Traveler

Curiosity turned into passion. A passion to explore the unknown.

Time. Space. Alternate history. I visited them all.

And my memories unfolded...

Worlds I explored.Arrakis. Gethen. Narnia.

Characters I observed.Zaphod Beeblebrox. Severian.Winston Smith.

Wonders I experienced.Clocks that struck thirteen.Monoliths that searched minds ofape-like men.Farm animals that spoke of revolution.

Gods of worlds that I was privileged to.Wolfe. Asimov. Lewis. Clarke.

But you wondered about how I made the impossible possible.

Inventor of faster-than-light travel?Navigator of black holes?Man familiar with alien technology?

I responded with three simple words.

"No. I read."

From Guest Contributor John Lane

Her Greatest Love Affair

On her death bed, Jennifer's thoughts don't dwell on her husband, despite several decades of marriage and two children together.

It's Mateo she remembers instead. Jennifer was only meant to spend three days in Barcelona, but she switched out her ticket and let her friends travel on to Italy without her.

She remembers Mateo's laugh, and the way he mispronounced her name in the cutest way. She remembers the passion when they made love in his flat beneath the open window.

It was only two weeks, but that was enough time to know Mateo was the love of her life.

Flower Girl

Springtime breeds passion. It is the riotous pheromones.

A vision wanders down the garden path in a sundress that waves in the breeze like the surrounding petals. Swaying, they dance together. Her radiant smile and obvious love for the flirting blossoms is what originally caught my attention. She gently sprinkles water.

One of her solar smiles would make my life soar. She doesn't notice me among all this teeming beauty. Nonetheless, in love-struck desire, I sit taller as she approaches. Surely, if she can adore flowers so fully, I can cherish her as much. If only I wasn't a cactus.

From Guest Contributor Bill Diamond

Love Letters

They sit in the bottom of a shoebox in a dusty corner of an attic on an unremarkable street in a neighborhood that could be located almost anywhere. Love letters. Old, forgotten love letters. They were written over thirty years ago by two people who barely exist anymore, only one of whom lives in this particular house. He doesn’t remember they’re there, of course, and she, wherever she is, doesn’t remember writing them. She has moved on, married someone else, had kids, just like he did. But the letters remain, fading reminders of a forgotten passion neither one feels anymore.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Final Act

Scott stared at the blank screen and pondered how to begin his obituary. Prone to bouts of depression, solitude, and introspection, Scott Beeker lived a quiet life filled with anger, passion, and, most importantly, love. Yes, that sounded nice, he thought. During the final years of his life he traveled the country in search of romance and adventure. He found both one night last May in the basement of a restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. There was so much to tell, wasn’t there? So many stories that were more interesting than he’d first thought. If only there was more time.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Grief Group

“It’s only been eleven months,” said the other woman afterwards.

“This’ll probably surprise you.”

“You’re attracted to one of the guys in our group?”

“Ha! No, what I miss most is the comfortable, predictable ways Ben and I had. But real love? It disappeared years ago.”

“Real love? You don’t know how lucky you were!”

“Yeah. Part of me likes being on my own again. Still...”

“So you’ll go for the passion next time?”

“Next time? My libido’s semi-retired. So I think it’d be more like us both coming home from work, and just drinking wine together at day’s end.”From Guest Contributor Gerald Kamens

English Ivy

Flamboyant scarlet blossoms arched twisting, winding heirloom English ivy. An

unexpected downpour ignored by the water-soaked guests. Whitewashed mason jars

splashed crimson pallets of rustic rural splendor. The music began, he stood nervously

waiting, looking down at his rented black shoes. She grasped her father's arm. Fervent

desire charged fiery passion. Sugary words melted sultry shadows. Fireflies and fairy

dust lit moonless nights. Silence invited the darkness. Substance replaced by distance;

whiskey preferred to a kiss. Emotions frost bit in autumn's showy splendor she'd climb

grasping, experiencing struggle with the fortitude of English ivy. She knew he watched

her sleep.

From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld

Her Date

She didn’t let anger precipitate her tears. Not yet. She was intent on finding the man of her passion. Approach him head-on. Strike him repeatedly with fiery bolts as thunderclouds rolled in her eyes.

Stiletto heels clicked her steps up the runway to where he lived. She rang the doorbell. Waited.

How could he forget a special day or ignore it?

She noticed the door ajar. Pushed it. Entered a dark apartment.

“Surprise,” voices screamed in unison. Lights went on.

Her beau poked his head into view from the other side of the door.

“Happy birthday, honey,” he managed sheepishly.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories.