightings of my future husband I could by eavesdropping, disguising my nosiness by “talking” to Ashley. A man nearby asked us if it was our first time to see the group in concert. I proceeded to tell him yes, and that we had first seen Celtic Thunder on a PBS Special one Saturday night as we sat home alone and wished we had hot dates – by the way, that last part I only said in my head. *Keith can’t know how desperate I am.* I was rudely interrupted by the Mother-Of-Celtic-Thunder’s-Children wannabe who said she’d seen them last month in Indiana, and three weeks ago in Virginia, and the week after that in New York. Last week brought her to South Carolina, and finally, she was stalking – er, I mean supporting – them in Atlanta. Ashley and I widened our eyes in disbelief at the same moment, completely dumbfounded and slightly disturbed at this woman’s behavior.
“I bring them a gift every time,” her voice floated over to me. I couldn’t hold it in any longer…I had to walk away as suppressed laughter came sputtering from my lips at this poor woman’s creepy obsession.
I mean. SERIOUSLY.
We made our way inside and as we waited for the doors to open, I spotted an older man sporting a skunk-striped mullet, his Iron Man t-shirt visible beneath his faded denim jacket. Hey dude, this is CELTIC Con - Comic Con was last week. Sorry.
Finally, we took our seats to wait out the next few minutes before show time. I had left my baby – my beautiful Nikon D80 camera – in the car, afraid of its confiscation and a potential bereavement period for me. I realized, though, that there were no bag checks here at the Civic Center, much unlike the near strip-searches performed at the Fox Theatre down the road. Pictures during the show were a possibility! Could I go out of the theatre once I’d already come in? And then I got an idea. Ashley held down the fort while I searched for the cutest male usher I could find. Ah, there he was, by the front doors, tall, dark, and handsome. I hurried up to him, a worried expression gracing my visage.
“Please, sir? Are we allowed out once we’ve come in? I’ve um…I left something that I really, really need in the car.”
“Oh, uh, you need it?”
I nodded profusely. I think he got my drift. Nothing like alluding to female problems to get a guy off your back – pun intended.
“Just come find me at this door when you come back.”
I assured him I would. Getting to the car, I buried the camera deep in my bag, just in case someone decided to amend the rules when I got back. I found my friend and he let me in. Just to ensure the ruse was infallible, I asked almost frantically, “Is there a bathroom close by?” As he pointed the way, I smiled to myself as I darted from his view and back into the theatre to take my seat.
Safe!

We soaked up the next hour an a half with vigor, screaming at the top of our lungs as we begged for an encore. They placated us with a gleeful indulgence of kilts - when Paul and Ryan showed off their hairy gams and shook those tight tushes, well, it's a wonder Ashley didn't have to scrape me of the floor of the building.
After the concert was - sadly - at an end, we hurried to the back stage entrance once again, determined to get an autograph or at least a decent picture. My endeavors to capture snapshots inside the building had been a disappointment due to a lack of good lighting.
The security guard informed us, though, that he had just been told there would be no autographs or pictures tonight - the group had to get a move on to the next city.

Although we didn't get an upclose encounter, the concert was well worth the money spent...even if we DID feel like we attended the concert with nursing home tenants. Lol

Candid Glory

Diamond moonlight highlights the contours of his face; the luminescent glow touches his sculpted cheek bones, the reflection flung into his chartreuse-green eyes. The edges of his sensual mouth turn down, thoughts playing across his features, his emotions so alive they almost burn in the air.
His averts his intense stare to the navy ceiling of stars above.
At last, she is free to turn a shameless gaze upon his countenance, basking in his quiet beauty.
The raven blackness of his hair glistens iridescent in the moonlight; her eyes widen in wonder as colors leap out at her, magical hues of purple and blue-green. She notices faint lines reminiscent of a difficult life marking his smooth forehead, the pure alabaster gleam of his skin untainted by blemishes. In worshipful admiration she breathes silently, catching sight of his eyes, certainly his crowning glory. The pearl of the midnight moon appears in the black sea of his pupil, and stormy green waves wrap round in perfect symmetry. Honey-swept lashes lie against his skin, their tips curled to a natural perfection any woman would surely envy.
The sloping angle of his long nose gives him a dignified air, coming to a point above his impeccable mouth. Oh, his mouth. She casts a longing glance upon his lips, sensual and voluptuous, tinted flawless pink as if by an artist's brush. Firecrackers sparkle through her veins at vivid memories unconsciously summoned.

And then she knows.
INSPIRATION.
With a desire she almost cannot contain she aches to capture his essence, forever holding his beauty as a tangible photograph of memory. This is deserving of her creative soul, this man and this fleeting second in time and she stifles a cry of glee in her throat, afraid to speak for surely she shall shatter the dream of the moment.

It shall never be more than here and now and she realizes that...and yet, she is infinitely happy.
She will find someone to make her soul live.

Daybreak

*Note* To those interested in knowing if this blog is based on real life - NO! One can only dream! Lol...no, actually, I wrote this while in training for my newest job during my leave from AirTran. I was BORED out of my mind while sitting in front of a computer for eight hours straight, so our frenzied, passionate lovers were my only solace.
You can't really blame me. ;-)


Lazy fingers on sun-washed skin, the rays of January day-star warm the white room, wrapping the newlyweds in saffron. Crystal prisms dance on the wall, their diamond glow cast off the silver ring adorning her left hand as she marvels at the strange and thrilling weight of it. Bright eyes blink open; a sheepish grin spreads across features in lieu of last night's memory. She recalls the blaze of flames which burn but do not scar as they seared through her veins during the bliss of midnight's escapade.
A small sigh escapes her lips, our maiden unaware that her knight lies listening to her soft breath as he revels in the silky touch of her fingertips on his golden-bathed back. Ocean wave beats on white sands, the hum of serenity floating through the window as the breeze makes love to feather-light curtains.
She inhales the salt-spray air, the aroma of his mingling scent arousing her body and reaching to the darkest edges of her soul. The beauty of recent hours shattered her world of disbelief that such paradise could exist outside of heaven.
A flash of cerulean and she catches his gaze as he casts a worshipful glance upon her delicate features; she ducks her head in self-conscious awareness, the desire to likewise regard him so unabashedly surprising her with its strength. Her chestnut lake of voluminous tresses entices his beautiful hands, their form so exquisite they might have been sculpted by Michaelangelo himself.
Puffs of vanilla clouds surround the lovers like a cocoon, the warmth of the blankets a perfect accompaniment to the cool morning wind sighing through the open window.
They speak with their eyes, azure sky and clover sea meet on a perfect horizon, clear and pristine, free of dark clouds which cast shadows of doubt.
Strawberry lips on creamy neck elicit an involuntary gasp. Lithe as a tiger he sweeps her light frame beneath the delicious weight of his, sinking with her into the snowy jungle of pillows, as together they acquiesce into the quicksands of desire, reliving the fantasies of midnight at dawn.

Inspiration Negotiation

I rarely take a photograph unless something inspires me. It must be something about the place, the moment or people I am with, or perhaps it’s a memory I feel with inherent passion must be marked forever as a snapshot, capturing the essence of the pervading emotion at that second, be it awe, happiness, sorrow, whimsy, or even anger.
I always took my camera on our trips together - my beautiful, expensive camera which boasts pristine shots with the ability to be life-size if I so choose. The thing I have lately come to realize, though, is that I never took any pictures of us together, or even him alone for that matter. One photo remains as evidence that he and I ever existed, but I have my friend and HER camera to thank for that, - not mine. The only picture I ever took was of the sunrise in Florida early one morning mere hours after our first kiss.
But sadly, even then, he didn’t inspire me.
He never did.
I see their pictures together and the snapshots of their memories and I am strangely thankful that I have no such images with him. Maybe deep down I never found him a deserving subject for my magnificent lens to behold. Perhaps subconsciously I knew it was a short-lived adventure, and not one I would relish as I reminisced.
As always, the heart and soul speak in ways we sometimes don’t recognize until it’s far too late.
His presence never inspired my pen, either; ironically it was his absence which provoked my muse and brought forth lavish words on his behalf. While I have written numerous accounts based on certain notorious character, I never wrote anything for him as a way of expressing the depth of my feelings. He accidentally happened upon the one entry I wrote while we were together; much to my chagrin he neither comprehended nor appreciated it, choosing instead to mock my earnest admission of happiness.
I realize now that subconsciously my art is an intimate part of my soul and if a man does not arouse the artist in my spirit, then I shall know that he is nor ever will be the One for me.
I do not easily or quickly wish away a person or circumstance from my life - rather I chalk it up to experience and acknowledge that it creates who I become.
Still, I know with bone-deep certainty that if I was given the choice to return to April 19th, 2008 and do things differently, I wouldn’t consider it even for a millisecond.

I’d just ask for a Time Machine.

Ice

The shiver which coated my spine will long remain in my memory, even after the ink fades and the edges of the paper begin to wrinkle and turn to dust.
I never expected such a look, so full of malice and ill will that my soul didn't at first register the unmistakable ice of hatred.
Strangely I find myself longing for the hot sort of hatred, the one filled with passion - for at least in that kind of anger there is a feeling behind it, a soul which still pervades the surrounding air.
Alas, in this tomb of slick coldness I feel nothing, no sliver of the soul to which I once felt so connected. It has frozen to death in the icy tundra, leaving no remnant of who I once knew.
The weight of the knowledge that no good deed goes unpunished crushes my spirit and pricks my heart as if with a dull pin, causing me to cry out with a beseeching plea...will someone put back his spirit and eradicate my heart of pain.
I never meant to hurt him so. It was not a plan of vengeance or an act of rage which motivated my actions. On the contrary, it was borne out of deep pity, a compassion which ached to curl lovingly around a lost soul and point the way out of the darkness and to the light.
Instead, the warm fingers of love and mercy were displaced, somehow morphed into icicles of misunderstanding and unbridled anger - those very daggers the ones he bore into me with his gaze that night.
There is no mistaking his feelings towards me now.. It has haunted me again and again, black eyes searing through the hazy window, a spiderweb of frost snaking across the distorted glass.
My life could resume, my spirit breathe once more if only he would say, "I do not hate you."
Something tells me not to hope. Thank goodness my coffin is comfortable.


"Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice."
- Robert Frost

A Heartfelt Plea

Julian,

Go on, laugh if you want to. Yes, I’m writing you a letter, a means of communication at which I know you scoff. However, there have been some things heavy on my mind lately and I cannot toil onward without letting you know the concerns which incessantly plague me. This is not an attempt to lure you back, or rekindle any sort of relationship. I just thought you should know what’s on my mind.
The reason behind my choice to end my friendship completely with you has nothing to do with who you are or are not dating, although I know you think my coldness stems from pure jealousy. On the contrary, I have pity for her because if she knew what I have come to realize, she would do well to stop dating you.
I cannot trust you, Julian. Therein lies the epitome of our demise. You always asked me why I didn’t trust you, reiterating the question, “Why would I lie to you?” My question is why WOULDN’T you? Honestly, I ask that, without a hint of irony. You know for a fact all the yarns you spun, the tall tales you relayed as I listened wide-eyed, the rotten lies slipping over your tongue like silk.
It is quite disparaging, the voracity with which you lie. You are a liar, Julian. There is no other way to put it. You may think your little “stories” are funny, and you may pride yourself on your slick ability to mislead even the most unbelieving individual into falling for your lies, but the truth of the matter is that they are not witty, amusing, or a talent upon which to expound – they are a dangerous trade which should be avoided at all costs.
Haven’t you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? I rue the day when you will have need of help and no one will come to your aid for fear of being made the fool once more. Lying your way through life will only hurt you in the end, inevitably leaving you alone, with no friends, nothing but your hazy memories, doubting your own mind, not even knowing whether to believe yourself.
I’m not sure why it finally clicked that I was making a HUGE mistake by allowing someone I cannot trust to remain in my life in such an intimate way. I guess it was the day you supposedly got “sick” and stood me up when we were to meet for lunch. The next Tuesday you came to my house, fooled around with me, and said, “If that doesn’t prove to you that I’ve not been with anyone else, I don’t know what will.” I KNEW in my heart you were sleeping with her, even then, and I knew somehow deep down that you were lying to my face. The realization struck me with such a crippling blow to know that I’d given you SO MUCH of me and received so little – if anything – of you in return. I couldn’t fathom how you could so blatantly lie to my face and then claim you still believed honesty was the best policy.
As hindsight is 20/20, it didn’t take long for all the red flags, all the gut screams I’d ignored throughout our relationship to come flooding back, leaving me to wallow in my incredible stupidity, to trust where I knew in my heart trust should never have been placed.
I don’t understand what causes someone to make up their entire life – perhaps you feel the truth isn’t “exciting” or “cool” enough. You have said countless times that you don’t care what people think of you, but we both know that is the exact opposite of reality. You care tremendously what people think. Well, here’s what I think.
You are WASTING your life, Julian. I’m tired of standing by and not saying anything for fear of offending you. I have nothing to lose as I did before. I see how smart you can be when you talk about mechanics and cars and such and I think, “Wow, if only he had the AMBITION to be more than he is, he would really make something of himself.” But no, you decide to be a FOOL and make stupid decisions to indulge in black habits which you know deep down are killing you, no matter how you try to justify your actions. I am angry with you for endangering the lives of innocent people every time you deign to be selfish and drive while under the influence. Have you no care for those who you may potentially scar with the tragedy of early death?
You said you cared about me, that you never wanted anything bad to chance upon my path, but even THAT is hard for me to believe now. I will never slander your name and say you ever did anything to make me feel uncomfortable – as far as sex goes – and you never forced me to do anything I wasn’t ready for. That alone proves to me that somewhere underneath your bad-ass-wannabe exterior, you have a good side. I think that perhaps you enjoy escaping the responsibilities of life too much, though, to let that good part of you take over and create a new man, even though you have said with your own mouth that you WANT to change.
You’re afraid of losing friends you think you have if you were to give up your life of addiction and temporary pleasure. You know what, Julian? They are NOT your friends. They only want you around because misery loves company, but if you were to ever want to change, they would cast you out because where there is darkness there cannot also be light.
A true friend tells you when you fuck up and that is precisely what I am doing. I KNOW that I care for you a thousand times more, that my heart bleeds in ways theirs never would when I think of the irrevocable harm you may one day incite upon yourself. Until you decide you’re a strong enough person to be DIFFERENT, and stay confident in that nonconformity, you will never prosper.
You disrespected me countless times, but most of all was when you would come into MY home and do your thing, not even caring that it tore me apart, even when you knew it did. The drug and alcohol usage I tried to ignore, trying to explain my reservations away, wanting to please you at the expense of my own soul’s happiness. I’m not blaming you for the choices I made, but I was deeply saddened that you made me HAVE to choose between losing you or losing myself.
What about our trips to the beach? Did you so loathe my company that you had to get wasted, trashed, or tipsy just to endure me? Or did you miss your marijuana high with such intensity that you had to be cajoled with another mind-altering drug? How do you think that made me feel? I will never understand how you could blame ME for our arguments when all you had to do was refrain from getting drunk for one damn day. It wasn’t that you couldn’t understand my point of view – it’s that you didn’t WANT to.
How DARE you get angry with me for being “smarter” than you. I’ll never forget that night you indulged in a drunken diatribe, telling me how STUPID I made you feel just by being who I am. That was one of the most hurtful conversations we ever had – I never, ever endeavored to wound your spirit the way you wounded mine that night. It was all because you were being an insecure asshole and decided to take it out on me, even though your unhappiness and anger was against your own heart.
I know it freaked you out that I am like your mother, too. I’m sure you subconsciously thought I would make you feel the way she did. It hurt me that you so railed against me becoming a “part of the family” as if I were a monster to be loathed and reviled. If nothing else it would have given me a new friend in your mom, with or without you.
I’m not asking for a response. I won’t say I’m sorry, or that I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, or that I hope I wasn’t too harsh. Honestly, I WANT this letter to dig deep, to thrust a barbed thorn in your side that you cannot ignore. I am angry that I allowed myself to be lured into your web of deceit so effortlessly, giving into things I LOATHE to the bottom of my soul just because of a pretty face. I thought perhaps you were right, that I wasn’t “open-minded” enough, that I was missing out on some grand adventure of life. But the way I see it, it’s YOU who are missing out.
You admitted it yourself, saying, “Twenty-two was a great year – but I don’t remember much of it.” I pity you. For what is a life without a treasury of vivid memories? They are part of what shapes us into the people we shall one day be at the end of a long life.
I believe in people and I want to believe in you. I KNOW that you can become a better man and go to school and expound upon the talents and mind God has blessed you with. You can get your act together and grow up, you just have to buckle down and DO IT. I will be honest and say that I have tried to hate you so that this whole thing would be easier. But the thing is, I care too much about you and your well being too much to allow hot hatred to rule in your place in my heart.
I love you, Julian, I do, and that is why I am telling you all these things you need to hear with nothing to deaden the pain of the truth. Even after all my hard words know this – I love you and I want the best for you, maybe more than anyone you have ever known, although you may deem me haughty for such a claim.
I wish I could say I’ll be there if you need me, but I think that our time is at an end. There is a reason I said yes to you, a moral behind our chance meeting. I may not know the full answer for years, if ever, but I feel confident that our interlude was not in vain.
I wish you the best, Julian, my dear “Romeo,” and I have faith that one day you will become the man I know is knocking on the wall of your heart, waiting to be brought to full fruition.

Seriously, her life should be a soap opera

It was over; she knew it and embraced it and could feel the joy bubbling up from her very soul that she was So. Through. With. Him.
Still, like at the end of all relationships, there was leftover baggage to be dealt with – in this case literally. She had no reason to hold on to his shirt although a good friend had suggested she burn it while laughing maniacally and chanting a death hex. She nixed the Hocus Pocus scene early on.
No, she would be civil and see him face to face one last time. She wanted it, anyway, that thing called “closure” that so many women claim to need after the demise of any relationship. Well, at least meeting him at the airport this way she would be forced to employ the KISS method – Keep It Short and Sweet.
And so, she called him. He agreed to meet her on the jetbridge minutes before her flight was to depart. His voice was syrupy sweet when he gently intoned, “Yeah, I really wanna see you.” She bit her tongue against a sharp remark, merely saying, see you soon, as she hung up.
She waited anxiously, her hands shaking and her pulse pounding in her throat. She hadn’t seen him since his plethora of lies she had been unknowingly wallowing in became frighteningly apparent and she had cut him off cold turkey a week ago. And then, there he was, his face freshly shaven for which she allowed herself a moment’s lust. No more. He pulled her into a hug and lowered his nose to her neck, softly inhaling her skin.
“You smell good,” he murmured.
“Yeah, and you smell like sweat and fuel,” she quickly dissed him. She hoped he hadn’t seen the flush rise on her neck when he purposely leaned in to tease her. Damn her hormones!
“Sorry,” he said, looking pained at her flippant reaction. “So, what did you bring me?”
He sifted through the contents of the bag trying to joke with her as she stoically stood by.
“So, when are we hanging out?” he said with a slight grin.
“We’re not.”
His face fell.
“Why not?”
She balked at his audacity. Oh, I don’t know, she wanted to scream at him, maybe just the fact that I have NO idea who are you because you have lied to me for the past three months about everything, including the fact that you’ve been sleeping with a girl who you swore was a mere friend. If it weren’t for a good friend who let me in on your deception with a warning to RUN far away, I may still be believing your bullshit!
Instead, she merely looked him dead in the eye and said, "You know why."
He kept her gaze a moment more before conceding.
"I know," he said quietly, as his gaze moved to stare at his shuffling feet.
"Well, but we can still be friends, right?" he queried hopefully, lifting his woeful eyes to hers.
She smiled inside, so proud of her strength - a week earlier and that puppy dog act might have leashed her, no pun intended.
"No...no, we can't."
He studied her one last time. "Give me a call sometime, okay?"
She almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"Nope," she said sweetly, lifting her hand into a wave as she turned her back on him and didn't once glance over her shoulder as she reboarded the plane to California.

Soon she came to find out that quite a different version of what happened was being perpetuated to many a soul. Wong called, the same friend who had warned her of Julian's compulsive lying in the first place, to tell her he'd heard something interesting.
When Julian had returned to the break room at work sporting the bag she'd returned his junk in, Wong questioned its contents.
"Ah, Ali was just giving me my stuff back...man, I just had to tell her to stop calling me and shit. I told her I was banging Ambretta now, so she just needs to move on. I said she could give me a call sometime but if she does I'm just gonna ignore her. She just needs to get over me."
As Wong related this treacherous account, Ali could hardly breathe.
"H-he said that? But it isn't true!" she sputtered, hurriedly telling Wong what really happened.
"I know, Ali, because I know you and I know him and I knew the entire time that it was just another of his lies. See, it's amazing the stuff he makes up."
She hung up the phone and stared blankly at the wall wondering if there were any cure for a disease such as his. She couldn't fathom his behavior. Of course she had lied in her lifetime but never to the extent of creating bogus stories which even the most gullible find hard to believe.

Later in the night she was gathering her things to switch from one plane to another in Atlanta before she finished her day with a flight to New York. Since finding out he had been with another flight attendant she'd had a sinking feeling that she would see them together in the airport...she just didn't bet on it being so soon. As she walked across the floor to the adjacent gate where she would be awaiting the arrival of her flight, she glimpsed the back of someone's head, a set of familiar raven locks, eerily similar to the first day she'd ever seen him. She turned her gaze more fully toward where he sat facing away from her, her eyes widening as she saw it was indeed him. With HER.
She felt hot and cold at the same time, the edges of her vision tunneling so that she had to grab the handle of her suitcase to steady herself. She turned around to block them from her sight, clutching her stomach as she mentally studied her options.
1) Charge at them both in Mel Gibson "Braveheart" fashion, declaring them traitors to love and demanding their heads in reparation.
2) The death hex she'd earlier decided against seemed a good idea at the moment, but unfortunately she'd left her spell book at home
3) She DID have connections to higher places in the company and dirt on both parties so why not just have both their jobs this very moment?

But no, she couldn't stand there pretending she could do anything but go over there, it was her gate and her crew and dammit, she would NOT run away. She was the stronger woman, the better person here and she would not stoop to his level. Lifting her chin and clenching her jaw against the molten anger that raced through her blood, and walked past where they sat, passing right in front of them both, vaguely registering through the haze of her emotions that they were basically canoodling, right there, in uniform, in front of countless passengers.
Brazen hussy. Pathetically, she expected as much from him.
She watched in guilty pleasure as his jaw hit the floor upon seeing her.
"Hi Julian!" she waved.
"Uh hey! Uh, what- what are you doing here?"
Hmmm...flight attendant, suitcase, planes, airport. She felt like saying, "Oh, I'm preparing for the synchronized swimming competition at the Olympics."
Ugh, he was such an incompetent fink.
"My flight leaves from this gate." DUH.
And she kept walking. Afterwards she realized she'd never even made eye contact with Ambretta. As she sat far away from the soap opera right in front her eyes, she reached with shaking hands to call her friend. She noticed with a sigh that he was doing his best to turn completely in his seat so that his back was to her and conveniently blocking her view of Ambretta and vice versa.

Two days later she finally had to send him the "it's over, we aren't friends anymore" cliche text because he was determined to have his cake and eat it too by sweet "texting" his way back in. She would have none of it and stonily ignored his embellished adjectives, knowing that she couldn't really believe anything he ever said, then and now.
Well, at least it was over. The drama couldn't get much worse. Oh, of course there was a possibility that this girl might fly on a trip with her, but she reasoned the chances were slim with over 2,000 flight attendants in the company.
Still, one chance in a million is still a chance.
She isn't quite sure how she will react if she is unlucky enough to win such a lottery...but she can be sure it will create quite a magnificent story.
And like any decent writer, that gives her a smug satisfaction.
;-)

A Rose By Any Other Name

"So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title."

The End is nigh.
Ah, once upon a time I referred to him as Romeo...now, however, I realize that such a name could never be applied to one such as he, for Romeo at least lived and died for True Love.
Nay, I would now deem him a Casanova who was, of course, a libertine usurped by venereal disease.
Not that I'm implying anything. ;-)

Five Yards Equals A First Down...Right?

Yes, I honestly used to believe that it was an accumulation of five yards on that green turf that equaled a first down. Of course, that was a few months after I actually understood what a "down" WAS. I'm not sure how the daughter of a head football coach manages to be so unaware of seemingly simple rules. Perhaps it stems from the day when I was six years old and caught in the middle of an eighth-grade boys' basketball scrimmage. Needless to say I had a knot on the top of my head where the orange ball almost twice my size pummeled me when the game got a little rougher than I expected. Ever since that incident I've been a little standoffish to things concerning balls. Take that how you will.
Below I've related a few funny stories about my "blond moments," I suppose, concerning my least favorite subject next to math - sports.

Nothing makes a girl hunt for a conversation starter more than a hunky boy. Such was my dilemma several years ago when I attended my first professional sporting event. The Braves were playing at Turner Field in the ATL, and I went with my church youth group. I arrived at the church and quickly scanned the group for my current crush - SCORE! Those baby blues sparkled in the sunlight as he flashed a grin at me; every girl can relate to my ecstatic joy when I was placed in a carpool with him and his hot friend - AND I got to sit in the middle!
So, game. I believe the Braves played the Padres. In my defense I had NO IDEA about baseball - even less than football, which was already next to nothing. The only thing I remember about baseball in highschool was Tony Bellew in those TIGHT pants and Katie explaining that the net was there to catch stray balls. I didn't believe her, however, until the first foul ball would have given me a concussion had the net been absent.
But here I am, getting off track. I used my small knowledge of baseball combined with a mean flirty blink and sheepish grin to keep my crush chatting with me the entire game. He was a photographer and I also feigned being able to get a good shot so he would offer to help me; he did, and I'm pretty sure I framed the picture he took...of the baseball field. Towards the end of the game I had to pee so badly my bladder was threatening to kill my family and burn down my house should I wait any longer. I just knew if I got up my seat next to him would be unavailable when I returned. Alas, it was, but thankfully it was near the end of the game. The Braves beat the Padres but of the exact score I am less sure. Like I said, my attention was - not surprisingly - spent elsewhere.

Seat 1C. Cute? Yes. His tow-colored mop curled impishly about his ears, highlighting his hazel eyes and warm mouth. He grinned at me, his teeth dazzling – I’ll give him that. His pink shirt was pitted with holes which resembled a mouse in his laundry, and his khaki shorts were faded but comfortable looking. Still, nothing to write home about. But, you ask, aren’t I doing just that? Ah, yes, but you see, this story is a bit more interesting than just another pretty face.
I officially met my first “famous” person.
He asked for a Diet Coke…something about a British accent gets me every time. Owners of such an accent could call me a warty, frog-faced dog and somehow it would still sound endearing. But, I digress.
Through a course of events, he made his way to the galley to ask for a refill to top off his drink. He stayed to chat, intrigued, I’m sure, by my enthralling beauty. Okay, wake up, Meredith. In reality, he wanted to know about our job, how exciting it was, which entitled us to ask about his. He meandered around the question, prolonging our conversation and inevitably making me fall more in love with his adorable accent. Finally, we got the answer we were searching for, “I’m actually going to Boston for work…I’m in the PGA.”
Now, before I go any further, let me apologize in advance to any golf fans. I do not – nor ever will – take an interest in or watch the sport for leisure. My next comment was a serious lapse of common sense which caused me to greatly question my powers of observation. I understand this.
“So,” I asked. “You’re good at golf?”
Sara, my friend who was flying the trip with me, looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just insulted George W. Bush by asking who he was.
“Meredith,” she said, with a tone of YOU IDIOT, “he’s in the PGA.”
I think I started looking for a hole somewhere that I could crawl into. Sheepishly, I apologized for my obviously stupid comment, but he only grinned at me and said, “Yeah, you might say I’ve got a talent for hitting balls.”
He proceeded to tell us about his life as a golf star; all the while, I still had no idea who this man was. When he got to the story about renting an entire race track in Paris for him and his friends to race their race cars, I kind of got the idea that maybe he made a lot of money.
“What’s your favorite city?” he asked me.
“Seattle,” I answered in the next second. “But I couldn’t afford to live there right now. Maybe one day.”
“But why not? Just get you a sugar-daddy and you could have it all. Let’s see…you could be with Bill Gates!” He suggested emphatically.
My face must have produced his next answer – “Oh my god, could you imagine, shaggin’ Bill Gates?”
At which, of course, we all burst into embarrassed laughter.
At one point, he returned to his seat to retrieve a paper – I hurriedly checked the manifest to see his name, making a note to Google him later.
Ian Poulter. According to his website stats, he is ranked twenty-seven in the world, making close to $10,000,000 this year alone. He is also the famous wearer of the “crazy outfits,” according to our pilots who later found out he’d been on our flight. Indeed he did own quite a few outrageous pairs of pants - from ones sporting the American Flag to Fleur de Lis, even snakeskin and Celtic plaid paraded throughout his eccentric wardrobe.
At the time Mr. Poulter was telling us of his plan to launch a new line of golf-wear for fellow players. I met him about a year ago, and according to his website, in April of this year he launched his line world wide in seventeen countries and his designs are being worn by young golf stars everywhere. Not that I'm an advert for him at all, lol.
It was quite the experience.

Seattle, Washington – a place near and dear to my heart. As I sat in the gate area waiting to board the flight I was to take with my best friend, we both gasped and spotted tall, dark, and handsome at ten o’clock. Ironically that was the time of day as well. As my friend and I were standby, we unfortunately sat on pins and needles through the two hour delay, not even sure we would make it to Seattle that night.
Sighing with relief when the gate agent finally called our names, I boarded the plane and made my way to the last row of seats. Getting ready to sigh inwardly as I realized I was – of course – trapped in the middle, my sigh turned into an, “Oh…” as I saw the handsome stranger in the seat next to me. Flashing him one my biggest grins, I settled into the once-loathed middle seat with a smile of satisfaction. Well, as the saying goes, when God closes a door, he always gives you a piece of hot-ass man candy to drool over. Or something like that.
Casually I made conversation whilst staring into his velvet browns.
“Yes, I live in Seattle.”
I was almost certain I heard him ask me to marry him and move there, too, but you know how loud the plane engines are, so I could be wrong. Still further research landed me in the middle of a foreign playing field – sports. Pun intended. “Yeah, I actually play for the Seattle Seahawks.”
Seahawks, seahawks…Is that a bird? I’d never heard of it before. I recall my mother once mentioning there was no such thing. What was worse, I had NO idea what sport this team belonged to.
I realized I was probably staring at him dumbly, so I smiled and nodded, “Wow, that’s so cool!”
But like Little George Washington, I cannot tell a lie, and so I piped up a moment later.
“I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but what sport do you play?”
Twisting my face into what I hoped appeared to be remorse at so indelicately wounding his pride, I was relieved to see him smile back assuredly and say, “It’s okay, the Seahawks are actually a football team.” He seemed to enjoy the fact that someone wouldn’t be plaguing him for stats the entire five hour flight.
I noticed he’d brought along a DVD, The 13th Warrior, starring the notable Antonio Banderas. I recalled the day during senior year in Mrs. Harper’s joke of an English class when the famous substitute, Mrs. Brown, was surreptitiously duped into believing that our teacher actually left Monty Python and the Holy Grail as our movie assignment as opposed to a film concerning our current literature piece, Beowulf - enter The 13th Warrior, which I never chanced to see.
Smiling inwardly I mentioned that it was a good movie – in hopes, of course, that I would be invited to watch it with him on his DVD player. One heartbeat later he queried, “You wanna join me?” as he held up an extra set of headphones.
Did I ever!
When the film ended I could only hope he wouldn’t judge me by my apparent lack of taste in movies. The 13th Warrior was one of the most corny, horribly-acted, lame-scripted movies I’d seen in a very long time. And he actually thought I LIKED the movie! That was probably worse than him finding out I fibbed about having seen it..
As the story obviously goes, Mr. Seahawk didn’t ask for my hand in marriage or offer to sail a thousand seas for a token of my love, but I mustn’t give up hope.
Note to self: destroy all copies of The 13th Warrior to save thousands of girls potential embarrassment.

The Murder of Doing the Right Thing

About three months ago I met a boy, one whose full name shall remain a mystery. I was on a plane awaiting boarding, parked at gate C12. I stood in the cockpit swapping jokes with the first officer when through the windows I spied a mop of curly, jet-black locks on the ramp below the aircraft. Having always been a sucker for such a head of hair, I hurried to the open R1 door to see if this creature had any potential loveliness of features. As he raised his head to see the foolish girl leaning dangerously out of the open door with nothing but hard concrete twelve feet below, I fell with no handhold into his golden autumn eyes. Metaphorically, of course. Grinning at me, his brown eyes twinkling, he joked, “You’d better not fall out of that plane!” I smiled coyly at him, raising an eyebrow as mock seriousness edged my tone, “If I do then you’ll just have to catch me.”
Thus a conversation ensued about where we lived and upon discovering that we inhabited the vicinity near one another I proposed that we hang out. He concurred and as I found myself writing my name and number on a scrap of paper, I realized that I knew not his name. I wondered what possessed me to embark on such an adventure, but quickly shrugged it off in the name of Carpe Diem. Kneeling to hand the paper with my contact information to him through the door, I asked his name.
“Dave?” I questioned, not hearing him well the first time.
“No, Daniel,” he said, more loudly. I liked his name. A lot.
Later that night as I was in my hotel room in West Palm Beach, Florida, I told another of my flight attendant friends about my mystery boy. Anna, as it turned out, had already met him and quickly deduced from his conversation that he was quite a partier, which information she turned over to me to do with as I so chose.

What I SHOULD have done with it and what I DID do with it may have changed my life forever in a myriad of ways.
So here I am three months later and feeling the inevitable distance between us slowly beginning. So much has happened that I don’t know if I could remember all of it were I to try, but suffice it to say that he is just like EVERY OTHER GUY I’ve ever had a crush on, the typical saga of “bad boy” and “good girl”, although at this point I’m not so sure I can call myself that anymore.
While I’ve maintained a technical “virginity” of body, my mind has been fucked to no end and my soul penetrated in a thousand ways I never thought possible. He is such a bad influence, and while I’ve not necessarily embarked upon recreational activities such as getting wasted or high, I’ve been privy to many a session with him and his friends and the entire time I’ve felt wretched in my heart because it’s not me. I feel that I’ve compromised a part of who I am and I can blame none but myself. I thought that maybe since I’d never experience certain things before that I just didn’t know what I was “missing”, as the cliché rings. But I can’t really say that I DID miss anything. Mindless nights that are so often forgotten by the over-indulgence of black habits are not exactly something I wish to cherish for all time.

It’s a tragedy to admit but it must be done all the same for one must see the reality of a situation before reaching a resolution…I have begun to become the girl I have always sworn against morphing into. That girl who slowly begins to doubt her self worth and allows things she never before would have pandered to because she feels that perhaps SHE is the one who needs a lesson in life. The complacency with which I accepted each blow to the person I am and standards I uphold astounded me, even as I watched the placid lake that was my world turn into a crashing ocean storm, the person I have striven to become slowly being obliterated as I helplessly stood by.
Thankfully I have not yet reached the break down, but should I continue to swirl in this vortex of a relationship I will remain nothing but a shattered vestige of the person I once was.

Am I in love with him? I think not. Certainly I care for him and would never wish any harm to befall him. Still, with the life he leads I can’t help but think a catastrophic demise awaits my broken hero.
Oh of course he can be quite the gentleman, his caring words and thoughtful gestures blinding me momentarily, like when sunlight slices through a dark cloud and hope ensues that perhaps the sun will stay, that the brightness will not be hidden behind the gray confusion of the brooding storm.

I will miss his full lips and the perfection of his kiss, the soft way he caressed my face, the gentle chocolate brown of his eyes smiling into mine. I will cling to the memory of his warm body cradled about me, the way we fit so perfectly together achingly seared into my dreams. His resonant laugh will haunt my thoughts and the way he softened his tone and adoringly called me “Beautiful” will not quickly be forgotten. I will cherish the conversations we shared, the many mornings we eluded sleep until the birds of dawn serenaded us outside the window. My nose will never forget the lingering scent he oftentimes left on my pillow, an exhilarating mix of deep earth tinged with salty sweat reminiscent of a hard day’s work.I will smile to myself as I recall how careful he was with me, how fragile he made me seem at times, how he watched over my well being. The nights of pizza, Jack Daniels, and Mary Jane shared on a summer porch with friends will be looked back upon with mixed feelings as my spirit felt torn in times such as those, but I will never forget the laughs we shared as the full moon shone down upon us. I will always remember his hands, the beauty of their sleek, dark elegance demanding my awe every time my eyes were privileged to rest upon them, and the way his silky curls wound round my fingers as I lazily ravaged them will be a delightful memory indeed. I will soon find myself wishing again for the warmth of his skin against mine as he embraced me, burying his head in the crook of my neck, his sweet breath leaving traces of moisture. The longing for how comfortable he made me feel in my own skin will remain even after he is gone. The way I could transmit a thought into his mind and have it answered even before I spoke a word will forever amaze me; I know I must find someone with which I experience that connection if I am to be truly happy. I will miss his frustrating insecurities, the ones he didn’t even know he had, the ones that caused so much of our discord, yet things that I could never tell him – they are those things one must discover of their own accord lest the chance to revolutionize their life may be missed, oftentimes in denial of what an objective view point might mean to their current lifestyle should it be a correct assertion.

I do not want to do this thing I must do. I wish to continue a relationship with him, to have intimacy with someone as I have sustained with him, to feel that connection and bond that we have had over the past two months for a while longer.

But as I said from the beginning of this entry, we are growing apart. He is not satisfied to be with only me at this point in his life and well, so be it. Life is full of dissenting opinions and there is really no reason to stay where one is not fully wanted. I am giving him his freedom but I am also freeing myself, my spirit, and my heart to go back to what they know and believe, although my experiences with this man will never be forgotten.

And though I’m not sure I can say I’ve been changed for the better, because I knew him, I have been changed for good.

"Por la luz de la luna"

An autobiographical tale of my recent life. =)
Yes, be jealous all.


They walked along the white sands at dusk, watching the orange glow of the sun fade in the distance, the twilight grey settling like a goose down cloak around the two. She ran squealing into the icy waves, taunting him all the while for refusing to join her.
"You're such a baby!" she laughed. "It isn't THAT cold!"
She ran towards where he stood on the water's edge, playfully splashing waves in his direction. Grabbing her hand he pulled her into the warmth of his chest and she inhaled deeply, taking in his musky scent. He smelled like deep forests, of fresh pine and dark earth. She so loved breathing him in.
They walked a little further along the wet sands, feeling the slight chill of the wind as the last bit of sun slipped from the horizon and out of sight, on to bring day to the other half of the world. He sat on a nearby bank of sand, pulling her down beside him as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She swung her legs over his, cuddling closer to the warmth of his body.
The pair sat in silence for a time and then began pointing out constellations, laughingly arguing over which stars formed the big and little dippers. The moon was nowhere in sight, but as her eyes scanned the inky black horizon, she gasped and pointed.
"There..."
He turned to see what so took her breath away and murmured a word of awe.
A perfect circle of hot pink hung low in the sky, the edge of the midnight waters cutting the sphere in half. They watched the moon slowly rise as if pulled by an unseen hand, higher and higher over the ocean until the fiery orange light glinted off the dark Atlantic.
She felt him nuzzling her neck, his dark hands softly caressing her bare legs, and sighed in contentment. He kissed her chin, turning her face to his with his finger. She felt the sweet warmth of his breath on her cheek, feeling the sea-dampened air around them lit as if with an electric current.
And then, oh then, he kissed her.
It was a maddening flurry of frenzied kisses, the built up tension of an entire month released in an instant. She splayed her hand on the back of his warm neck, his silky black curls tickling her fingertips. His strong fingers tightly grasped her leg, his other hand finding solace in pulling her closer to him.
His full lips enveloped hers perfectly, the taste of chocolate mint lingered on his tongue. Flames licked at her veins and that delicious burning fire she had longed for settled low in her belly.
All too quickly the kiss ended, and they pulled away, breathless, staring into each other's eyes. Their faces were inches apart, smiles touching their ravished lips.

It couldn't have been a more perfect first kiss...well, except for maybe a soundtrack. =)

Fun...a small word for such a large meaning.

So here's the thing.

When I tell a person - mostly people who are in my age group - that I don't drink alcohol, I get the inevitable question..."Well, then, what do you do for fun?"

I find question to be very...ignorant. I feel that when that query is posed, the person is assuming that a) that's the ONLY way to have fun or b) they have a very limited view on a good time.

The following is a list of things that I love doing instead of getting wasted. Granted, I've been around people who were drunk before and yes, I had a few laughs. Still it isn't for me. I enjoy other things instead...By the way, this list still doesn't begin to touch everything I like doing.

I like...
Laughter...crazy, loud, insane, uncontrollable laughter,walks in the park, getting on airplanes and going to NYC for the day to catch a Broadway show...passion iced tea lemonade from Starbucks and sinking down with a good book on their comfy leather couches.

I love renting foreign films from Blockbuster and Netflix, writing new blogs based on the neverending drama of my life, and shooting photographs with/of my friends. I really like going to the movies and watching thrillers, lol, and maybe even sappy romances, but I'm up for "guy" movies, too. Afterwards I love sitting at the Waffle House until 3 am making jokes with the waitress, drinking sweet tea and eating cheese grits.

Writing frees my spirit and bridles untamed feelings wish ache to run rampant when I know I shouldn't let them.

Oh, I also love seeing HORRIBLY made films and making fun of them so much that my sides hurt from laughing. Texting and talking on the phone for hours makes me happy, and sharing inside jokes with friends is definitely on my list of faves. I make up nicknames for almost everyone I meet and refer to them as that in private - or to their face if I think they can handle it, lol. I love shopping - what girl doesn't -and clearance sales are the bomb.

Flying is my passion and I love seeing new airports of all sorts.

I'm into literature and poetry, Edna St. Vincent Millay being my hero.

I love history and have a vivid imagination when I'm in a place rich with old stories. I lilke to imagine I'm part of that place in centuries past, lol.

I like to drive late at night with the windows down in the summer time - I go nowhere, really, I just like the stars and silky wind against my skin.

I am crazy about gelato and I love Tiramisu dessert. It's fun to play in fountains and make wishes on pennies.

I love musicals and singing along with them at the top of my lungs, wishing I were the one on stage. If I had time I'd love to act in plays.

I also love sad music, songs that get you more down when you're down, but in a good way. I really like rock, too.

I love experiencing cultures different from my own and becoming friends with people who can teach me things. I especially love the richness of the Indian culture and...I kind of have a thing for Indian boys, lol.

I love the bitter sweet taste of black coffee with Splenda and dipping warm chocolate chip cookies in the dark brew.

Although heights make me dizzy, I love the dangerous feeling of standing on that precipice. Heights are breathtaking.

I like rainy nights on tin roofs, the patter of the drops lulling me into sleep...searching through tins of old photographs and listening with shining eyes as I hear the story of the young lovers in the picture brings joy to my heart.

I have a liking for all things polka dot.

I enjoy laughing heartily at my cat as she spastically runs through the house, the clip clap of her claws on the hardwood floor audible down the hallway.When I hear a train in the distance I stop for a moment and make a wish - I imagine that I'm a nurse in the Revolution, off to bring the boys safely home.

I love rising before the sun on a day when you're free to traverse the country on a long road trip with friends, blaring music the entire way and taking countless looney photographs.

Trips to the thrift store can be quite an adventure - many an interesting trinket have I purchased; I love telling people where I bought it.

The smell of freshly cut grass takes me back to a time when I was young and perused my pop's rose garden as he rode the mower over his expansive yard...I wish there were a way to bottle that scent.

I love to agonize over my pale skin only to realize that in the end it is what makes me unique.

Picnics by isolated streams and rivers are one of a kind dates, especially when they are by the light of the moon. I love to dip my bare feet in the aching coldness of bubbling brooks.

Fishing is fun, although I sort of despise using live bait.

I love to rearrange my furniture when I am bored with it, this being once every two or three months. I am obsessed with Amazon.com and searching their endless list of used books which I buy for almost nothing...I love getting those packages in the mail and look forward to them earnestly.

Flying kites on a windy hill in March assures giggles galore.

Lighthouses make me happy.

Sometimes I like to cry for no reason at all other than that I feel somewhat relieved after I do.

Concerts are a blast as well as musicals and plays.

I love to dream of my Prince Charming, wherever the hell he may be, lol.

Level-headed arguments are fun and almost always lead to very interesting conversations.

I love posing for photographs. Trying new foods is up there on my list of cool things and I will try almost anything - unless it has bugs in it.

Sometimes I like to sit down to the piano and plunk out a tune I used to know in days gone past.

Old towns are fun to explore, those "cities within a city" that one hardly knows to look for. Many a delightful restaurant or eclectic music joint have a I found on such adventures.

I like speaking in a fake British accent to people who don't know me.

I love hot chocolate with marshmallow cream on cool October nights, sitting by a campfire and breathing the wood-smoked air. Freshly fallen snow makes my spirit feel clean and I love seeing my breath on a cold day.

I stare at pictures of foreign places and imagine I am standing there snapping the photograph, telling myself I only have to be patient and that dream will at long last come true.

I have a thing for quotes.I am quite the sarcastic girl at times and love throwing strangers off with a comment they least expect. Especially when I am in uniform. =)

I enjoy volunteering at soup kitchens and the like.

Renaissance Festivals are so much fun to dress up and attend.

My favorite board games are Monopoly and Clue. Nothing like the old days when games were actually tangible.

When it rains in the summer and the sky is free of lightening, I stand it in and let myself be soaked to the skin.

I love lingering in my down comforter on a lazy Saturday morning and pillow fights are always a sure way to make me laugh.

I make wishes on stars - whether they have fallen or not.

Kisses - long, slow, sensual, hot, bite-filled kisses are the biggest weakness I believe I possess. Not to mention they are WAY fun, lol.

I ache to embrace the world and all that God has placed in it with an open heart and mind. I am stretched taut with a feverish desire to dive into the Freedom of my Future. I want to explore the lives of others in such a way that a piece of that individual's heart is attached to my spirit for all eternity. I hope that my life and my actions impact this world and turn the heads of passersby. I am a deep person...no matter what a first impression may say. I like to dig in places that no one has uncovered and have spirit-curdling conversations. Music is a part of my spirit that will never be disposed of. It is my heaven on earth. I soar to ethereal places when I allow the melodies to slip over me like satin. It restores my soul.I love to gaze into the cloudless sky to try to see heaven and God's smiling face.

And I'm always up for trying new things - skydiving, scuba diving, paintball, lasertag, - the list could go on

Nightmare City

I saw him in a place he should never have been, and in a time when I least expected to see him. Sadness poured from his eyes in unseen tears and jerked hard at my spirit. The light from the chapel's stained-glass window cast colorful prisms across his hard features, the green of his eyes still glowing with heat when he locked my gaze. I queried about his well being.

"My son died." Just like that. "He was three months old."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. I felt so responsible because I never wanted him to have a child with her. With anyone. Anyone but me. In the back of my mind, I knew I'd caused it somehow, that the law of attraction had brought down the hand of Doom on this innocent one and smote him because I wanted him gone.

Strangely, though, it was me to whom he turned for comfort. He mourned for days, he and I alone on my bed, no acts but the one of grief being fulfilled. Pure aching was met with as much comfort as I knew how to give. I held him as he cried on my shoulder, weeping with him in anger at myself and sorrow for his excrutiating loss.

When he finally returned home, I checked my bank account soon after to discover that $1200 was spent on a Dell laptop, one I knew I didn't purchase. Intuitively, I knew he'd retreated into himself and commited the lowest of low - he stole my credit card number and did it to make me angry. I went to him.

"Please," I begged him. "I'm not angry with you, but you need to tell me if you stole the money. I will give you anything you ask for, just be honest with me."

"YES!" he exploded. "I stole the money! Don't you get it?" He screamed in my face. "I'm trying to push you away! I'm doing anything I can to make you stop loving me, and yet you only love me more and forgive me more than I should ever be forgiven. Why? Why me?" he implores.

To be honest, I didn't know how to answer him. I just opened my arms and he pulled me into an endless embrace.

"Because," I whisper to him. "My heart needs you."

Haunted

I've heard stories about this place. Horror stories, in fact, of bumps in the night, air rustling past skirts where no air should whisper, a scream in the darkest of hours, voices in the adjacent room when the room was supposedly unoccupied.I was afraid to stay in The Lodge.

Although it is located near the Moline, Illinois airport, to be fair it is actually situated across the state line in Iowa. As our transportation rounded the curve, a small gasp caught in my throat at the monster of a hotel before me, reminiscent of a large German cottage against the black midnight sky. I tried to ignore the mocking jabs of the pilots in the seat behind me as they tried their best to imitate the voice of Chucky and quote the most terrifying of movies.

"It's just a hotel," I whispered to myself. "If you don't believe you won't be frightened."As I stepped foot inside the the doors, I felt immediately transported to the world of the Gothic romance novel, something akin to what an author such as Victoria Holt would pen. I expectantly waited for women in hoop skirts and men with top hats and coattails to waltz through the lobby on their way to the ball room. Paneled oak walls added to the heaviness of the room as did the dark wooden furniture and the large chandeliers which hung from the low ceiling. The front desk was complete with a filigreed hand held telephone, much like the ones pictured in Victorian era films, and the fireplace glowed with dying flames. I glanced at the front desk clerk but was greeted with more of a dead stare than a friendly grin. The classical melody of Moonlight Sonata lilted through the room, adding a movie-esque quality to it all.

I noticed my room number was on the eighth floor, but the elevator in front of me only listed four.

"Um, what does this mean?" I asked my fellow crew members, afraid they might say there were secret floors where murders happened or people died from unknown causes.

"That means," said the captain with a mischievous grin, "that you're in The Tower."Gulp.

"T-t-the Tower?"

"Yes, you take this elevator." He indicated a lone elevator which went all the way to the tenth floor. I was alone on the floor, bereft of my crew and left to the wiles of whatever might choose to follow me up to my room. "No, don't think like that!" I chided myself on the elevator ride. As the doors opened, I was greeted with an oil painting of a woman who appeared in dire straights, her hand reaching desperately for the cup on the table beside her large chair, a look of anguish spread across her features as if she'd been poisoned or was trying to poison herself to escape the horrors of being locked on this floor at all times, subjected to the terrors of demons! "Stop it!" I said aloud. I know how I can frighten myself at times, and this time my imagination was definitely running away with me.

My floor was eerily quiet. I almost wished for a drunken party of football fans next door as opposed to the deafening silence at this late hour. I slid the key in the lock, pushed open the door and beheld a lovely room complete with a spiral staircase that led up the "loft" area where the bed was located. The room itself wasn't as lavishly decorated at the lobby, but I was somewhat glad of that as I was already at my wits' end and didn't need to see anymore oil paintings or imagine what lurked behind dark panels. Flipping on the television, thankful for at least that reminder of modern times, I stared at it for a moment in silence before I realized that it was one of the "fireplace" channels, where I suppose one can fall asleep to the sound of a crackling fire, minus the actual blazing heat. I laughed at the absurdity of it. Finally after two hours of calming myself with a little online surfing and covering the grandiose mirrors with towels to abate my fear of seeing a ghost in the reflection, I settled down to sleep...with the lamp beside the bed on all night, of course.

My night played out uneventfully, to my delight and slight disappointment, if I'm going to be completely honest. I had hoped for a bit of an adventure, a crossing with the devil, a dance with disaster. Still, I'd not yet been to the dining room. I had a coupon for a free, hot breakfast buffet, so upon rising, I slipped downstairs and followed the long hallways to the dining area. I took in my surroundings, the crossbeams above my head coming to an upside-down V, reminding me of my favorite movie as a child, Heidi, and how it resembled her grandfather's cottage in the Swiss Alps. The stained-glass windows along the corridor had pictures embossed on the glass if one studied them closely. I came upon an open area which imitated a cobblestone walkway on an old street, complete with an open sky roof, windows to tenants rooms which looked like the shopkeepers homes above their stores, and a large, bubbling fountain right in the middle. I smiled to myself at the quaintness of this "indoor village."

The scent of gravy and biscuits wafting to my nostrils kept me moving towards the breakfast area. I was more than a bit surprised to see that I was the only soul in the large dining room besides the lone waitress. A sense of unease crept over me...it was like going to a SuperWalmart at night and seeing only one car in the parking lot. There were countless tables set with lovely china and silverware and not one living being to partake of the delicious food but myself. The waitress moved towards me and offered to bring me coffee. I smiled acceptance, noting that her voice remained at a monotone level for every question, "Regular? Sugar? Cream?"

It was a bit unsettling, but I headed for the buffet. I will say this for The Lodge - never, ever have I had such a delicious breakfast in a hotel, hot or not. My coffee was brought and I ate in silence, devouring the fresh fruit, hot bacon, lovely seasoned potatoes, and warm gravy with buttermilk biscuits.

Looking up, I jolted from my food reverie and noticed that on the seemingly mile-high wall, dead animals were watching me eat. There were at least thirty deer heads, a bison, and bulls; the adjoining wall sported antlers of varying shapes and sizes. I slowly lowered the biscuit back to my plate and took a closer look at my surroundings. On the opposite side of the room, even MORE taxidermies, complete bodies of foxes and small bears lined the shelves above the room. Again the classical music drifted into the room, almost as if on cue, and I noticed the waitress staring at me with her dead eyes. There was a shelf of old books peeking out from the loft area which was reached by steps near my table; I wondered what other dark deeds took place up those stairs. The doors to the kitchen opened and a handsome, blank-eyed boy appeared. I didn't catch his gaze, but a flash from his shirt locked my attention. It was a long silver chain accompanied by a large, dangling cross. Maybe to ward off the dead? I thought again about how amazing the food was and wondered if it wasn't a ruse to lure bait for their sacrifices! To add to my melodramatic imagination, I began noticing that as I finished my meal, more and more employees seemed to be present in the room, but never another tenant of the hotel! Maybe it was true...while no one had been "rude" to me, they certainly hadn't smiled welcoming smiles or shone any light in their eyes the way humans usually do. They appeared a bit like Vampires. I shivered.

Before I could scare myself anymore, I hurriedly finished my meal, and excused myself, hastily thanking them as I quickly exited the room. As I passed the "General Manager's Office" a man in a - no lie - black midnight suit and blood red silk shirt stepped out of the office directly behind me and began to follow me down the long hallway back to the main lobby. I could almost feel the sharpness of his teeth sinking into my neck, the warmth of my blood seeping out with my last breath until I would forever become one of...them. Perhaps it was they who were the actual ghosts of the hotel.

Of course I wasn't bitten but I am being honest when I say I was actually scared that they may happen as I ate breakfast in that room all alone.It still makes for an enchanting story...

Christmas Date Disaster

*NOTE* This entire story is 100% true, I just wrote it as if it were fiction to make it more interesting. Of course, the flight attendant - duh - is me. And yes, like I said, this really happened. Ugh.

The flight attendant was tired, her day having begun well before dawn, and still several hours of work were ahead of her before she could take a much-needed respite.Glancing into the lavatory mirror prior to boarding, she winced at her haggard appearance. Oh well, she shrugged to her reflection. No time to reapply makeup. The first passengers had already boarded.
She stepped back into her greeting position, smiling, nodding, saying her one millionth “welcome aboard” for the day. Her mind wandered elsewhere, its usual occupation far away on a handsome, lost love. Real, myth, it didn’t matter, it got her through the day…and night. She was snapped from her reverie by the sound of a jovial voice, soothing to the ears and a rush to the blood. She glanced up into a pair of utterly hypnotic blue eyes, swearing she was gazing into a portrait of an arctic landscape, so unusual were they. Winking at her, he held up an enormous poster declaring an ad for insurance and exclaimed, “Happy Birthday!”
She laughed, well aware of his next question.
“So,” he prodded flirtatiously. “I get to put your present in business class and sit up here with you, right?”
“Ha! Not so fast. Only people who don’t try to bribe their way up here get the privilege of being near me.”
“Well, aren’t you an Indian taker! You accept my gift and then give it back!” Still, he smiled and touched her arm coyly as he headed back to the main cabin. What could she do? She was an absolute sucker for dark hair and light eyes which is absolutely what this stranger was endowed with. Knowing that her business class section was far from full, she headed back to the seat of Mickey Blue Eyes and his friend.
“Sir,” she began, trying her best to feign not knowing this man. “We would like to offer you a complimentary upgrade. I see that you are active military and as a favor to those serving our country, we’d like to do this for you.” Humor glinted out of his icy gaze, but he played along quite well, gathering his things and quickly moving to business class. He and his friend quickly took advantage of the free drinks, both ordering a screwdriver. Of course the two flirted with her the entire flight, although her attentions were turned to the mesmerizing one. She stood leaning on the seat in front of Prince Charming, his easy smile and seamless conversation setting her at ease when he finally popped the question.
“So, fellow Gemini,” he asked cockily. Again, she never could resist a confident – if somewhat arrogant – attitude.“You’re gonna go out with me tonight, right?” YES! She screamed inside. The cartoon version of her was performing antics reminiscent of a ditzy cheerleader. Dear Lord! Get a hold of yourself! She admonished her Lizzie McGuire counterpart. Still, she wasn’t at all sure how to respond. After all, she knew nothing of this man except that his name was Michael Lehman, he was a twenty-seven year old denizen of Kansas City, Missouri, and worked as a traveling salesman for a wireless insurance company. And what about his gorgeous visage? How could she ever deny herself this one night of…fun?
She glanced at his friend, Quinn, for reassurance.“I’m not vouching for him!” Why our flight attendant did not heed this red flag was a question she later kicked herself for. Michael rolled his eyes at Quinn, then once again settled his lavish gaze upon his intended target.
“So?” he grinned alluringly. After much consideration, of course, two minutes later our protagonist decided to go out with Assho…I mean, Michael.
“Here,” he said, as he deplaned, handing her a blue and white card. “I know it’s cliché, but here’s my card.” She took it and reciprocated, telling him to call her in about an hour. Our “lovely” – as Michael had called her – heroine quickly changed at the hotel and fixed her tumbling hair, reapplying what makeup had rubbed off throughout her long work day. As promised, he rolled into the hotel parking lot, meeting her in the lobby with a small hug. Damn, he was bony. She never had liked guys skinnier than herself and he certainly was. Still, those eyes and pearly whites won over any issues he may have had in the weight category. Taking him to the counter in the lobby, she called the hotel clerk over.
“I just want you to see this man,” she said to the woman at the front desk. She handed the woman a card. “Here is his information, and if you don’t see me come back in here tonight, call America’s Most Wanted. He’s your guy.” Michael laughed with the hotel clerk, but he could see his date was serious. “I’m taking every precaution. It’s not a silly thing to do,” she defended herself.
“What if you end up killing me instead? Should I be worried?” She assured him she was harmless, but as she glanced again at his threadlike bulk, she couldn’t help thinking she’d probably strangle him should she sit on his chest.

The movie was bursting with gruesome scenes – which, of course, she chose on purpose. What better excuse for hiding her face in his cologne-scented shoulder? Any smart woman knows how to plan things such as these. He playfully touched her knee…and her arm, and her shoulders, and well, you get the picture. Thankfully, though, he never was inappropriate, in his speech or actions. That was what surprised her most of all. The entire night she was waiting for a monster to appear, but it never did. Michael was the perfect gentleman, paying for everything, taking charge of the evening, but in a good way, and flawlessly playing the ladies’ man by opening doors – including the car – and giving her his coat to ward off the snowy coldness.There was nothing stiff or cheesy about his manner, and for fear of being irreverent, it was almost as if little Miss Stewardess worshiped him.
Over dinner, the conversation never skipped a beat, not even when it came to the “touchy” topics. He told her his opinion as she gave hers, each respecting the other and agreeing to disagree. They laughed the night away, and as she realized how much she liked him, she told him of her Christmas day layover in his resident city.
“Wow! I’m so excited you’ll be here,” he smiled at her. “We’ll have much more time to see the city. I know, I’m going to take you downtown to see the country’s second-largest Christmas tree, we’ll ice skate, and there is an amazing restaurant which is open year-round that I’ll take you to. It’s so beautiful with the lights…you’ll love it,” he said with shining eyes. She had to pick up her jaw.
“So,” she said with a flirtatious sweep of her lashes, “You’re asking me on a second date?”
He grinned at her. “I suppose I am.”
And that was that. The rest of their evening was cut a bit short for she had to be at work quite early the next morning. He pulled up to the hotel doors and thanked her for a fun night, emphasizing that he couldn’t wait to see her again, and, like a true gentleman, refrained from making a move. He drew her into a warm hug and told her to fly safe, winking at her as she closed the passenger side door. She floated on air, of course, all the way back to room 218, barely sleeping because she was way too excited.

Our “gentleman” emailed her two or three times over the next few days, still stating he had a wonderful time and would see her again soon. Still, he never called to talk as he promised he would do, and after a week of not hearing from him, she began to get anxious. Don’t call him, don’t call him, she chided herself. It was torture. She HATED not knowing why. What had she done? The inevitable questions of self-doubt began swarming her thoughts day and night. She hated that she allowed this man she barely knew to gain such a hold over her. Finally, two weeks before her scheduled trip, she gave in. She called him. He answered on the first ring, his voice exactly as she remembered, seeming to be happy to hear from her. She told him that she knew he was busy, but that she needed a definite answer concerning their date plans. If he had family to attend to, she completely understood, but she wanted to change her trip to get paid a little extra instead of spending all day alone in a hotel room eating ice-cream, getting fat, and pining after him. Okay, so she left that last part out. Still, he assured her that his family lived elsewhere and this Christmas he was going to be alone, so they would definitely keep their date plans.He said those dreaded words. “I’ll be in touch.”

And so, our lonely, pathetic flight attendant kept her trip and arrived in Kansas City early in the morning on December 25th. She had remained true to her sex and was allowing Michael to be the hunter, to pursue her, to be in touch as she had the faith that he would. Hours passed, and still no call. She almost had to sit on her hands so that she wouldn’t dial his number.Finally she let go of her hopeless day dream and called her fellow crewmembers to see if they wanted to go to the local theater for a movie. That night they watched “Sweeny Todd” and “I Am Legend.” She stayed away from the sappy romance crap. As even the McDonald’s was closed, her Christmas dinner consisted of Bagel Bites from the local Quick Trip which she microwaved in her empty hotel room.

She never heard from Michael Lehman again.