I Watched Every Move She Made -- Uganda

I am a man.  Not just any man, but a Scorpio man.  I love women.  I love the walk, smell, mannerisms, intelligence, voluptuousness, smoothness and energy of a woman.   However, all women are not created equal and there is always one woman who stands above all others in a social setting. That is what the object of my affection is doing. She is not just mesmerizing me, but every man within this gathering. As quiet as kept, her ambiance captured the attention of a few women as well.  The ones who regularly engage in relations with women and the ones who despise a woman whose sexiness forces them to rethink hair, clothes and why they came.

I watched her every move as she strutted with grace almost gliding across the floor as she greeted friends and were introduced to strangers.  She wore a collage of the latest female fashion with a mix of cultural sensibilities and a psychedelic flare. Yet, oh so classy and oh so fly!  Her shoes of course were perfectly matched with her clothes, as with fingernail and toenail polish.  UUMMPH!!!!  As I watched every move she made, I could not help but to lick my lips in approval, as I noticed the stylish and yet regal flow of her hair.  I wanted to rub my fingers through it immediately.  I instantaneously began to make love to her in my mind and think of the various positions of pleasure.  I thought of the possibility of a meaningful and fulfilling relationship.  Long walks together.  The sound of my friends jokes and the sounds of others in the room became silent and the only sound that remained was of my beating heart.

Class..............as she dismissed the overly aggressive men, the men who moved too quick, the men who stumbled over their words, the aggressive woman with untold intentions, all the while sneaking looks at......me.............?????????!!!!!!!!!  Hmmm, perhaps an invitation.  As I looked again as I could not take my eyes off of her, she not only looked at me again but she gave me a smile.  This relaxed, yet well attended house warming party for a mutual acquaintance was the perfect atmosphere for a well deserved meeting between man and woman.  None of the awkwardness that could present itself in a normal everyday setting like a grocery store or office building.  None of the fakeness that permeates the club scene.  Conversation can flow and minds can be at ease.  I began to go through a mental checklist of myself, in order to do a quick assessment of our visual compatibility with the anticipation to explore our mental faculties.  I was wearing a shirt I purchased from the Express, pants from Rag-O-Rama, shoes from Aldo and gemstone jewelry from a store in Little 5 Points and the superb smell of lightly placed African Oil Cologne.  My check of myself met a swift approval.  I began to think of what could be conversation starters.  Her hair, her clothes, her inviting and pleasant scent, our mutual acquaintances, the highs and lows of Atlanta life.  I knew that I would not ask her if she has a "boyfriend," "husband" or "baby daddy"  I would not ask her what is her zodiac sign or how many degrees, if any that she had nor what college did or do you attend or anything dealing with social or financial status.  Naw............I had to get to know her.  Making her laugh, laughing at her jokes, allowing her to express her interest, that is what I desired and needed and perhaps that could be what she is looking for as well.

I watched her every move as I waited across the room calmly.  I felt no need to rush to the doorstep of opportunity, I made the choice to allow the moment to develop.  I decided I would wait for her to look again and then I would test her to see if her interest was genuine.  As anticipated, she looked again and did not turn away.  Yes.........opportunity!  I mouthed precious words to her from afar.  I did not have to do anything outlandish or reinvent the wheel, I merely needed to get her in my presence. The attraction had already been established and I needed only to create an invitation of my own.

I watched every move she made as she confidently strode towards me to find out who is this brother on the other side of the room.  She radiated sexiness and curiosity while her lips were pressed together with a cute twist.  As she approached, my heart began to beat a little faster, but like a friend told me a long time ago.  I had to play it "Ice Cold."  As I watched every move she made as she finally stood before me, she said............................................................................................

 Uganda contact info is  JER.TYLER@HOTMAIL.COM

We Can Leave Whenver We Want. Not Everone Can -- David Hernquist

Excerpt from "The Undoing"
Simon and Thomas Driving Through The City To Simon’s Parents’ House

There were oversized churches leftover from before the neighborhood emptied out. Now the buildings were rented to the people left behind. Those people replaced the old denominations with new ones like the True Coptic Church Of He Who Is To Be Risen.

We passed stretches of houses all standing, still inhabited and huddled together, but in other places the city opened up with burned-out buildings that no one bothered cleaning up. Or no buildings at all, no houses, just the sidewalk shell of the block that used to be there. Giant fields of weeds and grass, car parts and metal trash, black trees and sick trees and dead trees.

Are you glad I drove, I said.

You’re doing a fine job.

We drove through the east side of the city and crossed the border into Grand Tip.

We can leave whenever we want, said Simon.

The implication being, I said, that other people can’t. It would seem so.

I don’t know what my constraints are, said Simon. I certainly don’t know anyone else’s.

I don’t feel constrained at all.

Grand Tip. Homes lined up one after another, tucked neatly together. People were out walking simply to take a walk. When we turned onto Hamilton, we saw a woman speed-walking in a bright, neon blue sweat-suit. She was fit, older, probably a mother. I desperately wanted her to be attractive when I passed her. I watched the jerk in her step and her clenched fists jabbing mechanically, her head bobbing.

Look at that, I said. (I could still make him laugh.) You should take that up.

Simon started to swing his fists and turn his head abruptly back and forth.

I know his street but not his house. Simon pointed it out. It was a stone and brick house, undersized for Grand Tip; it made every attempt to look like an English cottage, with dark red brick — the front door rounded at the top in a semi-circle. No one came out to greet us.

Sam and Gloria answered the door together. They were glad to see their boys, smiling, not rosy, not overly affectionate. Simon was distant. They were used to it. Almost expected it. Gloria introduced me to Sam. I couldn’t remember when I had been introduced to her. He greeted me with a handshake. She led us a room (a sort of study) with a fully-stocked bar. She left us momentarily and called up to Simon’s sister Sarah to join us.

Gloria reappeared and immediately asked if Sam had offered us something to drink. Sam hadn’t. Gloria turned to me and with glassy manners informed the room that Sarah would take an aperitif with but would be not be accompanying for dinner.

You Know Love Is Over When -- Andrew Nimitz

You know love is over when you don’t want to call her … and when you bypass her calls – to inconveniently hear later at your own convenience.  You know it’s over when her smell does not remind you of her, but only of sweat.

You can recount more cons that pros – more bags n punches vs. passionate throws.   Her face is vague now, whereas before you could trace her contours to within a millimeter.   You avoid her name, as if speaking it would summon some abysmal terror.

It is replaced with contempt:  for the wrongs she put on you; for the resentment for being played a fool – and now being adamantly unable to put any value to her words or actions.   Now, all that she says and/or does is simply another ruse to deplete you of whatever is left to be taken.

You know love is over, because you can compare your after-feelings to that you have for another ex-girlfriend, whom you can still think of fondly.   This one, what’s her name – you still think of … but not fondly.

And now it’s the flu, you just want it to be over:  the aches, the pains, the fever, the stuck-to-the-couch momentum.   But it lingers on, it drags on, it molds on.  James Taylor’s Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone applies also to when she’s here.

You know love is over when a week goes by, and nothing happens.  You try to cough up another memory, but it refuses to be dislodged.   No, you can’t recover that quickly … it is the flu after all. 

Funny, you don’t even think about sex with her either.   It’d be like watching the same porn flick for the worse-teenth time.   The last few times with her, you were trying your best to think of the Starbuck’s woman, or that new actress, just to maintain your motivation.  

No, love is over.   It is best that it is, so that you can minimize your losses.  There is no energy or motivation to even fight with her; what’s there to win?   Take your last breath, lay content in the coffin, and rise again tonight as the undead.   Watch more TV without watching it.   Get a coffee-high and go out, but for what?   It just takes too much energy, and your eyes, legs, feet, and arms are all too heavy for movement.

Love is over; war is over.   Sure, there will be some small firefights to come, but it really is over.   Had anyone won?   The damages can certainly be tallied.

The phone rings; it’s her.   I’ll get it later – I want to hear a voicemail, but only to feel the syphoning even more.   It is a needle, another injection of emptiness – to have a phone call break the vacuum of isolation, and to reinforce it.

You know love is over, because it hurts to feel.   It is a sickening crawl in your liver, unable to purge the toxins from your body.   Recovery, it’s all you can think about – when will it be done?

Love is over when you don’t have to think about it.  Love is over when you have to think about it.   Love is over before you are even aware of it.

Former patterns have no meaning.   What was I doing that for?  Where did it get me?  Love like there’s no tomorrow – yeah, ok, and if one does, there definitely won’t be.   Love is a battlefield, with sickening, dead, bloated bodies gazing at you.   Love is like oxygen … or lack thereof.

Wickedly and sadistically interesting, how such an intangible and ill-defined concept can pull one down.  Sex does not do that – you can enjoy sex, and when it is over, you are ready again an hour or so later.   Love?  You need a century to go at it again.

Love is over, it is.  But, it is going to take a long time for it to really be over.

He Would Not Take Off His Sunglasses -- Andrew Nimitz

He would not take off his sunglasses.   Actually, I was unsure if he even heard me.    Though the wind was brisk, the sun was piercing and loud, as it was a cloudless noon.   I had seen him lying there earlier this morn, but only from a distance – only a figure, not a face.

The guy was tan, but soon would be burnt if he did not get up soon.   He was on his back, with his arms conveniently to his sides.   Funny that not much sand was on his feet, and funnier that no sandals or shoes were to be found.   Some windswept sand was on his chest, and in his goatee.   That would irritate and itch me – I hate feeling ‘odd things’ on my face – a fly, a piece of a leaf, a smudge of lipstick from Sarai.

I picked up a bit of seashell between my toes and tossed it at him – it bounced off his stomach.  He did not flinch or anything.  I edged closer and kneeled.   I did not want to wake him and get sucker-punched, so I gently poked his shoulder, “Dude, wake up. “ 

Again he did not move; I prodded his arm, which upon touch, was not relaxed, but stiff – like a Macy’s manikin.   I scuttled backward in the sand, realizing he was dead – a corpse.    I could hear the roll of the incoming waves, but my mind was numb.   Dead, a dead body – not long dead, but like this morning dead!

I stared at him, but not at him – like looking at a bird but only seeing the branch it’s on.  No had seen him all morning?  Just lying there?  How did he get here?  He was not old, so a heart attack did not seem likely.

I was paralyzed – I was afraid to be here if someone came, but I could not run.   I wondered how he died, but was too mortified to touch him again, to see a knife wound, or blood, or a bullet hole, or a rope burn round his neck.

Someone was down the beach, coming this way:  someone jogging or running.   What would I say?  “Hey, I found this dead body here.”  “Do you know who this is?”  The only signs in the sand were my own foot prints.   Christ, I did not kill anyone, and now I’m going to be a suspect! 

What can I do?  If I run, they can track me; if I stay, the police will be on me like crazy.   What killed him?  Maybe he had an aneurism or something natural.   I can’t risk it.

The water was not that warm yet, but I had no choice – I made for the water.

The foaming saltwater slapped me as I rushed in.   I felt bewildered and surreal as I fell into the water, gasping from its chill, but at least getting away from the body.

How far out should I swim?  I don’t want to end up like him, lifeless and nameless.   But I can’t let the jogger see me!   I managed to get to deep enough to submerge myself, with only my head bobbing up between undulating waves.

Had the jogger seen me?  Was I trapped and doomed?     

I treaded water and watched – hoping to see without being seen.   The jogger was nearing it, nearing the body, nearing him.   The jogger slowed near the body, but did not stop.  Finally, with the jogger out of sight, and with my arms and legs tiring, I made my way to shore, but away from it.

He Wouldn't Take Off His Sunglasses -- Crystal Kadakia

There's something I call true color out there and something I call man-created color. Animals perceive color (sometimes), humans perceive color (but not the full spectrum) - alas, all these exceptions to the rules of true reality. It changes how we see the world, it changes how we perceive everything.

He wouldn't take off his sunglasses, not him, not ever. Not when he was at graduation, out in the glaring sun of Texas. The kind of sun that makes the air shimmer and you wonder if your skin, too, will burn and steam like the mirages.

He wouldn't take his sunglasses off, not on his first day of work. Or out on his motorcycle. Or on a first date.

Not even when his Mom died.

This life is about perception. About what you want to perceive. And him? He wanted to perceive nothing but the darkness. He wanted to run, but the closest he ever got was the tinted shades and a gaze that looked right past you.

"Take them off, goddamnit. It's evening, the sun is down," she said. He didn't respond, but stared behind her.

"It could almost be a canoe, couldn't it? A dugout canoe with a lid," he thought. "Absurd, idiotic thoughts. These are the kinds of thoughts idiots have when someone dies." he shook his head at his own ridiculous behavior.

"Um, is that a no?" she prodded, annoyed beyond belief. "This is it, Brent. This is your last chance to see her. And this is what you're going to do? Hide behind your stupid shades?" she threw her hands up, frustrated.

Everything looked an orange brown behind these. Nothing seemed real - her skin didn't seem real, the trees looked like a Dr. Seuss comic. His hand lifted to his glasses. Itched at him. His brain begged him to just this once, stop running. Follow logic, follow courage. It didn't make any sense to leave those shades on.

Reluctantly he let the logic overcome. His fingers gripped the frame and before his heart could stop him, he flung his shades to the ground. Now he could see the purple hues of dusk, the gray clouds amassed above. The trees weren't shadows, they were real. True color.

His Mom was in true color, too. "True dead color," he thought. He wanted to run: fight or flight, always the choice. "Time to fight?" he asked himself. "Is this why you're dead? To convince me that reality doesn't suck if I just opened my eyes? That it is worth seeing, being in?"

He thought about the countless hours of his life. Hours and hours, spent hiding. Hiding behind chromatic television shows, video games, "protecting" himself from the light when he went outside. His mom loved to walk, so there he would be, by her side. She would point out that flower or this bird.

Now he doesn't know if he really ever saw them.
"We were all always just trying to look so damn cool," he thought, ironically. "But we never connected, just afraid of being real, putting ourselves out there."

Up came his foot. With a crunch, the black shine of Gucci shattered into the blades of grass. She looked shocked as he laughed. He felt free.

It was a weird sensation - like freeing one sense to its full potential made all of his other senses more aware. He could feel the air on his face, cool and clean. He saw Holly's smile, the blue green of her eyes. He saw his mom, lying still, the light behind her skin gone. Flat color, serving as nothing but a reminder of the vitality she once had.

He felt tears but he didn't care. His perceptions used to be so clouded, his heart and mind out of sync. Always worried about judgements, about shoulds. How he should look, what he should say. Now he just wanted to experience life. It wasn't just the shades that he let alter the color of his life. It was other people's thoughts, other people's confusions, confusions of their reality.

This then, was the reality. His mother was dead. But it was okay. It was going to be okay. Because he felt like he had been born again. And maybe it was she who had felt sorrow for him, for the dead way he had been living life, so disinterested.

He turned, his face wet with slow tears. "I know what I want on her gravestone. 'Life is meant to be lived. Here lies the greatest example of life, even in her death" Holly's clasped hands shook, but to no use. Her eyes started releasing a small rainstorm of its own.

"That is perfect." she smiled.

True color finds us in life, one way or another. You don't know what experience will unlock it for you, at what age it will come, or who will bring it to you. The desire to truly experience life, to remove the biased lens you've been seeing through, is inevitable. To know oneself is to admit and accept the truth: the untinted, untainted truth. To appreciate oneself and the world in which one lives, is a great joy.