Rhaya got on with the program a week later. The lanky exercise lady's book never returned to its place in the shelf, she kept it close by, on her nightstand. Now she had all the tools needed to keep herself in check, using the book as reference material. An extreme urge pressed on her to do it flawlessly, with total

Chapter 4 from ¿Who Will Help Sonia? Rhaya began her mission to eliminate the potbelly. A new impulse drove her away from daydreaming about her next-door neighbour, the beautiful boy with honey coloured hair and large hands. A fresh drive towards research had emerged. She'd find a strategy to loose the pot belly nuisance. Her parents library was sure to

He's hellish haven That won't stay still And I know damn well Not one to balance. His lunacy The sane one Discerns the complexities While the other side retorts in haste Laconic disregard of our bond. Soon, Rudeness spills from his sly grimace In the hopes I won't be able to tell If he hides Or if it's just those

He's still here but Is he still willing? More so than me Because he's my crab. His scorpio rises Riding a bull Pliers hurt But his outer shell Glistens. The creature is all about staying It persists Grabs Claims Instinct devotional and He prays to me drunk. But for what? No! I bid him to stop And then again He's

Who are they? And where from? Old lovers, friends, sons, fathers, brothers Those who helped, guided, worried, cared Same ones who left, changed me for, walked away from, grew to hate My lost men. Who are they? Jitters arise for their attention I long for their excitement Mourning when they find another better Satisfied when they laugh it out Inevitably

There is a presence, an item, and it lives, without need for oxygen. But it's not him, even if my mind's eye insists. I made him up in the length of decades. After many words ensued, he inhabited my head, full of himself. He became a rant, annoying as a jump scare, never listened. But today I let him go,

You're so classic, almost baroque. Must be those strands, it's been a while since you let them be; coarse between my fingers, opulent mahogany curl, streaked with silver anguish, and the burnt butter of your skin. Yes, I know what the harshness of grey skies did to our mane. You're such a moth ball now, although I still like you

Time deals differently now. I ask to the invisible ¿have I been dislodged, dug out of somewhere, a matured stone turned crystal? ¿Or was something dug out from me? ¿Is it possible to go backward, find the place where I was brighter, before solidity? Maybe even further back, to the ancestors, in the deepest forests, when conversations happened all at

February skies my hearth, wind whispers my name transparent, knowledgable of its nature. I was raised in this winter quadrant, the Sun to the horizon, and they said it's in detriment but I'm not bothered. My name runs through and is lost, but will find other hearths on its unpredictable voyage. Because I randomize, that is my fort, gusts out

I guess you were meant to iron me out, after times of intense ambition,  climbing cliffs, goat's hoofs embedded in solid rock. Games for climbers, persevere up the steep and, I suspect, maybe I got lost in it, and this round has to be the last of that. You must spend all of me, empty my pockets. Imagine our tie

¿Did I just realize truth while caught in the motion, amid the rat race, the traffic jam? Did he just pull up his mask and smile? ¿Did light flood the cabin while I stared, at the dented tail of the car in front of us, and what always has been just took a deep breath, and then exhaled relaxed? ¿Did

A bit empty, Vacant, Unreachable as clouds. Detached, At the edge of boredom, Unimaginative, Disengaged, The blurred background, A minimalist painting, My canvas almost bare, And all could be. That a bird might traverse my crystalized space, A plane might soar into the deepest blue, Caressing the mist, That wings might spread, New things could appear.

These strange riches given, Stand crumbling on the sullen street of times past. Grandma's house with its ceiling planks bent, A violent crack runs wild, the length of the dining room, Shut doors, melded to frames, Of childhoods past, stories kept, Flooded memories. But Scheherezade still waits inside Arabian Nights, Bound in real leather, tightly fit in the carved Italian

Chapter 3 from ¿Who Will Help Sonia? Rhaya never forgot anything of what came after that particular morning, but it was clearly part of the past. Something she had gone through and seen to the very end. But now with her niece Sonia emotions stirred. A shake of the old vinaigrette which had been sitting in her mental fridge for

After much hassle, trying with a VPN to no avail (hello VPN newbie) my sought-after Amazon movie remained unavailable in my region. So, I resorted to YouTube, not really my fave. This old laptop can't umph the volume enough for the platform.  Resigned, I followed Emily's example and set up camp as a recluse, in my room, while the rest

He sits with a purpose, Stays without strain, Concise as a butterfly, A star self guided.   Perspires soil, but his heart might bring rain, Trickling down, Streaming along clefts.   He practices the main performance, Won't strive for more than this, Repetition his prayer, Renders sweet.   And I do believe, His life might be a river, an intricately

Chapter 2 from ¿Who Will Help Sonia? There is no such thing as a homemaker who is only that. A mother to three young ladies in their teens, Rhaya knew better than to conceive such bland thoughts about motherhood, even if the now older millennials insisted on asking what she did for a living, if she had a LinkedIn profile,

Chapter 1 of the novelette ¿Who Will Help Sonia?  I met Rhaya in the institutional green delivery room. I'm not complaining, it was a very decent hospital in the seventies. I was supposed to be there upon arrival when that baby's body was finally forced out into the dry, temperature controlled atmosphere. I didn’t know what to expect, this being my

We don't know who he is. Some days, a misunderstood prophet, come back from the last days of his trials, when the townspeople wouldn't listen. Others, an artist taken over by a passion, meaning to write up in a frenzy, unable to stop himself, in some quest against time. ¿Will he reveal the secrets commended? His violin bold drama. Soon

The first time, I was gifted a smooth, white quartz. A milky crystal to hold and cherish for protection. That's what my mother-in-law, Marge, urged me to do. "It's already blessed," she said, "on my last trip, I stood inside the circle of the round temple and held it high to the sun. The shaman assured me it is charged

We still notice them, sometimes, but soon forget their presence. These days they swish more impetuously, in front of speeding vehicles, barely making it, overconfident. They stare down at us, perched on a myriad cables overhanging our city's space. Curious groups overseeing our bustle, the haste of our misunderstood time.   Poised on roofs or in the hollows of a

Not much is needed, besides good food, select music, and the same unruly road. The 2016 SUV still delivers, though we should at least promise to change her front tires. Soon. Fortunately, our Oxford gray ride is trustworthy, even if she croaks over the dimpled streets of this overgrown city. This morning, your avocado toast soothes with the aroma of sprouted wheat,

In this room of light diffused Planks beaten by plies and tendus No leeway is given for pretense In space consecrated. Hands reach for the barre Religiously No piece of attire to cover misalignment Any lack in the labors of time. Soon, toe shoes rub in the rosin And left are minuscule splinters Shimmering in the grain. Breath keeps sheltered In

A quaint, soft cover book had been sitting around at home for years, in one moms Mexican rustic bookcases. Back in my twenties, she bought me a batch of English classics to read up. She saw me consume the dainty hardcovers from her Jane Austen collection. Bronte's Jane Eyre found me a new heroine in mom's pocket paperback. The yellowish

That hope springs eternal It has been said Sarcasm or bliss But what if hope be the mesh? Sifting, Dread of sharp gravel Impoverished thought disgraced Pictures torn and mended Voiced disarray Chimes hardened to rust No message conveyed. And if hope be the finest Might she be formed by air Flickers of matter Mysterious substance Prowess of light? That

Today Marianne's jeans fit tight. Reflected on the bedroom mirror Her rounded face announces A waxing moon Her swollen figure rising waters Plump transmutation of phases Compels time for curves Unapologetic Aphrodite above Smiles like cotton candy Remembering the soft babble Of Marianne's natal baby talk A young brook in her throat When Taurus in the horizon Oceans will wash

His hands should feel like home Familiar as fresh morning coffee Otherwise I couldn't even imagine Steaming cups terrenal Espresso lust and mocha, Dribbling down the corners of our lips. And if our grounds were too alien I'd lose my way to such skin Because when a calm moons linger silent In his stoic eyes constricted His old beam permeates

I've pondered lately, looking out this lighthouse, the one we never considered stopping at. Your childhood boat cannot get close enough, it seems lost amongst the peaks of heaving challenge, dipping in a yes, swaying in a no. Yet, the beacon keeps doing the rounds, shedding light over the restless ocean of epochs. And we're still here, trying to moor.

I need Grace from the universe Miracles Strength under my feet Electric breath pushing upward. A new gift from the whole of it A token A pass Gateway to abundance Incoming tide on my barren bank. River of heaven I look up and plead from under Drench my porous faith Where broken stone invaded naive pebbles. Nourish me Ripple in

My song spirit of past days delivers appropriate comment. Thoughts trigger melodies ongoing in the city airs, uploaded into particles invisible, that he knows well how to catch. Quick, he throws in the right phrase. Masterful in the art of capturing exact moments, almost a machine, he recovers musings leftover from sleep, memories believed to be forgotten, old coats hung

Four generations and then came you To close the gap between Our all encompassing tug of war Womanly passions and duties strung along Over the decades. Our many missions to stay worthy Thrown into the blender of time, But you might be able to snap open the corset Holding us in stunted breath, Waiting. Let us inhale then Little passions

She discovered his animal demon after marriage. A shadow in their ocean cave, an obscure figure pumping bubbles out his gills. The beast drew up powers from the deep, where cobalt blue went true black.  Her own demons came forth unannounced, after the hookup. His' waited beneath for years, not needing oxygen to survive. When a baby, happiness was his

Lately roots awaken from slumber Memories dispersed, Whispers past Silent picture of her in a blue dress Running the fields like a promise. In autumn leaves lives matter Of this present consistency of body, And in the spring it still floats in seedlings, like her spirit. Along the old park quiet rocks lay Remembering her fields, Special loves I did

She needed proof from the outside, it wasn’t enough that her limbs ground and trembled from imposed rigor, her cramming in the exercise. “No more gorging, giving into cravings, no more nonsense,” ordered the familiar voice. It sounded so reasonable in her mind, that she could stop that silliness immediately. She had forgotten, again, the wide stare of the prejudiced

She said things just happen without any sense of an underlying plan, that life is an unfair trial, in the end. I just listened. But she was fascinated nonetheless by destructive patterns. There was comfort in the old familiar going back and forth, just to be sure that the scales couldn’t possibly stay level. It consumed her in the cool