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Written by Orchid_27 in portal Romance & Erotica

Need Someone (Excerpt)

This is exactly what I needed.

It is the start of my second week at this new hospital, and I still get lost. It’s gorgeous, expensive, and freaking humongous, but what to you expect for California? There are three main departments situated in wings. Diagnostics and women’s health together in one, oncology in another, and the largest dedicated to plastics because, once again, California. It is pretentious, but the pay is ridiculously high, and so is the patient satisfaction. Now, I’m convinced this is the job I always wanted.

I left my last job in a well-known hospice because I realized it was affecting me more than I should let it. Hospice care takes someone very special. Apparently, I was not special enough. I knew I wanted to work with people that needed the empathetic, emotional support I loved to give. What I hadn’t known was that I would miss the medicine. I needed my patients to have a chance to get better. I needed that hope back.

They have me shadowing Theresa, a 50-year-old Charge Nurse with more wisdom than she realizes, and I am loving every minute of it. The nurses and the doctors in our department call her Mother Theresa, and for good reason. She trusts me to know what I am doing, and never makes me second-guess myself when it comes to patient care, which is refreshing. She is showing me the ropes, and more often than not, is keeping me from getting lost in this sprawling mansion they call a hospital. It is filled with mostly private patient rooms and has the newest, technologically advanced surgical suites. It’s the country club of medical centers – but that came with downfalls as well.

“The people here are the most wonderful and the most annoying,” Theresa explains to me. “Most are well established, come from money, or both, which means they will look at you like you’re a servant rather than a nurse. Until they realize how much they need you.”

     

“It doesn’t bother me. Most people don’t realize they need someone until they really need someone.” That is why I do this job.

She nods her head. “That’s very true. And it goes for the doctors as well.”

We are walking to receive our newest patient. This one is young with ambiguous symptoms, and they have been talking him up as a medical mystery. Every diagnostic doctor’s pipe dream is to meet a medical mystery and solve it, but it never really happens. I still don’t understand why they want it to. Sometimes, I think they forget that patients are people.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“They put him on the gurney already.” She points towards the hall. “He’s a fall risk.”

We walk over to him and I almost trip when he looks at me. He sits up on the bed in his hospital gown. One arm covered in tattoos to the wrist, the other to his fingers. His hair is cut short on the sides and back, leaving a long patch in the middle that he combs absentmindedly with his fingers. It’s bleached blond, but looks like it grows in much darker. He looks over at us with hazel-green eyes and a pretentious, cocky gaze. The man is seriously hot.

“Mr. Zeigler,” Teresa greets him.

“Hi there,” he says with an incredibly straight, white smile.

“I’m Nurse Diaz and this is Nurse Brennan,” Theresa introduces us. “We’ll be taking care of you today.”

“Nice to meet you,” he shakes her hand then turns to me. “And especially you,” he says flirtatiously, holding his hand out to me.

I shake it, but see his bracelets. I grab the thin, woven braids with my fingers. “There is no metal in these, right?”

“No ma’am,” he says. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds suggestive. He pulls his arm away slowly, still smiling at me.

“Did the doctor have any concern with his tattoos going in the machine?”

Theresa gives me a confused look. “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t noticed either.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at your ink, Mr. Ziegler?”

He smiles. “You can take a look at whatever you’d like, Nurse Brennan.”

He holds his arms out to me, and I pull up his gown and see his sleeves stop at the shoulder. He has an eclectic mix of black ink portraits, and classics like colorful flowers, waves and koi fish. All pops of color are blue or green like his eyes, no reds or pinks. “Do you have any others?”

“I do. You want to see those too?” he asks enticingly.

“Not particularly. Can you tell me if any are red?”

He looks a bit confused. “They’re not.”

“What do you think?” Theresa asks me.

I smile at her. “I think he’ll be just fine.”

“Are you ready?” Theresa asks the patient.

“Yes! Take me for a ride.”

Theresa wheels him down the wide halls towards the elevators and I trot alongside her. I can’t get over how beautiful this place is. Each wing is painted a different family of colors. This area is shades of aqua adorned with water and ocean-related artworks.

“You know I can walk, right?” Mr. Ziegler says to Theresa.

“That’s what you said last time. Right before you passed out and almost got yourself a concussion,” Theresa scolds him. He snarls at her like a playful child. I grab his chart from the front of the bed and take a look.

His symptoms are mostly vague: loss of appetite, unexplained weight loss, body aches, low-grade fever. The only one of actual concern is the stabbing pain in the abdomen and back, and fainting spells.

They had run a battery of tests on him, too. X-rays, various blood panels, EKG, and now an MRI. “Come in for an STD screening, stay to find out you have some un-diagnosable mystery disease,” he says tongue-in-cheek. “I never thought I’d prefer to have syphilis.” I can’t help but laugh. He smiles at me accomplishedly.

“We will figure out what is wrong with you and get you on your way soon enough,” Theresa says.

“I think you want to keep me here as long as possible.” He winks at Theresa. She shakes her head at him as we reach the elevator lobby. “Must be this sexy hospital gown driving you girls crazy,” he says, stretching it out in front of his chest. I stifle my laughter.

I push the button and we wait quietly. I look back to him and smile politely, and he raises his eyebrows suggestively with a flirtatious smile. I try not to roll my eyes.

Theresa gets a page. “It’s a code. I’ll meet you up there.” She starts to run off. “Fourth floor to the right!” she yells as she hurries away. She must read minds too.

“Are you new here?” he asks.

I smile at him as the doors open. “Is it that obvious?”

I push the bed inside and press the button for our floor. He laces his fingers behind his head and lays back against his pillow, looking up at me. “So what’s your first name, Ms. Brennan? Mrs. Brennan?”

“Miss. It’s Sabine.”

Sabine,” he repeats in a growly voice. He rolls to his side and props up a knee under his blanket, looking up at me directly. “Are you Italian?”

“My grandmother was. You can thank her for the name. Yours is Neil, right?”

“Yeah. My friends call me Ziggy. You can call me Ziggy if you want.”

“Sure thing, Ziggy.” The elevator chimes and the doors open.

I take a wrong turn, and end up near the surgical hall. I resort to following the signs like a visitor, my patient laughing all the way. We finally make it to the room, and the attendant can’t be bothered from his magazine. At least I know I’m in the right place now.

“All right, I need you to transfer onto this table for me,” I pat the table.

“Do I get to take this stupid dress off?”

“And be naked?” I laugh. “No.”

“Ah, you’re missing out.”

I help him climb onto the table, though he doesn’t need me to. He is in amazing shape – slim and noticeably muscular. He’s in perfect health, it seems. I start to get excited about the idea of figuring out what is wrong with him and making him better. “Are you claustrophobic, Ziggy?”

He chuckles. “No, I’m quite fond of sticking myself into tight things.”

I groan in disgust. He laughs as he lies down. “You’re too much.”

“That’s what they all tell me,” he smiles suggestively. There was no winning with this one. I push the button to move him into the machine. He tries to hide his nerves as he moves into the tube. “How long does this take?”

“Just a few minutes. If you hold still.”

“Okay.”

I go into the room and the scan begins. I sit with the silent attendant as he slurps his coffee periodically, still engrossed in his Men’s Health magazine. When I glance at the face view, I see he looks very nervous. You think you aren’t claustrophobic until you’re in an MRI. He needs a distraction.

“Just a couple more minutes, Mr. Zeigler.”

“Cool,” he says nervously.

“What did you say you do for a living?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“That’s awesome. What kind?”

“Fashion mainly. But I do all types of portraiture. Anything with people the possibility of drama.”

He seems very passionate. “Anything I’ve seen?”

“I’ve been in GQ a handful of times. Vogue once.”

“No way.”

He laughs lightly. “Way.”

“I bet your Instagram is super cool,” I say tongue-in-cheek.

He groans. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”

“What, a hipster?”

“Sure. Let’s call it that.”

“I think my taste in clothing and music might suggest that.” The computer beeps and the pictures start to come in. “But for the record, my Instagram latte pics are very original and authentic.”

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m supposed to be still.”

I get the thumbs up from the attendant. “Go ahead, you’re all done.”

“Already?”

“Already.” I walk back into the room and press the button to let him out, making sure to scan his legs for any signs of mysterious discoloration or something else mildly exciting. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, of course. Though I’m disappointed to find out my hot nurse is so boring.”

“Excuse me? Boring?”

He laughs, sitting up as the machine comes to a stop. I pull the gurney closer and help him stand. “Maybe you’ll…” he stops short, and his face tenses slightly.

“Mr. Ziegler?” His eyes roll and he goes limp. I disobey my training and jump in his path, catching him in my arms. His weight pulls me to my hip, but I manage to keep both our heads from hitting the ground. “Page the attending, please!” I yell.

© 2017 All Rights Reserved

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Written by Orchid_27 in portal Romance & Erotica
Need Someone (Excerpt)
This is exactly what I needed.

It is the start of my second week at this new hospital, and I still get lost. It’s gorgeous, expensive, and freaking humongous, but what to you expect for California? There are three main departments situated in wings. Diagnostics and women’s health together in one, oncology in another, and the largest dedicated to plastics because, once again, California. It is pretentious, but the pay is ridiculously high, and so is the patient satisfaction. Now, I’m convinced this is the job I always wanted.

I left my last job in a well-known hospice because I realized it was affecting me more than I should let it. Hospice care takes someone very special. Apparently, I was not special enough. I knew I wanted to work with people that needed the empathetic, emotional support I loved to give. What I hadn’t known was that I would miss the medicine. I needed my patients to have a chance to get better. I needed that hope back.

They have me shadowing Theresa, a 50-year-old Charge Nurse with more wisdom than she realizes, and I am loving every minute of it. The nurses and the doctors in our department call her Mother Theresa, and for good reason. She trusts me to know what I am doing, and never makes me second-guess myself when it comes to patient care, which is refreshing. She is showing me the ropes, and more often than not, is keeping me from getting lost in this sprawling mansion they call a hospital. It is filled with mostly private patient rooms and has the newest, technologically advanced surgical suites. It’s the country club of medical centers – but that came with downfalls as well.

“The people here are the most wonderful and the most annoying,” Theresa explains to me. “Most are well established, come from money, or both, which means they will look at you like you’re a servant rather than a nurse. Until they realize how much they need you.”
     
“It doesn’t bother me. Most people don’t realize they need someone until they really need someone.” That is why I do this job.

She nods her head. “That’s very true. And it goes for the doctors as well.”

We are walking to receive our newest patient. This one is young with ambiguous symptoms, and they have been talking him up as a medical mystery. Every diagnostic doctor’s pipe dream is to meet a medical mystery and solve it, but it never really happens. I still don’t understand why they want it to. Sometimes, I think they forget that patients are people.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“They put him on the gurney already.” She points towards the hall. “He’s a fall risk.”

We walk over to him and I almost trip when he looks at me. He sits up on the bed in his hospital gown. One arm covered in tattoos to the wrist, the other to his fingers. His hair is cut short on the sides and back, leaving a long patch in the middle that he combs absentmindedly with his fingers. It’s bleached blond, but looks like it grows in much darker. He looks over at us with hazel-green eyes and a pretentious, cocky gaze. The man is seriously hot.

“Mr. Zeigler,” Teresa greets him.

“Hi there,” he says with an incredibly straight, white smile.

“I’m Nurse Diaz and this is Nurse Brennan,” Theresa introduces us. “We’ll be taking care of you today.”

“Nice to meet you,” he shakes her hand then turns to me. “And especially you,” he says flirtatiously, holding his hand out to me.

I shake it, but see his bracelets. I grab the thin, woven braids with my fingers. “There is no metal in these, right?”

“No ma’am,” he says. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds suggestive. He pulls his arm away slowly, still smiling at me.

“Did the doctor have any concern with his tattoos going in the machine?”

Theresa gives me a confused look. “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t noticed either.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at your ink, Mr. Ziegler?”

He smiles. “You can take a look at whatever you’d like, Nurse Brennan.”

He holds his arms out to me, and I pull up his gown and see his sleeves stop at the shoulder. He has an eclectic mix of black ink portraits, and classics like colorful flowers, waves and koi fish. All pops of color are blue or green like his eyes, no reds or pinks. “Do you have any others?”

“I do. You want to see those too?” he asks enticingly.

“Not particularly. Can you tell me if any are red?”

He looks a bit confused. “They’re not.”

“What do you think?” Theresa asks me.

I smile at her. “I think he’ll be just fine.”

“Are you ready?” Theresa asks the patient.

“Yes! Take me for a ride.”

Theresa wheels him down the wide halls towards the elevators and I trot alongside her. I can’t get over how beautiful this place is. Each wing is painted a different family of colors. This area is shades of aqua adorned with water and ocean-related artworks.

“You know I can walk, right?” Mr. Ziegler says to Theresa.

“That’s what you said last time. Right before you passed out and almost got yourself a concussion,” Theresa scolds him. He snarls at her like a playful child. I grab his chart from the front of the bed and take a look.

His symptoms are mostly vague: loss of appetite, unexplained weight loss, body aches, low-grade fever. The only one of actual concern is the stabbing pain in the abdomen and back, and fainting spells.

They had run a battery of tests on him, too. X-rays, various blood panels, EKG, and now an MRI. “Come in for an STD screening, stay to find out you have some un-diagnosable mystery disease,” he says tongue-in-cheek. “I never thought I’d prefer to have syphilis.” I can’t help but laugh. He smiles at me accomplishedly.

“We will figure out what is wrong with you and get you on your way soon enough,” Theresa says.

“I think you want to keep me here as long as possible.” He winks at Theresa. She shakes her head at him as we reach the elevator lobby. “Must be this sexy hospital gown driving you girls crazy,” he says, stretching it out in front of his chest. I stifle my laughter.

I push the button and we wait quietly. I look back to him and smile politely, and he raises his eyebrows suggestively with a flirtatious smile. I try not to roll my eyes.

Theresa gets a page. “It’s a code. I’ll meet you up there.” She starts to run off. “Fourth floor to the right!” she yells as she hurries away. She must read minds too.

“Are you new here?” he asks.

I smile at him as the doors open. “Is it that obvious?”

I push the bed inside and press the button for our floor. He laces his fingers behind his head and lays back against his pillow, looking up at me. “So what’s your first name, Ms. Brennan? Mrs. Brennan?”

“Miss. It’s Sabine.”

Sabine,” he repeats in a growly voice. He rolls to his side and props up a knee under his blanket, looking up at me directly. “Are you Italian?”

“My grandmother was. You can thank her for the name. Yours is Neil, right?”

“Yeah. My friends call me Ziggy. You can call me Ziggy if you want.”

“Sure thing, Ziggy.” The elevator chimes and the doors open.

I take a wrong turn, and end up near the surgical hall. I resort to following the signs like a visitor, my patient laughing all the way. We finally make it to the room, and the attendant can’t be bothered from his magazine. At least I know I’m in the right place now.

“All right, I need you to transfer onto this table for me,” I pat the table.

“Do I get to take this stupid dress off?”

“And be naked?” I laugh. “No.”

“Ah, you’re missing out.”

I help him climb onto the table, though he doesn’t need me to. He is in amazing shape – slim and noticeably muscular. He’s in perfect health, it seems. I start to get excited about the idea of figuring out what is wrong with him and making him better. “Are you claustrophobic, Ziggy?”

He chuckles. “No, I’m quite fond of sticking myself into tight things.”

I groan in disgust. He laughs as he lies down. “You’re too much.”

“That’s what they all tell me,” he smiles suggestively. There was no winning with this one. I push the button to move him into the machine. He tries to hide his nerves as he moves into the tube. “How long does this take?”

“Just a few minutes. If you hold still.”

“Okay.”

I go into the room and the scan begins. I sit with the silent attendant as he slurps his coffee periodically, still engrossed in his Men’s Health magazine. When I glance at the face view, I see he looks very nervous. You think you aren’t claustrophobic until you’re in an MRI. He needs a distraction.

“Just a couple more minutes, Mr. Zeigler.”

“Cool,” he says nervously.

“What did you say you do for a living?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“That’s awesome. What kind?”

“Fashion mainly. But I do all types of portraiture. Anything with people the possibility of drama.”

He seems very passionate. “Anything I’ve seen?”

“I’ve been in GQ a handful of times. Vogue once.”

“No way.”

He laughs lightly. “Way.”

“I bet your Instagram is super cool,” I say tongue-in-cheek.

He groans. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”

“What, a hipster?”

“Sure. Let’s call it that.”

“I think my taste in clothing and music might suggest that.” The computer beeps and the pictures start to come in. “But for the record, my Instagram latte pics are very original and authentic.”

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m supposed to be still.”

I get the thumbs up from the attendant. “Go ahead, you’re all done.”

“Already?”

“Already.” I walk back into the room and press the button to let him out, making sure to scan his legs for any signs of mysterious discoloration or something else mildly exciting. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, of course. Though I’m disappointed to find out my hot nurse is so boring.”

“Excuse me? Boring?”

He laughs, sitting up as the machine comes to a stop. I pull the gurney closer and help him stand. “Maybe you’ll…” he stops short, and his face tenses slightly.

“Mr. Ziegler?” His eyes roll and he goes limp. I disobey my training and jump in his path, catching him in my arms. His weight pulls me to my hip, but I manage to keep both our heads from hitting the ground. “Page the attending, please!” I yell.

© 2017 All Rights Reserved
#fiction  #romance  #love  #tearjerker  #ChickLit 
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Written by Rubenkells in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Imagination

It is not as beautiful as it used to be, holding hands, gazing into your eyes for the fun of it, we are friends who have found a deeper interpretation of friendship outside love and lust.

The unusual play mate I always wanted and the willingness to be available at odd times is all that matters, I was just a lonelier who really did not have anything to offer but then you ran into my life and stole the loneliness and made us a companion without love and fear of attachments.

There is no missing rib as good as the one you broke for me to share. Oh! How beautiful your smile is, and when you walked in you change everything I knew in the time past, you are a friend who is an outright definition of love.

You are special and this is one I ain't giving up on.

@rubenkells

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Written by Rubenkells in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Imagination
It is not as beautiful as it used to be, holding hands, gazing into your eyes for the fun of it, we are friends who have found a deeper interpretation of friendship outside love and lust.
The unusual play mate I always wanted and the willingness to be available at odd times is all that matters, I was just a lonelier who really did not have anything to offer but then you ran into my life and stole the loneliness and made us a companion without love and fear of attachments.
There is no missing rib as good as the one you broke for me to share. Oh! How beautiful your smile is, and when you walked in you change everything I knew in the time past, you are a friend who is an outright definition of love.

You are special and this is one I ain't giving up on.

@rubenkells
#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #film  #love  #politics  #spirituality  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion 
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Written by gemnahmaleybray

The sea, drunk on rain,

The sea, drunk on rain, smeared his finger across the bare skin of the roaring wind as if to put her out as easily he would a candle. She growled with elegance and said,

It is you who cannot see the beauty in my heaves and the song in my invisible radiance and it is I who will not change because of such.”

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Written by gemnahmaleybray
The sea, drunk on rain,
The sea, drunk on rain, smeared his finger across the bare skin of the roaring wind as if to put her out as easily he would a candle. She growled with elegance and said,

It is you who cannot see the beauty in my heaves and the song in my invisible radiance and it is I who will not change because of such.”

#poetry  #prose  #love  #sea  #hate  #wind  #storm  #gemnahmaleybray  #gmb  #gemnah 
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My skin caught on fire at the...
Written by jmasalgado in portal Poetry & Free Verse

My skin caught on fire at the sound of his voice as he whispered my name. It was the last promise he had to break to finally set myself free. 

We waited 40 days to heal as we break and build each other's dreams. As he cruised with the cold breath of the night time under his feet, I found roads yet explored. My eyes sought comfort with the warm tears swelling at the edge of each one. They blurred my sight for a while, but they served as the lens for a clearer view of him watching from afar. 

Every beat of my heart reminded me of the wishes we shared, of the goals we made, and even of the struggles we faced. In those 40 days before the end, saying my name, one last time was the deal.

He complied. I am now free. I hope he is as well.

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My skin caught on fire at the...
Written by jmasalgado in portal Poetry & Free Verse
My skin caught on fire at the sound of his voice as he whispered my name. It was the last promise he had to break to finally set myself free. 

We waited 40 days to heal as we break and build each other's dreams. As he cruised with the cold breath of the night time under his feet, I found roads yet explored. My eyes sought comfort with the warm tears swelling at the edge of each one. They blurred my sight for a while, but they served as the lens for a clearer view of him watching from afar. 

Every beat of my heart reminded me of the wishes we shared, of the goals we made, and even of the struggles we faced. In those 40 days before the end, saying my name, one last time was the deal.

He complied. I am now free. I hope he is as well.
#fiction  #romance  #life  #love  #lettinggo 
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Chapter 13 of The Transmuted
Written by Lonz1234 in portal Novel Writing

The Transmuted (Chapter 12)

As we walked out there was joy in the air, a pure joy like that of travelers when a valley is overcome but before another mountain must be climbed, a mix of accomplishment and optimism undeterred by the practical problems of the future. Now, we were only focused on the finished work behind us, all of the malaise and ennui fell away and we looked upon our time in purgatory with an endearment completely foreign to us a few weeks before. We were inside a lull in the conversation and I looked around at all of us to see smiles plastered on all of our faces with eyes dreamily staring into the future.

We all stood outside the diner for a moment, staring at the setting sun in front of us and basking in its glow. I took a quick glance behind me to find Donald’s arm around Camila, whose head lie on his shoulder. John was next to them with his hands stuffed in his pockets squinting into the distance. Anthony and Beatrix were to my left and right talking across me to each other. I knew I wanted to picture this moment to remember it, knowing that I wouldn’t recollect exactly what was happening but I would always recall how I felt. I heard Anthony’s voice come into focus pulling me back to actuality,

“Hey, don’t you have to head out in a little bit?”

I checked my phone, 4:55. I sighed like one leaving a pleasant dream and moving back to harsh reality,

“Yeah I probably should,” I walked a couple steps in front of the group, “Well I’ll see you guys later.”

“Tomorrow man!” Donald said raising his hand.

“Yeah man, tomorrow,” I said some joy returning and injecting itself into my smile.

I reached my car and shut the door, slumping in my seat for a moment before checking Tinder. I’d gotten a new match, Brandi, a nineteen-year-old girl 10 miles away, and sent her a quick greeting before going to my older messages, opening a thread that I recently received a text from.

“OK, so Godwin Park at 5:00?” A text dated at 3:35 read hopefully.

I sighed again and flipped over to her profile, listlessly scrolling through her pictures. Her name was Cindy, a blonde haired girl that I didn’t remember swiping right on and that I’d matched with yesterday. There wasn’t anything wrong with her but not exactly anything to recommend her either, her face was plain and her smile (in all 8 of her pictures she was smiling) seemed superficial and uninspiring. Our conversation before now was strangely one-sided, one word or one sentence replies from me contrasted with her long paragraphs filled with intricate detail. I asked her if she was free to hang out, a customary gesture done without any real hope of an affirmative reply, but she did reply in the affirmative and set out a plan for our meeting. I agreed without any real conviction, half-expecting the whole ordeal to never materialize, but her confirmation text earlier in the afternoon had solidified the engagement. So now, five minutes before the date was to commence I texted her back,

“Yeah, sounds great.”

The park wasn’t very far away, but I’d driven quite slowly and arrived at 5:07. Godwin park itself was beautiful, especially in the late afternoon, the descending sunbathing the green, open space with a warm, almost buttery light. The trees, though, were my favorite feature of the park, they stood with stumps bent like old men back’s, weathered by the wind of time. Their leaves were plentiful and the trees lined the pathway to a small gazebo where Cindy sat impassively staring at nothing. She looked better in person, her blue eyes accentuated by mascara and her hair stealing some of the light for itself. I walked along the path a few paces admiring the scenery, not feeling the anxiousness I felt with some other dates, and she eventually turned to me and saw me approaching. I can’t explain the look she gave me when she first caught sight of me, it was something like a starving lion finding its prey or, more accurately, a weary archer finally finding her mark. Part of me felt the look was endearing, but for some reason it made me want to turn and walk away that very minute. My feet carried me the rest of the way though and I sat down uncomfortably on the wooden bench that ran inside the perimeter of the gazebo.

“Hey Michael!” she said maintaining the initial look and inching closer to me.

“Hey…” I paused for a moment, somehow her name had slipped my mind.

“Cindy,” Cindy said not looking the least bit slighted.

I forced a smile at her and inched away.

“So how’s your day been?” She asked.

“It went well,” I said settling down a little bit.

“Today was your last day right?”

For a second I was alarmed as to how divined that knowledge but then remembered it had been a talking point of our earlier conversation,

“Yeah, it was.”

“Well, you must be so excited. What with you being off to co-,” her voice caught on the word and she changed lanes, “-to start summer and all.”

I nodded slowly and observed her. There was an expectant quality in all of her words like they were all pregnant with a hope conceived within her heart that all waited anxiously for something in return. She was smiling with her face but her eyes seemed to hold something within them. We were sitting in a silence now and I felt I had to say something,

“How about you, how was your day?”

“Oh, it was great! I got out Tuesday so I’ve just been enjoying the start of my summer.”

Though my question was small, done more out of courtesy than genuine interest, Cindy seemed overjoyed at my asking and for an instant, the searching look was replaced with a joyous one. However, almost as soon as the look arrived, it was attacked by the previous look, slowly transforming the joyous face to a pained one then back to the strange smile of before. The rest of the date went around in that same theatrical circle: she would ask a question (of increasing penetration), I would answer, I would pose the question back to her, she would answer, joy, quick pain, rest, question, ad infinitum. I felt an increasing discomfort sitting at the gazebo because I knew that she wasn’t this melodramatic caricature I was viewing, there was something underneath all of those looks, the truth of which I could feel without knowing the cause.

“So,” she drew in a breath like she’d been preparing for this moment, causing me to lean in, “when was your last relationship?”

Watching her pose the question was difficult, she tried to keep her intentions composed and nonchalant but halfway through the sentence she betrayed herself and by the end, her voice quivered with emotional importance. I suddenly knew why she acted the way she did, my heart surging while all the awkwardness of the date transmuted into pity blended together with compassion. The vulnerability was painfully evident causing any personal emotional undertone from my reply to drop out completely,

“I haven’t really been in a relationship in high school.”

She breathed out a quick sigh of relief and then readied herself for the volley, adopting a mostly straight face. I asked the question quickly rushing through it as to make the blow as painless as possible,

“Whataboutyou?”

Her face remained straight but her words were pained,

“Well, it’s funny that you ask. My last relationship ended a while ago, we’d been dating since high school start… started and… well...”

“We don’t have to talk about if you don’t want to,” I interjected.

She looked at me like I just saved her life, inching towards me until our legs were touching each other. Her smile was gracious and her hand reached for my hand, and I felt I had no choice but to give it to her. Her hand was warm and delicate, dewy with newly created beads of sweat. Her face was close to mine, right under my shoulder and I looked down into her eyes, two oceans with a storm that had just passed through. Suddenly she closed her eyes and moved slowly up towards my face, lips slightly open and wanting.

I knew how vulnerable she was, and how truly vulnerable I was and knew that I shouldn’t take advantage of it. I knew that we were two unfinished puzzles hoping, in vain, that the other would complete our partiality. I knew I only wanted to do this because I was lonely and weak and that I wouldn’t allow things to progress further than this one afternoon as long as Mary still walked the Earth. I knew that if I did this she would be happy for now but even more broken when she figured out that I wasn’t him, whoever he was, and that I didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be him after today. However, I was too far in the moment to get in my own way and I met her with all the loneliness and frustration I held turning into a sweet passion on her lips, and for a moment there was nothing except us. Then the objections came streaming in my head, making every passing second of our embrace increasingly more painful. Nevertheless, I continued, trying to convince myself that I was doing this for her but knowing the truth. I opened my eyes for a bit to see how she looked. Cindy was locked in the passion, using each kiss to slowly try to pull herself out of her hole, the same way a climber uses footholds. Part of me wanted to stop it immediately and get away as quickly as possible to try to stop the future wound from becoming too great. Instead, I allowed things escalate, leading her hand-in-hand to my car, escaping to the backseat for protection. We were able to escape the prying eyes of the outside world, but the security only made us more insecure, the cover only accentuating the problems the other couldn’t fix. Yet we still didn’t stop, trying desperately to fill the empty space with the all the passion two lonely souls can muster.

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Chapter 13 of The Transmuted
Written by Lonz1234 in portal Novel Writing
The Transmuted (Chapter 12)
As we walked out there was joy in the air, a pure joy like that of travelers when a valley is overcome but before another mountain must be climbed, a mix of accomplishment and optimism undeterred by the practical problems of the future. Now, we were only focused on the finished work behind us, all of the malaise and ennui fell away and we looked upon our time in purgatory with an endearment completely foreign to us a few weeks before. We were inside a lull in the conversation and I looked around at all of us to see smiles plastered on all of our faces with eyes dreamily staring into the future.
We all stood outside the diner for a moment, staring at the setting sun in front of us and basking in its glow. I took a quick glance behind me to find Donald’s arm around Camila, whose head lie on his shoulder. John was next to them with his hands stuffed in his pockets squinting into the distance. Anthony and Beatrix were to my left and right talking across me to each other. I knew I wanted to picture this moment to remember it, knowing that I wouldn’t recollect exactly what was happening but I would always recall how I felt. I heard Anthony’s voice come into focus pulling me back to actuality,
“Hey, don’t you have to head out in a little bit?”
I checked my phone, 4:55. I sighed like one leaving a pleasant dream and moving back to harsh reality,
“Yeah I probably should,” I walked a couple steps in front of the group, “Well I’ll see you guys later.”
“Tomorrow man!” Donald said raising his hand.
“Yeah man, tomorrow,” I said some joy returning and injecting itself into my smile.
I reached my car and shut the door, slumping in my seat for a moment before checking Tinder. I’d gotten a new match, Brandi, a nineteen-year-old girl 10 miles away, and sent her a quick greeting before going to my older messages, opening a thread that I recently received a text from.
“OK, so Godwin Park at 5:00?” A text dated at 3:35 read hopefully.
I sighed again and flipped over to her profile, listlessly scrolling through her pictures. Her name was Cindy, a blonde haired girl that I didn’t remember swiping right on and that I’d matched with yesterday. There wasn’t anything wrong with her but not exactly anything to recommend her either, her face was plain and her smile (in all 8 of her pictures she was smiling) seemed superficial and uninspiring. Our conversation before now was strangely one-sided, one word or one sentence replies from me contrasted with her long paragraphs filled with intricate detail. I asked her if she was free to hang out, a customary gesture done without any real hope of an affirmative reply, but she did reply in the affirmative and set out a plan for our meeting. I agreed without any real conviction, half-expecting the whole ordeal to never materialize, but her confirmation text earlier in the afternoon had solidified the engagement. So now, five minutes before the date was to commence I texted her back,
“Yeah, sounds great.”

The park wasn’t very far away, but I’d driven quite slowly and arrived at 5:07. Godwin park itself was beautiful, especially in the late afternoon, the descending sunbathing the green, open space with a warm, almost buttery light. The trees, though, were my favorite feature of the park, they stood with stumps bent like old men back’s, weathered by the wind of time. Their leaves were plentiful and the trees lined the pathway to a small gazebo where Cindy sat impassively staring at nothing. She looked better in person, her blue eyes accentuated by mascara and her hair stealing some of the light for itself. I walked along the path a few paces admiring the scenery, not feeling the anxiousness I felt with some other dates, and she eventually turned to me and saw me approaching. I can’t explain the look she gave me when she first caught sight of me, it was something like a starving lion finding its prey or, more accurately, a weary archer finally finding her mark. Part of me felt the look was endearing, but for some reason it made me want to turn and walk away that very minute. My feet carried me the rest of the way though and I sat down uncomfortably on the wooden bench that ran inside the perimeter of the gazebo.
“Hey Michael!” she said maintaining the initial look and inching closer to me.
“Hey…” I paused for a moment, somehow her name had slipped my mind.
“Cindy,” Cindy said not looking the least bit slighted.
I forced a smile at her and inched away.
“So how’s your day been?” She asked.
“It went well,” I said settling down a little bit.
“Today was your last day right?”
For a second I was alarmed as to how divined that knowledge but then remembered it had been a talking point of our earlier conversation,
“Yeah, it was.”
“Well, you must be so excited. What with you being off to co-,” her voice caught on the word and she changed lanes, “-to start summer and all.”
I nodded slowly and observed her. There was an expectant quality in all of her words like they were all pregnant with a hope conceived within her heart that all waited anxiously for something in return. She was smiling with her face but her eyes seemed to hold something within them. We were sitting in a silence now and I felt I had to say something,
“How about you, how was your day?”
“Oh, it was great! I got out Tuesday so I’ve just been enjoying the start of my summer.”
Though my question was small, done more out of courtesy than genuine interest, Cindy seemed overjoyed at my asking and for an instant, the searching look was replaced with a joyous one. However, almost as soon as the look arrived, it was attacked by the previous look, slowly transforming the joyous face to a pained one then back to the strange smile of before. The rest of the date went around in that same theatrical circle: she would ask a question (of increasing penetration), I would answer, I would pose the question back to her, she would answer, joy, quick pain, rest, question, ad infinitum. I felt an increasing discomfort sitting at the gazebo because I knew that she wasn’t this melodramatic caricature I was viewing, there was something underneath all of those looks, the truth of which I could feel without knowing the cause.
“So,” she drew in a breath like she’d been preparing for this moment, causing me to lean in, “when was your last relationship?”
Watching her pose the question was difficult, she tried to keep her intentions composed and nonchalant but halfway through the sentence she betrayed herself and by the end, her voice quivered with emotional importance. I suddenly knew why she acted the way she did, my heart surging while all the awkwardness of the date transmuted into pity blended together with compassion. The vulnerability was painfully evident causing any personal emotional undertone from my reply to drop out completely,
“I haven’t really been in a relationship in high school.”
She breathed out a quick sigh of relief and then readied herself for the volley, adopting a mostly straight face. I asked the question quickly rushing through it as to make the blow as painless as possible,
“Whataboutyou?”
Her face remained straight but her words were pained,
“Well, it’s funny that you ask. My last relationship ended a while ago, we’d been dating since high school start… started and… well...”
“We don’t have to talk about if you don’t want to,” I interjected.
She looked at me like I just saved her life, inching towards me until our legs were touching each other. Her smile was gracious and her hand reached for my hand, and I felt I had no choice but to give it to her. Her hand was warm and delicate, dewy with newly created beads of sweat. Her face was close to mine, right under my shoulder and I looked down into her eyes, two oceans with a storm that had just passed through. Suddenly she closed her eyes and moved slowly up towards my face, lips slightly open and wanting.
I knew how vulnerable she was, and how truly vulnerable I was and knew that I shouldn’t take advantage of it. I knew that we were two unfinished puzzles hoping, in vain, that the other would complete our partiality. I knew I only wanted to do this because I was lonely and weak and that I wouldn’t allow things to progress further than this one afternoon as long as Mary still walked the Earth. I knew that if I did this she would be happy for now but even more broken when she figured out that I wasn’t him, whoever he was, and that I didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be him after today. However, I was too far in the moment to get in my own way and I met her with all the loneliness and frustration I held turning into a sweet passion on her lips, and for a moment there was nothing except us. Then the objections came streaming in my head, making every passing second of our embrace increasingly more painful. Nevertheless, I continued, trying to convince myself that I was doing this for her but knowing the truth. I opened my eyes for a bit to see how she looked. Cindy was locked in the passion, using each kiss to slowly try to pull herself out of her hole, the same way a climber uses footholds. Part of me wanted to stop it immediately and get away as quickly as possible to try to stop the future wound from becoming too great. Instead, I allowed things escalate, leading her hand-in-hand to my car, escaping to the backseat for protection. We were able to escape the prying eyes of the outside world, but the security only made us more insecure, the cover only accentuating the problems the other couldn’t fix. Yet we still didn’t stop, trying desperately to fill the empty space with the all the passion two lonely souls can muster.




#fiction  #romance  #philosophy  #love  #spirituality 
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Chapter 12 of The Transmuted
Written by Lonz1234 in portal Novel Writing

The Transmuted (Chapter 11)

“And what inspired this book for you?”

The reporter was a beautiful woman, aged slightly passed youth with short black hair that paired with her face extremely well. I looked back at her, smiled slightly, and began,

“I mean in a way every good book, movie, and song I’ve ever experienced inspired me, but if I have to cut it down to a soundbite then I would probably go with the writing of Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky, movies like 500 days of Summer and Midnight in Paris, and music from A Tribe Called Quest and Rage against The Machine. I just try to take everything I’ve seen, figure out what I liked about it, and then tried to sprinkle it into what I write wherever I can.”

I was extremely pleased with my voice, it was full and the sound was a calming one. The reporter seemed pleased with my voice too, and also with me. We looked into each other’s eyes for a second and she broke the contact giggling momentarily and staring for a second at her shoes.

“So Fitzgerald and Midnight in Paris? Are you a really big fan of the Lost Generation?” she asked her eyes making a slow climb back to mine and finally reaching their mark at the word “Lost”.

“I would definitely say so,” I said my smile spreading slightly.

“Why do you think you were so drawn to that time?”

I looked up to the sky, which was for now covered by the roof which was covered by the same red velvet which covered the floors and walls.

“Well, there was just so much going on around that time period and so much innovation in literature as a whole. And I feel like our generation is like that generation as well.”

The reporter cocked her head sideways and looked puzzled,

“Why do you think that?”

I was ready for the question and answered without pausing,

“Well obviously we’re not coming off of a war that disillusioned us, but it can’t be denied that we are disillusioned. If for the Lost Generation, that disillusionment came from finding that society wasn’t always headed in the right direction or that the long-standing societal conventions aren’t all they’re made out to be, then we are disillusioned by our prosperity and a kind of existential search for meaning.”

She stared at me blankly and I elaborated,

“Back then, they could point to atrocities and ignorance for a major chunk of their ills and to a certain extent we can as well, but for us, it’s even more confusing. Like for the most part we all have phones and access to all basically figure out anything we want, we’ve made so many incredible technological advances in the recent past, we’ve found solutions to problems that have plagued us for generations, and so many other amazing things. The youth, like me, have been born into and have grown up in a completely different world than even our parents, one where we have so many more opportunities and advances yet we are still profoundly unhappy,” my words, though never rehearsed, slid off my tongue with ease like they had been hiding under me forever, “We can’t understand why, with all this wealth and technology, we still have to grapple with the problems that have haunted humanity for generations. So, like Pascal said, we turn to distractions as to not think about the lives we’re living and who we really are, and in this world, it’s so easy to find a distraction. We’re not lost because we’ve realized the world is terrible and we’re unhappy, we’re lost because we’ve done so much to make this world better, have found success, and are still unhappy.”

The reporter had been nodding her head along through the whole monolog and looked at me with a mixture of awe and surprise. It took her a second to remember her other questions but she sprung another on me afterward,

“So you’ve said your book is loosely based off of your father, how’d that come about?”

“Well he’s always been a really big role model in my life and I’ve always wanted to write about his childhood growing up on the Southside of Chicago and how it was trying to maneuver through that, being the intelligent and moral man that he is. I wanted to frame his story in a literary way so that people without a real knowledge of what those people go through wouldn’t be intimidated by the subject and vice versa for the people who grew up in situations like that.”

“That’s very interesting. I know the book also touches on issues like racial prejudice and things of that nature. Have you ever been affected by this issue in your career?”

“Definitely not as much as my dad or generations before him but to a certain degree, yes. Today, it's much less in-your-face but, since we sadly do not yet live in a post-racial culture, it does lie underneath the surface in many cases. But again nothing on the scale of what my parents or other generations have faced.”

She nodded her head at me and breaking out in a pleasant smile facing the camera,

“Well, there you have it. This is Michael Cooper, acclaimed novelist, and his third book, Tears on Concrete, will be out soon!”

She held her gaze for a few seconds longer than got out of her chair and walked towards me. In the moments since the camera turned off, something changed and her energy was almost tangible and intoxicating, making my vision blurry with intrigue. She reached me, putting her hand on my shoulder and whispering soft, unintelligible words into my ear.

I woke up with a start and I was momentarily clueless as to where I was. Eventually, I found myself sitting at a desk, a blank piece of paper staring up at me with a pencil lying idly next to me on the floor. The room was mostly silent, the only sound audible being the sporadic taps on phone screens. I sat back and was slightly annoyed that the interview had been a daydream. Now I was back to reality, an unknown teenager with a self-assured talent yet to be affirmed by the greater literary world staring at a blank piece of paper that he hopes will soon hold the work that will catapult him to greatness. I picked up the pencil and tried to will words onto the page but was unsuccessful.

I was in this class alone, without any friends for company or Mary for misery, and looked at the clock in hopes it would move faster. I was sitting in the back left corner of the class and looked right to find my only immediate neighbor, Samantha Trugg. Her eyes were intently locked to her phone, watching a video that I presumed was a makeup tutorial, which featured a young woman carefully brushing at her skin with eyes closed. I looked at Samantha for more time than was courteous and after studying her face, my gaze worked its way almost automatically down her neck and to the top of her chest before I looked away and scolded myself silently. The episode made me think back to the daydream, the usual unsupported vision of success eventually ceding and crumbling in the face of my hormonal desire. My hormones often got in the way, and in this instance prompted me to pull out my phone and work my way back to Tinder.

After a few quick right swipes, I checked my messages to find no movement. The last message in the conversation between me and Violet locked onto me and I could feel its stare, a confused and angry look that wouldn’t break its focus from me even if I turned my phone off. I had to pretend I couldn’t see it, had to leave it in silence out of fear of explaining myself, and I tried in vain to escape the glare by wildly swiping right on every girl that appeared on my screen. John’s words from lunch two days ago rang in my head as my phone rushed to keep up with my constant swipes, barely discerning the face on the screen before swiping to the next one. Violet’s message though still held its scrutiny, resisting my attempts to swipe it out of my mind. After minutes of this, I laid my head back on the table trying to sleep my way through the rest of the period, nevertheless, Violet’s message, dated Sunday night, lay undeterred behind the idle black screen,

“Is this it, are we just not talking anymore?”

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Chapter 12 of The Transmuted
Written by Lonz1234 in portal Novel Writing
The Transmuted (Chapter 11)
“And what inspired this book for you?”
The reporter was a beautiful woman, aged slightly passed youth with short black hair that paired with her face extremely well. I looked back at her, smiled slightly, and began,
“I mean in a way every good book, movie, and song I’ve ever experienced inspired me, but if I have to cut it down to a soundbite then I would probably go with the writing of Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky, movies like 500 days of Summer and Midnight in Paris, and music from A Tribe Called Quest and Rage against The Machine. I just try to take everything I’ve seen, figure out what I liked about it, and then tried to sprinkle it into what I write wherever I can.”
I was extremely pleased with my voice, it was full and the sound was a calming one. The reporter seemed pleased with my voice too, and also with me. We looked into each other’s eyes for a second and she broke the contact giggling momentarily and staring for a second at her shoes.
“So Fitzgerald and Midnight in Paris? Are you a really big fan of the Lost Generation?” she asked her eyes making a slow climb back to mine and finally reaching their mark at the word “Lost”.
“I would definitely say so,” I said my smile spreading slightly.
“Why do you think you were so drawn to that time?”
I looked up to the sky, which was for now covered by the roof which was covered by the same red velvet which covered the floors and walls.
“Well, there was just so much going on around that time period and so much innovation in literature as a whole. And I feel like our generation is like that generation as well.”
The reporter cocked her head sideways and looked puzzled,
“Why do you think that?”
I was ready for the question and answered without pausing,
“Well obviously we’re not coming off of a war that disillusioned us, but it can’t be denied that we are disillusioned. If for the Lost Generation, that disillusionment came from finding that society wasn’t always headed in the right direction or that the long-standing societal conventions aren’t all they’re made out to be, then we are disillusioned by our prosperity and a kind of existential search for meaning.”
She stared at me blankly and I elaborated,
“Back then, they could point to atrocities and ignorance for a major chunk of their ills and to a certain extent we can as well, but for us, it’s even more confusing. Like for the most part we all have phones and access to all basically figure out anything we want, we’ve made so many incredible technological advances in the recent past, we’ve found solutions to problems that have plagued us for generations, and so many other amazing things. The youth, like me, have been born into and have grown up in a completely different world than even our parents, one where we have so many more opportunities and advances yet we are still profoundly unhappy,” my words, though never rehearsed, slid off my tongue with ease like they had been hiding under me forever, “We can’t understand why, with all this wealth and technology, we still have to grapple with the problems that have haunted humanity for generations. So, like Pascal said, we turn to distractions as to not think about the lives we’re living and who we really are, and in this world, it’s so easy to find a distraction. We’re not lost because we’ve realized the world is terrible and we’re unhappy, we’re lost because we’ve done so much to make this world better, have found success, and are still unhappy.”
The reporter had been nodding her head along through the whole monolog and looked at me with a mixture of awe and surprise. It took her a second to remember her other questions but she sprung another on me afterward,
“So you’ve said your book is loosely based off of your father, how’d that come about?”
“Well he’s always been a really big role model in my life and I’ve always wanted to write about his childhood growing up on the Southside of Chicago and how it was trying to maneuver through that, being the intelligent and moral man that he is. I wanted to frame his story in a literary way so that people without a real knowledge of what those people go through wouldn’t be intimidated by the subject and vice versa for the people who grew up in situations like that.”
“That’s very interesting. I know the book also touches on issues like racial prejudice and things of that nature. Have you ever been affected by this issue in your career?”
“Definitely not as much as my dad or generations before him but to a certain degree, yes. Today, it's much less in-your-face but, since we sadly do not yet live in a post-racial culture, it does lie underneath the surface in many cases. But again nothing on the scale of what my parents or other generations have faced.”
She nodded her head at me and breaking out in a pleasant smile facing the camera,
“Well, there you have it. This is Michael Cooper, acclaimed novelist, and his third book, Tears on Concrete, will be out soon!”
She held her gaze for a few seconds longer than got out of her chair and walked towards me. In the moments since the camera turned off, something changed and her energy was almost tangible and intoxicating, making my vision blurry with intrigue. She reached me, putting her hand on my shoulder and whispering soft, unintelligible words into my ear.
I woke up with a start and I was momentarily clueless as to where I was. Eventually, I found myself sitting at a desk, a blank piece of paper staring up at me with a pencil lying idly next to me on the floor. The room was mostly silent, the only sound audible being the sporadic taps on phone screens. I sat back and was slightly annoyed that the interview had been a daydream. Now I was back to reality, an unknown teenager with a self-assured talent yet to be affirmed by the greater literary world staring at a blank piece of paper that he hopes will soon hold the work that will catapult him to greatness. I picked up the pencil and tried to will words onto the page but was unsuccessful.
I was in this class alone, without any friends for company or Mary for misery, and looked at the clock in hopes it would move faster. I was sitting in the back left corner of the class and looked right to find my only immediate neighbor, Samantha Trugg. Her eyes were intently locked to her phone, watching a video that I presumed was a makeup tutorial, which featured a young woman carefully brushing at her skin with eyes closed. I looked at Samantha for more time than was courteous and after studying her face, my gaze worked its way almost automatically down her neck and to the top of her chest before I looked away and scolded myself silently. The episode made me think back to the daydream, the usual unsupported vision of success eventually ceding and crumbling in the face of my hormonal desire. My hormones often got in the way, and in this instance prompted me to pull out my phone and work my way back to Tinder.
After a few quick right swipes, I checked my messages to find no movement. The last message in the conversation between me and Violet locked onto me and I could feel its stare, a confused and angry look that wouldn’t break its focus from me even if I turned my phone off. I had to pretend I couldn’t see it, had to leave it in silence out of fear of explaining myself, and I tried in vain to escape the glare by wildly swiping right on every girl that appeared on my screen. John’s words from lunch two days ago rang in my head as my phone rushed to keep up with my constant swipes, barely discerning the face on the screen before swiping to the next one. Violet’s message though still held its scrutiny, resisting my attempts to swipe it out of my mind. After minutes of this, I laid my head back on the table trying to sleep my way through the rest of the period, nevertheless, Violet’s message, dated Sunday night, lay undeterred behind the idle black screen,
“Is this it, are we just not talking anymore?”

#fiction  #philosophy  #love  #youth  #contemporary 
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Written by ChanelleJoy in portal Poetry & Free Verse

CHOOSE LOVE

Suicide should never be an option.

No one should ever be left feeling like suicide is the only way out.

Where has human decency gone?

Where has that thing called kindness gone? Where has love gone?

Seriously.

Get a grip!

Stop hating!

Stop judging!

Stop wanting everything & everyone to fit into your perfect little square!

We're all fucking in this shit together so let's start acting like it!

Fuck!

We all gotta survive & we all gotta strive!

We all gotta work & make a living!

Nothing comes easy or free.

But we don't have to step on those we don't agree with.

We don't have to tear others down just because they do things a little differently.

Everyone's gotta do their own thing, make their own way.

Who are you to judge?

Back the fuck off!

You do your thing & let others do theirs.

& just love them.

Love them for being them.

Love them for being brave enough to not listen to society, to the critics or the naysayers & for just doing what they want.

Because these are the people that will change the world.

& we're killing them.

These are the people who greet the day with their middle finger & scream, "fuck you" to the demons & the devils, crying, "you don't own me & I won't let you win!"

These are the people who give the world their all, who bleed their hearts dry to show people they aren't alone.

These are the people who will care about you, who will be there when you have no one else.

& we're killing them.

We're killing them under influence of ignorance.

We're killing them under influence of selfishness.

We're killing them because no one is there for them when they need help.

When they need to speak, no one will listen.

When they try to speak, they're judged & criticised & they're the ones who get called selfish!

All that they give, everything they do to create a better world & yet, when they need someone, they're ignored.

& all their hard work, all their labours of love are wasted.

Fallen on deaf ears as people turn a blind eye to their pain.

It's sick.

It's downright fucking wrong & something has to change!

So I challenge you today.

Today, I want you to reach out.

Stop being ignorant.

Step outside of yourself, out of your perfect little square where everything is pretty & reach out to someone who needs a helping hand.

Reach into the hurt, the pain, the scars.

Yeh it's ugly!

Of course it's fucking ugly!

It's messy, confronting, upsetting & disturbing.

But you can change that.

With one simple gesture, you can change that.

Yes.

You have that power.

In you is the power to make or break someone.

So how are you going to use it?

I say use it for love.

Use it to be kind.

& if you can't think of what to say, a hug can speak a thousand words.

Buy them a coffee, take them to the park, watch a movie or TV with them.

Just be there.

Don't hide in your square, letting anger & hate seep through the cracks in your walls.

Get out!

Smell the fresh air!

See the beauty in your surroundings.

Take things as they are & leave your judgement behind.

We are not here to judge.

We are here to love & if you start looking at things through eyes of love instead of judgement & hate...

We can make the world beautiful once more.

Are you with me?

©CJ

22nd July 2017

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Written by ChanelleJoy in portal Poetry & Free Verse
CHOOSE LOVE
Suicide should never be an option.
No one should ever be left feeling like suicide is the only way out.
Where has human decency gone?
Where has that thing called kindness gone? Where has love gone?

Seriously.
Get a grip!

Stop hating!
Stop judging!
Stop wanting everything & everyone to fit into your perfect little square!
We're all fucking in this shit together so let's start acting like it!

Fuck!

We all gotta survive & we all gotta strive!
We all gotta work & make a living!
Nothing comes easy or free.

But we don't have to step on those we don't agree with.
We don't have to tear others down just because they do things a little differently.
Everyone's gotta do their own thing, make their own way.
Who are you to judge?

Back the fuck off!

You do your thing & let others do theirs.
& just love them.
Love them for being them.
Love them for being brave enough to not listen to society, to the critics or the naysayers & for just doing what they want.
Because these are the people that will change the world.

& we're killing them.

These are the people who greet the day with their middle finger & scream, "fuck you" to the demons & the devils, crying, "you don't own me & I won't let you win!"

These are the people who give the world their all, who bleed their hearts dry to show people they aren't alone.
These are the people who will care about you, who will be there when you have no one else.

& we're killing them.

We're killing them under influence of ignorance.
We're killing them under influence of selfishness.
We're killing them because no one is there for them when they need help.
When they need to speak, no one will listen.
When they try to speak, they're judged & criticised & they're the ones who get called selfish!

All that they give, everything they do to create a better world & yet, when they need someone, they're ignored.
& all their hard work, all their labours of love are wasted.
Fallen on deaf ears as people turn a blind eye to their pain.

It's sick.
It's downright fucking wrong & something has to change!

So I challenge you today.
Today, I want you to reach out.
Stop being ignorant.
Step outside of yourself, out of your perfect little square where everything is pretty & reach out to someone who needs a helping hand.
Reach into the hurt, the pain, the scars.
Yeh it's ugly!
Of course it's fucking ugly!
It's messy, confronting, upsetting & disturbing.

But you can change that.

With one simple gesture, you can change that.

Yes.
You have that power.

In you is the power to make or break someone.

So how are you going to use it?

I say use it for love.
Use it to be kind.
& if you can't think of what to say, a hug can speak a thousand words.
Buy them a coffee, take them to the park, watch a movie or TV with them.

Just be there.

Don't hide in your square, letting anger & hate seep through the cracks in your walls.
Get out!
Smell the fresh air!
See the beauty in your surroundings.
Take things as they are & leave your judgement behind.

We are not here to judge.

We are here to love & if you start looking at things through eyes of love instead of judgement & hate...
We can make the world beautiful once more.
Are you with me?

©CJ
22nd July 2017
#poetry  #love  #ignorance  #spokenword 
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Chapter 11 of The Transmuted
Written by Lonz1234 in portal Fiction

The Transmuted (Chapter 10)

Cold tears from the cloudy Tuesday sky beat on my windows as I drove down the road. I made an effort to rush out of the building and make my way to the car as quickly as possible to beat the impatient multitude soon to pack the streets. The rain was falling in huge droplets, crashing on the front window and exploding on impact creating a landscape of small liquid craters every few seconds. I flipped my wipers on and they creaked slowly to life then began to move normally, clearing my view on the way down to find more water to clear on its way up. I was on the highway I traveled down every day on my way back from school, indifferently speeding a few miles over the limit and weaving listlessly in-and-out of traffic. The road was familiar and I took my right hand off the wheel as my mind drifted.

I’d driven down this road hundreds of times on the way back from school or from somewhere else and I’d passed millions of people, each of us confined to our metal boxes and doomed to, at best, being a passing car in another’s memory and more often not even making an impression. The thought made me want to roll down the windows in the rain and yell at cars going by, but I knew they would never turn to look. Some cars tried to fight this obscurity by riding past with their music blaring out at full volume, the bass making the very mirrors shake vigorously with every hit. I’d tried that method but again the music that was so clear to me fell silent on the ears of those I passed. So I resolved to simply stare at the passers-by, momentarily turning my head left or right and silently hoping my gaze would reach them before being pulled back to the road. While this plan was mostly unsuccessful, every once in awhile someone would look over and our eyes would meet. On the road, all wore the same expression, a muted annoyance coupled with an obvious impatience, which materialized itself as a mostly blank face with the lips slightly downturned and a vacant stare. It was if, in that moment when our eyes met, that we were simply a part of the environment; that when we were behind the wheel we’d given up our humanity and melded into machinery with a singular purpose of getting to our destination. Then both pairs of eyes would turn back to the road and forget both the person they’d just seen and the fact that they’d turned in the first place. Honestly, I don’t know what is worse: having my existence be ignored or instantly forgotten.

My mind moved on through to the events of the day Everyone was issued a copy of the literary magazine before lunch and some had congratulated me on my story, with Mary being the most notable of these. She spotted me in the hall before last period and waved at me from across the hall. I waved back and she walked over holding the magazine tightly to her chest. Along with the typical feelings of severe wistfulness and heartbreak that usually accompany seeing Mary, a strange mixture of anger and resignation splattered haphazardly on the canvas. I felt it lying in wait ever since the lunch conversation on Monday and maybe even since the date with Violet. I figured it appeared because I finally put a face to my suffering, a beautiful, smiling face to be the scapegoat for my ills. For some reason though this revelation gave me no solace, maybe because the true scapegoat I sought was only a mirror away.

“Hey, Michael!”

“Hey Mary,” I said cloaking the concoction of emotion under a casual facade.

“I read your story and I really enjoyed it! It’s just so well-written and the whole theme of the untranslatability of the human experience is really unique which made it an even better read,” She said her eyes lighting up.

I marveled at this friend turned near-stranger who understood me so well and I laughed softly out of joy and pain,

“Thank you so much,” I paused for a second while foolishly staring into her eyes, “that means so much coming from you.”

She maintained her smile but it lost some aspect, moving almost imperceptibly from admiration to pity and I hated myself for doing that to her. I tried to move the conversation to something different,

“Can’t believe we’re graduating Friday.”

Mary snatched at the chance to move on,

“Yeah, it’s crazy! It’s so surreal like I’ve seen so many people go through it and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s my turn now.”

I nodded with a smile and she mirrored me. I tried to think of more things to say just to keep her in front of me but my mind was blank and apparently, Mary’s was as well. We stayed there for another moment, smiles slowly fading when she saw someone behind me and walked over to speak to them, leaving with a quick goodbye. I watched her walk a few steps then sighed and headed to class.

I flipped my windshield wipers down a level as the rain slowed. I wasn’t very far from home now as my exit off of the highway became visible. For a moment I was conscious of the music that was playing, Alex Turner’s smooth voice carrying quiet emotions like the wind picking up and carrying beaten rock particles,

“An ache in your soul/ Is everybody’s goal…”

The song brought me back to Mary and back to a memory, sitting up in bed with the covers at my legs while rain pelted the windows in my room.

“So what do you think I should do?”

I locked the phone for a moment and hugged my knees to my chest staring off into the darkness. There was a dull pain inside me and I was a child standing inside awaiting the inevitable. Inside, my life was normal and everything was as it should be. Inside, my fantasy was, though improbable, still possible and the dream could still work out on some theoretical day in the future. However when I opened the door (and I had to open the door), my whole world would change and the fantasy would die stillborn in my mind, the corpse lying quietly as evidence of my failure. I laid back on the bed hoping sleep would delay the inevitable but another vibration from my phone ended that possibility.

“Please Michael, I trust your judgment just tell me what you think?”

My being screamed out into the void, the silence in the room filled with a million cries of anguish. I tried to console myself: “this won’t matter in five years” and “this isn’t really that important” and “you’re just dramatizing an inconsequential event” but these gave me nothing, in fact, they made things worse because I knew the words were true. I knew that this moment actually meant nothing and that I shouldn’t let this image of this high school girl have such a hold on me, but she did in spite of all of it. Staring back at that screen, imagining Mary staring anxiously at her own screen, I was surer of my love for her than at any time before, but also in that moment, I knew with certainty that she didn’t love me. I was at a crossroads, and though I knew I could’ve gone down the selfish road and clutch at the wispy dream of my love for her finally being reflected back to me, I knew that there was only one answer to her question.

“You should follow your heart,” the keyboard becoming obscured in the misty eyes that looked down on them, “that’s all anyone should ever do.”

The next day she was dating Zack.

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Chapter 11 of The Transmuted
Written by Lonz1234 in portal Fiction
The Transmuted (Chapter 10)
Cold tears from the cloudy Tuesday sky beat on my windows as I drove down the road. I made an effort to rush out of the building and make my way to the car as quickly as possible to beat the impatient multitude soon to pack the streets. The rain was falling in huge droplets, crashing on the front window and exploding on impact creating a landscape of small liquid craters every few seconds. I flipped my wipers on and they creaked slowly to life then began to move normally, clearing my view on the way down to find more water to clear on its way up. I was on the highway I traveled down every day on my way back from school, indifferently speeding a few miles over the limit and weaving listlessly in-and-out of traffic. The road was familiar and I took my right hand off the wheel as my mind drifted.
I’d driven down this road hundreds of times on the way back from school or from somewhere else and I’d passed millions of people, each of us confined to our metal boxes and doomed to, at best, being a passing car in another’s memory and more often not even making an impression. The thought made me want to roll down the windows in the rain and yell at cars going by, but I knew they would never turn to look. Some cars tried to fight this obscurity by riding past with their music blaring out at full volume, the bass making the very mirrors shake vigorously with every hit. I’d tried that method but again the music that was so clear to me fell silent on the ears of those I passed. So I resolved to simply stare at the passers-by, momentarily turning my head left or right and silently hoping my gaze would reach them before being pulled back to the road. While this plan was mostly unsuccessful, every once in awhile someone would look over and our eyes would meet. On the road, all wore the same expression, a muted annoyance coupled with an obvious impatience, which materialized itself as a mostly blank face with the lips slightly downturned and a vacant stare. It was if, in that moment when our eyes met, that we were simply a part of the environment; that when we were behind the wheel we’d given up our humanity and melded into machinery with a singular purpose of getting to our destination. Then both pairs of eyes would turn back to the road and forget both the person they’d just seen and the fact that they’d turned in the first place. Honestly, I don’t know what is worse: having my existence be ignored or instantly forgotten.
My mind moved on through to the events of the day Everyone was issued a copy of the literary magazine before lunch and some had congratulated me on my story, with Mary being the most notable of these. She spotted me in the hall before last period and waved at me from across the hall. I waved back and she walked over holding the magazine tightly to her chest. Along with the typical feelings of severe wistfulness and heartbreak that usually accompany seeing Mary, a strange mixture of anger and resignation splattered haphazardly on the canvas. I felt it lying in wait ever since the lunch conversation on Monday and maybe even since the date with Violet. I figured it appeared because I finally put a face to my suffering, a beautiful, smiling face to be the scapegoat for my ills. For some reason though this revelation gave me no solace, maybe because the true scapegoat I sought was only a mirror away.
“Hey, Michael!”
“Hey Mary,” I said cloaking the concoction of emotion under a casual facade.
“I read your story and I really enjoyed it! It’s just so well-written and the whole theme of the untranslatability of the human experience is really unique which made it an even better read,” She said her eyes lighting up.
I marveled at this friend turned near-stranger who understood me so well and I laughed softly out of joy and pain,
“Thank you so much,” I paused for a second while foolishly staring into her eyes, “that means so much coming from you.”
She maintained her smile but it lost some aspect, moving almost imperceptibly from admiration to pity and I hated myself for doing that to her. I tried to move the conversation to something different,
“Can’t believe we’re graduating Friday.”
Mary snatched at the chance to move on,
“Yeah, it’s crazy! It’s so surreal like I’ve seen so many people go through it and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s my turn now.”
I nodded with a smile and she mirrored me. I tried to think of more things to say just to keep her in front of me but my mind was blank and apparently, Mary’s was as well. We stayed there for another moment, smiles slowly fading when she saw someone behind me and walked over to speak to them, leaving with a quick goodbye. I watched her walk a few steps then sighed and headed to class.
I flipped my windshield wipers down a level as the rain slowed. I wasn’t very far from home now as my exit off of the highway became visible. For a moment I was conscious of the music that was playing, Alex Turner’s smooth voice carrying quiet emotions like the wind picking up and carrying beaten rock particles,
“An ache in your soul/ Is everybody’s goal…”
The song brought me back to Mary and back to a memory, sitting up in bed with the covers at my legs while rain pelted the windows in my room.
“So what do you think I should do?”
I locked the phone for a moment and hugged my knees to my chest staring off into the darkness. There was a dull pain inside me and I was a child standing inside awaiting the inevitable. Inside, my life was normal and everything was as it should be. Inside, my fantasy was, though improbable, still possible and the dream could still work out on some theoretical day in the future. However when I opened the door (and I had to open the door), my whole world would change and the fantasy would die stillborn in my mind, the corpse lying quietly as evidence of my failure. I laid back on the bed hoping sleep would delay the inevitable but another vibration from my phone ended that possibility.
“Please Michael, I trust your judgment just tell me what you think?”
My being screamed out into the void, the silence in the room filled with a million cries of anguish. I tried to console myself: “this won’t matter in five years” and “this isn’t really that important” and “you’re just dramatizing an inconsequential event” but these gave me nothing, in fact, they made things worse because I knew the words were true. I knew that this moment actually meant nothing and that I shouldn’t let this image of this high school girl have such a hold on me, but she did in spite of all of it. Staring back at that screen, imagining Mary staring anxiously at her own screen, I was surer of my love for her than at any time before, but also in that moment, I knew with certainty that she didn’t love me. I was at a crossroads, and though I knew I could’ve gone down the selfish road and clutch at the wispy dream of my love for her finally being reflected back to me, I knew that there was only one answer to her question.
“You should follow your heart,” the keyboard becoming obscured in the misty eyes that looked down on them, “that’s all anyone should ever do.”
The next day she was dating Zack.


#fiction  #romance  #literary  #love  #realistic 
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The last time you saw her...
Written by EyesofArt in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The last time I saw her

The last time I saw her, she grabbed me into a hug after she told me she was leaving to go to a new school. She was the new beautiful, intelligent girl transferred to my school of horrors. Her cousin, Rosemary introduced us and we were like magnets since. I admired her because she wasn’t vacuous like most “pretty” middle school, popular girls. I was a unique cookie, and yet she took a keen interest, and I believe nothing would ever rip us apart until the last time I saw her.

“Miesha, I am moving away. My parents are forcing me.”

I sat on the bleachers staring past her into…nothing. I didn’t register until she pulled me into a hug and said, “I will never forget you.”

She let go…

And walked away… 

I just sat there as a single tear dropped down my puffy cheek.

That was the last time I saw her…

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The last time you saw her...
Written by EyesofArt in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The last time I saw her
The last time I saw her, she grabbed me into a hug after she told me she was leaving to go to a new school. She was the new beautiful, intelligent girl transferred to my school of horrors. Her cousin, Rosemary introduced us and we were like magnets since. I admired her because she wasn’t vacuous like most “pretty” middle school, popular girls. I was a unique cookie, and yet she took a keen interest, and I believe nothing would ever rip us apart until the last time I saw her.
“Miesha, I am moving away. My parents are forcing me.”
I sat on the bleachers staring past her into…nothing. I didn’t register until she pulled me into a hug and said, “I will never forget you.”
She let go…
And walked away… 
I just sat there as a single tear dropped down my puffy cheek.
That was the last time I saw her…

#nonfiction  #romance  #love  #friendship 
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The last time you saw her...
Written by Gail

Now Forever Always

My mom always told me that good things happen to good people. That even in death there are good things all around us. People are born inherently good and they only do bad because we conform to the norms of society. I loved her. The most strong and beautiful woman alive. She made babies laugh with the sparkle in her eyes and moved mountains with the passion in her heart. She bled pride and nothing but confidence pumped through her veins. She was unstoppable. All they can say is that the last time they saw she was beautiful. The last time they saw her she was two. The last time.....STOP!!!!!! Look I'm sorry but who are YOU!!! You have no compassion for others. You keep saying trivial words and all they do is float in the air. You don't have the power to penetrate my heart. Where were you at 3am during the accident? I was by her side from dusk till dawn day in and day out. Where were you? Calling yourself family. Crying fake tears of selfish desire and greed. I don't need you. I hate you.

The last time you saw her you planned her departure.

The last time I saw her she was my ray of sun shine.

The last time I saw her she was the waves leading me through the fog.

The last time I saw her she said that she loved you.

The last time I saw her she kissed my forehead.

The last time I saw her she gave it her all and went into a blissful slumber.

Beautiful. Wonderful. Just like a fairy tail princess only now there is no prince charming because fairy tails don't exist.

The last time I saw her she was with me.

Now

Forever 

Always

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The last time you saw her...
Written by Gail
Now Forever Always
My mom always told me that good things happen to good people. That even in death there are good things all around us. People are born inherently good and they only do bad because we conform to the norms of society. I loved her. The most strong and beautiful woman alive. She made babies laugh with the sparkle in her eyes and moved mountains with the passion in her heart. She bled pride and nothing but confidence pumped through her veins. She was unstoppable. All they can say is that the last time they saw she was beautiful. The last time they saw her she was two. The last time.....STOP!!!!!! Look I'm sorry but who are YOU!!! You have no compassion for others. You keep saying trivial words and all they do is float in the air. You don't have the power to penetrate my heart. Where were you at 3am during the accident? I was by her side from dusk till dawn day in and day out. Where were you? Calling yourself family. Crying fake tears of selfish desire and greed. I don't need you. I hate you.

The last time you saw her you planned her departure.
The last time I saw her she was my ray of sun shine.
The last time I saw her she was the waves leading me through the fog.
The last time I saw her she said that she loved you.
The last time I saw her she kissed my forehead.
The last time I saw her she gave it her all and went into a blissful slumber.

Beautiful. Wonderful. Just like a fairy tail princess only now there is no prince charming because fairy tails don't exist.

The last time I saw her she was with me.

Now
Forever 
Always



#fiction  #love  #saddness 
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