On Loving

What happens when you keep uttering the same word? One moment, it has a meaning. The next moment, it stops being a word.

Familiarity is the flourishing ground for intimacy. You repeat a word over and over so that you can describe its curves and contours, its light and luster. Rolling it inside your mouth smooths its jutting edges. Running your tongue playfully over it changes its tone. Mixing it up with other words makes it sway to strange rhythms. Wrapped in the warmth of your spit, it tries to germinate.

And, snap!

Familiarity is the flourishing ground for morbidity.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Rajan

Aparna is a research scholar and an aspiring writer, currently living in Mumbai, India.

Fuel For Thought

I miss him already.

Longing for his accommodation from my customary position on his lap. His immediate response to desires communicated with a caress of my foot.

This will be our last intimacy for some time. The intercooler died. The journey to the garage is an uncomfortable affair. Accelerating by exhaling, barely contacting the pedal. Still plunging the road behind into an apocalyptic black cloud of unburnt diesel.

Miles per gallon reading’s down to yards. Glares from other road users threaten to ignite the fuel trail.

“Go green!” They yell.

Jersey is green. Spruce Green. Says so on his logbook.

From Guest Contributor Frances Tate

Staking A Claim

It started with his touch and before that the way he looked at me; clear blue eyes that knew how to take me in, how to see through my quiet, my fear. We explored city streets that summer, always attached, love-linked. A goodnight kiss turned couch tumble—hungry hands searching, lips and teeth crashing, his weight pinning me down. And then that surprise on the back of my neck: sweat, tears so sweet. Surrender, yes, maybe even love; but later, and better, trust and understanding, an intimacy that allowed regrets to be shared, my darkness to escape, a homestead staked.

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb

Holiday is currently enrolled in the MFA Program in Writing at Lindenwood University, Saint Louis, MO. If all goes as planned, she will graduate in December 2016.

Illusions

Barbara fiddled with the hem of her shirt. Untucked, disheveled, fraying at the edges, the shirt reflected Barbara's state of mind.

"You need to make a decision, dear."

Barbara stared at her mother, so neat and handsome. In some ways, the woman was a complete stranger. Inheriting someone's genetic code, what did that really matter? Proximity and shared experience did not imply intimacy. Barbara felt so alone.

"We'll just let you stay here a while longer. I'm glad that's settled."

Barbara smiled as her mother departed. She knew she'd never be allowed any freedom, not while her mother yet lives.