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