This feeling creeps up on me.
takes over my body,
smacks me in the face,
takes me to another place.
My mind is filled
with your image,
I’m thrilled.
I’m elated and disturbed.
My feelings need to be curbed
because what you’re feeling is unclear.
The lack of reciprocity I fear.
And your body feels so warm,
entwined into mine
in perfect form.
I could linger with you
as long as you want me to,
never yearning to check the time,
this feeling I feel is incredibly sublime.
Where will this lead?
And what do I need
to put my mind at ease?
Just tell me you want me, please.

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They were small and fragile looking in the palm of my hand. I turned each of them over, examining the delicate markings etched into them in a fine script that I could not read. The man stood next to me, hovering as though he was afraid that I would put them in my pocket without paying for them and disappear.

His breath was hot on my face as I turned to look at him, reassure him. We were standing on the open sidewalk in the hot sun.

“How much do you want for them?” I asked.

He just looked at me and shook his head in short, furtive strikes.

“Do you speak English?” I asked. He hadn’t spoken a word since he first approached me and put them in my hand. At first, I thought that he was panhandling and had had shaken my head no. It was at that moment that he took my hand and placed them on my upturned palm.

He just looked down at my hand and shook his head again. For some reason, I was scared to pull out my wallet and show him money. Would he grab it and run? I reached into my pocket and pulled out a few bills folded together. I held them up and unfolded them one at a time hoping that he would stop me when his price was met.

He was startled by my actions, shaking his head in a wider, more violent arc and pushed the money away. He took my other hand and wrapped my fingers around the two small objects and held it against my chest. This done, he turned and loped down the street. They were mine now, but what would be the cost?

(...)
Read the rest of Stones at FlaskandPen.com.

© Tom writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

As young man, I never considered myself a writer, a wordsmith, or a word worker. In fact, I felt more comfortable in the woods or on the water, in a gym or on a football field then I did putting a pen to paper. Indeed, allow me to chase partridge in the morning, take some notes and answer a few questions in the afternoon, and that same night score 14 points and grab 7 rebounds seemed to be a recipe for a perfect high school day in 1970.

Nevertheless, the seeds were cast to my entrance into authorship (or is it simply story telling) that year when Sister Joan assigned an outdoor article to me one day in Journalism Class. The assignment was to investigate why kids went deer hunting, which had been successful, and then paraphrase their stories of hunting into an interesting article.
(...)
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she shone gold
with beerlight
and hopes
so high
you could climb them to the stars
and see
everything thats good about anyone.

it was the death of her.

no matter how many times
you lied
to her
the gold shines through.

if you’re the next guy,
give it a good once over.
keep it shining.
and tell her
to put the drink down.

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

I believe it’s safe to assume that around about now he’s arriving home from work, finding that the kids have been home for about an hour now, alone. I believe he’s looking at the kids and has asked them, rhetorically, “Where’s your mother?” I can hear him calling my name as he searched throughout the house, in vain, hoping maybe I let someone borrow my car and I dozed off in front of the TV in our bedroom. But no, I’m not there. I assume the younger two children, the 6-year-old twins, Brandy and Brianna, are laughing and playing with their colors and are fascinated by some school work they were given today in the first grade. But, the oldest, Candice, my intelligent 12 year old has picked up on something, she knows this is odd and she’s telling herself in the worst English possible “somthin jus aint right”. She’s watching her father closely, as usual, but this time instead of relying on him to determine how she should react, she has probably already told herself that “Whateva is goin on I gotta be strong!” She has picked up on his limp and isn’t sure what to think of that just yet. My husband calls my parents to find they haven’t heard anything from me either, but to make sure they don’t become stressed at their old age I can hear him telling them something along the lines of “Maybe she just stepped out to pick up groceries, or meet a friend. Don’t worry, everything’s fine.” (...)
Read the rest of Honey, I’m home… at FlaskandPen.com.

© Zondra Lynn writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

Jazz and poetry it’s something alike
I never know what I’m going to write
But I’m a jazz head from a kid you see
Listening to jazz since at least sixty three
Ella Fitzgerald was hitting those notes
So much beautiful music came from her throat
Lady Day crooning of lost love and strange fruit
In sartorial splendor the Duke could be found in a snappy suit
And dizz all dizzy creating his legacy, Manteca sprinting from the speakers
Jazz got us high before crack heads and tweakers and two hundred dollar sneakers
That I never buy
Don’t ask me why cause I will tell know lies about the burdens played from a saxophone
And Betty Carter and Nina Simone spilling their guts into the microphone
Have you heard of the watts poet’s brothers from watts telling the truth on society and the cops
Tupac told the same truths was a poet so let’s give him props
Maya Angalou rising still when I hear her, I can feel the honesty that can’t hide in her words

(...)
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Come with me. I will take your hand. Let me gaze on your breast until my eyes burn. Bring me one more drink.

I once asked myself why I fight for good when I can make so much more money doing the wrong thing. Last year we were in the middle of horrific money problems (the kind that take your house) and it all would have all gone away with just one year of working for the dark side. I got a job offer that would have fixed it all. That same night I had a dream. In my dream I was standing in a courtroom, arguing to a judge about a case. It was an impassioned plea on behalf of my client. As I caught my breath, I glanced at opposing counsel while remembering the art of lawyering involves connecting to the jury. I turned to face the jury and saw that they were all dolphins — sitting up straight in their human chairs and watching my next move with genuine interest. It is hard to ignore signs when they are sent to you.

Can I ignore you? I think you lie to me. I am sure you must. How else could you do this? Bring me one more drink.

When you are faced with a crossroad you have many options. You can stay the course you are on, or go a different direction and hope for the best. I understand this and yet tonight I am unable to face my own fortune. I know that when I turn left I will learn something about myself that I did not understand before. The last bend in the road taught me to face my fears, and that I can really stay up for three days straight and drink. I found out that it takes a lot to kill me, and that I have many blessings to give and get. Does anyone even read this shit?

You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. When I really saw you last I drove this guy home and he told me he has a hard time concentrating when he talks to you. That is what you are. Why lie?

There are a lot of judges and juries yet to convince. Most of all, there are not enough warriors who can take it and bring it again the next day. I recognize them when I see them and we give each other a knowing look and tilt of the chin. I like to think the universe will reward me the way other lawyers are rewarded with fat bank accounts and fast cars. Maybe it already has.

Bring me that drink.

© janesays writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

When you have given me
flowers, apologies, soft
sentiments and fresh hope
in softest whispers, but
haven’t said “I love you.”
It won’t be enough.

When you have told me the
truth about who you were
becoming who you are, and
have lulled my heart with
dream-songs. It should be,
but it won’t be – enough.

When you can tell me
in quiet-tones, face-to-face,
eyes-to-eyes that you love
me, I will know that you
see me clearly for the first
time. But, it won’t be enough.

When you can love me
across the miles of time
without hiding in the silence;
when the pain apart defines you
through the essence of my absence,
and your soul recognizes the loss –
then, and only then, will it be enough.

© Marissa Mullins writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

Did she jump out? Was it an accident? Why won’t he tell me? I ask him, “Where is she? Where is she right now?” He spreads his arms out and says, “Right here, she’s right here.” What does he mean? There’s nothing there, just his dirty shirt and leather jacket. The porch light from the trailer is yellow and dim; it just looks like a dirty t-shirt to me. He’s freaked out, really freaked out, he wants to tell me, but he wants me to know how freaked out he is, that its not his fault. He didn’t push her out of the van.

Okay, I know him, he wouldn’t do that. She would jump out, she was high as a kite when they left and pissed off. He always keeps his cool but she’s too much for any man. Finally he tells me, “it’s her blood, on my shirt, she jumped out of the van, the helicopter came and took her to Harborview.” He’s searching my eyes but he doesn’t want me to see that. Its okay, I’m not upset with you, I know it wasn’t your fault, I know how crazy she gets. “Is she alive?” I should be crying by now, I’m 14. I’m the oldest and little Angie and Josh are in the trailer, they know something’s wrong. Why did he bring me out here and make me the grown up about this? Doesn’t anybody get it? Call her parents, call her friends. I can’t do this; I can’t handle everything for her, for him. But I have to, everyone else is afraid and I am too but I never show it. It feels kind of good to be a grown up already. I feel like I have some power and control that other girls my age don’t have.
(...)
Read the rest of Head Injury at FlaskandPen.com.

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

When publishing for electronic readers, it’s important to keep it simple. Most ereaders can’t handle fancy spacing or display fonts and titles like you may be used to using. If your goal is to publish your book in as many marketplaces as possible, you’ll need to keep a bare bones copy of your book. (...)
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© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

It’s easier to market to new readers when you have such a huge audience at your disposal! (...)
Read the rest of Attract New Readers by Adding Your Existing eBooks to the Kindle and Nook Stores at FlaskandPen.com.

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

Children’s laughter and screams of joy drifted through the air around the playground on a warm spring day. Little hands flew up into the sky, expressing their hopes and dreams of the game that was most important that day. Lilly, the teacher chosen to supervise the kids’ outside time sighed as she circled around the playground for Larchway After School Enrichment Rooms. Keeping an eye on thirty children was never an easy thing to do. But today was her day to open the outside to assure the kids wouldn’t explode from not digging into the woodchips or bouncing the basketball off the hoop in attempt to hit her car.

“So how’s your day going?” David, her boss, called as he sauntered over to where she was standing.

“It’s fine as always David, how about you?” She asked, never letting her eyes wander away from the playground.

“Good. I’ve been working on one of my paintings and have been so inspired that I can’t sleep much.” His low laugh rolled like a ball down a hill. “So I’ve been hearing some plans from your portable.” He continued, ending with a smirk.
(...)
Read the rest of Mary’s Secret at FlaskandPen.com.

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

How the fuck
do you tell when
a mango is ripe? and
why do I have to do this
alone?

Unsure and fed up,
I cut it open
and decide that it
tastes something
like gumdrops.

Is this how things were
supposed to play out?!

Later, I listen to songs
about hot wind
in the western sky
and watch the cat
get stuck in the blinds.

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

1

I wonder sometimes why I am so scared of people. Because of these fears I spend a lot of my time alone. I am most alone when I am out in public, surrounded by seemingly happy people, paired off or in groups, laughing, drinking and having a good time.

I am the ultimate voyeur, attaching myself to these people like a barnacle to a ship’s bottom. I listen in on their conversations and imagine myself dressed in their fashions and making love to their girlfriends and wives. I am not much to look at, rather average in fact, so I blend in easily. I can sit with my back to people and be a part of their happy little group.

2

I grew up in a lonely home. Our house was quiet, dark and overgrown with weeds and bushes. My room was on the second floor, overlooking the railroad tracks. Late at night the bums would light campfires and pass their bottles from hand to hand and laugh. I could hear their voices rise and fall, although I could not make out the words. I longed to be down there among them. I imagined that they had colorful names and adventurous lives. They could do whatever they wanted, unfettered from the day-to-day responsibilities that bound everyone else. We would be free. I would sit among them, my legs dangling out of the side of a boxcar, the wind in our faces, drinking short dogs and cooking up hobo stew at night. We would make marks on people’s fences in small towns. This certain mark meant a good place to ask for a handout. Another was a secret sign to stay away.

3

I was drafted into the army at age eighteen. Others were protesting, but I didn’t care. I had finished an undistinguished high school career and wasn’t doing anything. In a way I was lucky. I was trained as a photographer. I shot pictures of battlefields and generals. On the side I took pictures of the grunts in full combat regalia to send home to loved ones. On occasion, they would pose as hunters triumphant, machine guns at the ready, bullets crisscrossing their chests, cigarettes dangling, one foot upon the chest of a dead VC.

4

After the war, I drifted. I couldn’t settle down to the standard nine to five. I hitched hiked across the country and worked odd jobs. I stopped for a while in Iowa. I took a maintenance job at a local newspaper. I helped clean the giant presses that rolled non-stop. With my first paycheck I bought a used Nikon camera and a couple of lenses. Good solid equipment, nothing fancy. I started taking pictures at night. A chance encounter in the company cafeteria led to a friendship with one of the staff photographers. We swapped war stories and I gained darkroom privileges. One night a photo editor saw some prints of mine that were drying, a series of portraits of the other boarders at my rooming house. The next morning he called me into his office and offered me a job.

5

I liked working the police beat. Sometimes I was paired with a reporter, but I often worked alone. The death and carnage didn’t bother me. I had seen much worse in the jungles and plains of Southeast Asia. I joked with the cops and paramedics. We were kindred spirits; all witnesses to the unspeakable and unbelievable things people are capable of doing to one another. Life is different at 3 a.m., bathed in the glow of revolving red lights and cries of pain.

6

“What are you doing?” she yelled, rushing toward me, arms flailing.

“Just doing my job”, I replied, lining up the shot, focusing on the crushed body sprawled on the damp pavement.

“Can’t you leave us alone? Don’t you see what you’re doing?” she cried.

“I’m just doing my job, lady”. Click. Click. “Just doing my job.” Click. Click. Click.

© Tom writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

Wrapped in emotions
Colorful feelings
Tied with anxiety
High expectations

That beg not to be disappointed

Uncover with fervor
Feverishly tearing or
Neatly unfolding and
Saving the outer adornment

The inside is irrelevant

What counts is that it looks nice
My advice would be to…

Leave it as it is.

© editor writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

Morty sat in the window booth closest to the door. The light was better here, he thought, easier to read the fine print of the classifieds. Carefully, he took his fork and poked the egg yolk, letting a little bit drip out. Taking a piece of toast, he sopped it up and nibbled on it as he scanned the paper.

He would start his day in Silverlake, at an estate sale high up in the hills overlooking the reservoir. From there he would work his way across Los Feliz to the Griffith Park area and then head down to Hollywood. Last week he’d been through Long Beach, Lakewood and Bell Gardens.

Morty picked through the hash browns, separating the dark crunchy pieces and ignoring the rest. These he consumed one at a time, savoring them. Refolding his paper napkin, he wiped his face, dabbing around his mouth in small circular motions.

Reaching over, he noticed his coffee cup felt cold. The non-dairy creamer floated in oily swirls on top of the tepid brown liquid. The service was slow here, even if you were a long time regular. He looked around for the waitress and couldn’t see her. Must be on break, he thought. He picked up the check and saw that it was the same as always. He left the same tip as always, gathered up his papers and left.

The first stop on his list was a wash. There was nothing there that interested him. A folding table on the front lawn was covered with souvenir coffee cups, old mismatched dishes, a single book end, paperback books, and a couple of beat up pots and pans. All had prices written on masking tape stuck to them. There were no personal items, nothing that told anything about the person who had owned them. Morty gave the table a quick glance and then looked over at the house.

(...)
Read the rest of Say Cheese at FlaskandPen.com.

© Tom writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer

The point of no return was when you were talking about that hip hop mayor from the town you think you are going back to — the town you will have to call and tell to wait a little longer because you have to stay here with me now.

You told me to write about tonite. I typed the first sentence and then lay awake thinking that I will never forgive myself for letting you walk out the door. Until I see you again I have no choice in the matter and you are a figment of my red wine and cigar-ination.

I can feel it hurt somewhere where my ribs try to contain my surging heart. One more time please so I can figure out if that ink burns under my fingers. I know you are not real because you can’t be. Simple as that.
When you are the big seven oh — I will tell stories about it — I promise.

© janesays writing for Flask and Pen Literary Magazine | Become a contributing writer