Apparition

I still cannot comprehend why my Soul would kill itself in such a manner - a slow and torturous process of dying. Against all reasons.

I cannot comprehend why, for years, I must wake with this pain in my heart; with the knowledge that when it hurts deeper and longer, you are holding someone else's hand.

A feeling and knowledge for which I bleed, and bleed.

And I bleed more so these days, because I keep seeing and hearing your ghost. It haunts me with no consideration for time and place. It haunts me when I'm a sinner and when I'm a saint. It haunts me more so each time I deny my affection towards you.

I would run, and run, and run. I run in the hope that you would transpire into the air together with my heat and sweat. In the least, that as I increase speed, God is His mercy would let the world suddenly vanish with all existence including you and me and whoever the other person is.

I finished running late one evening. I was going to change when I met him. He smiled. He was pleasant. He asked of things. He asked if I might sometimes join him and his friends for a game or two. I smiled back. Perhaps, I thought, I could learn to slowly let you go.

And then I saw you. Sitting behind him, with your bare back facing us. You were a distance away, but it was your back. I remembered the details, the curves, the sinews. The way you always sat.

For seconds I was speechless, until your back slowly transformed into some random man's with completely different details, and a different way of sitting.

I tried running away. I ran from the places we know.

I went into seclusion. I prayed. I came out after a time, thinking that perhaps God had finally given me the grace to go my way (or where He intends me to), and you yours.

Then you slowly, slowly, passed before me. Sitting in a car with the window rolled down. The way you always held a gadget in your hands - your mobile, or ipod. The way you always raised your eyebrows, feigning indifference.

You haunt me everywhere.

You are crucifying me.

You have always looked and sounded like you would recover sooner than me. Perhaps you have. Perhaps you have.. or you'll convince others - and then yourself - that you have.

I used to be sure, as I woke with that familiar pain piercing through my chest, that something had taken place. When it hurt deeper, and it lasted throughout the day, I knew something had happened with you. What and who is it now?

But you said, again and again, "Stay still."

So, even as I bled this morning, I remained still. I knew. I sensed. But I stayed still and bled in silence, because you asked.

Perhaps someday I'll learned to ignore the pain's message.
Perhaps I'll someday stop hearing and seeing your ghost.

Or I'll bleed to my death.

When making love to a woman, start first with her eyes. Notice how they sparkle with excitement, the way little flecks of color reflect meaning as she looks back at you. See there her mind longing to reach you, to be touched in a place held back for an average embrace. When making love to a woman, start first with her eyes, and you will find the true woman, whether heavy or slight, tall or short, large breasted or small.

From her eyes, drop down the length of her nose. Trace the outline of her lips. Let her kiss your fingertips softly in return. Gently stroke her cheek, and do not lose your gaze upon her eyes. Ignite the energy, charged and excited, as electrons race through her body. Then hold her chin in the cusp of your palm, and place your lips upon her forehead, on the space between her eyes, and on the parting of her mouth. Witness all the years she has worn, the lines around her eyes, the worry and the laughter, the wear and tear of life. This is all that she has to offer you.

When you have had a good long look, notice next the tender way her neckline curves, the pulsing of her life through artery from heart to mind. See here her vulnerability. Breathe your heated breath upon her skin. Feel the way her defenses fall away, the way she finds your ear. Hear the soft moan that rumbles like distant summer thunder clouds.

Do not trespass until you know her story. Find the outline of her life in the way her body yields, in the layers and the stretches, in the scars and the pain. Only when you understand her joys and sorrows, her dreams and disappointments, can you honestly make love to a woman. If you still need to learn these things, stop, have some dinner. Wait for another day.

Written by (pseudonym) Caroline Wolfe

Altered State

By Rick Eid


She had me at “You look different than I remembered.” It wasn't the opening line of my dreams, I admit, but it didn't matter. I was transfixed by N's earnest eyes, wavy yellow hair, and throaty Debra Winger voice. Twenty minutes later, I ordered a $42 filet mignon — and couldn't take a bite. I was so enraptured, I was nauseated. No woman has ever caused me to lose my appetite — though a few have made me want to throw up. Before date number three, I tried on 11 different shirts — beating my previous predate shirt-trying-on record by 10. A few weeks later, I walked out of a Hollywood soiree overflowing with uninhibited wannabe starlets so I could spend the night with N eating turkey meat loaf and watching Finding Nemo. The following Saturday I canceled golf plans in order to go dog-collar shopping for her chihuahua, Tito. The next day, we went on a frenzied search for the perfect espresso machine — even though neither one of us really likes espresso. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But I suppose the moment I really knew she was The One was when an internist was probing my prostate during an annual checkup. For those two invasive seconds, all I could think about was how much I loved N and how unfair it would be to get sick now, after all those years of being healthy and not madly in love. When Dr. Gorlitz removed his finger from my you-know-where (and nodded approvingly), I'd never been happier. Not because the exam was over, but because I knew my life was about to begin.

p-r-o-m

Prom is seemingly a culmination of high school social life, where social aptitudes are put through the tests of fire and water in one night. Senior students face it with a mix of excitement and fear, as if it would be the time of their lives.

In many cases, prom is really a silent competition.
It is a time to flaunt the most stylish and expensive suits and dresses, the best and most dazzling looks, and the hottest dates. The popular exercise their freedom to appoint the perfect dates while the rest – the majority ‘losers’ – have their (secret) romantic wishes dashed and hearts broken.

I remember my prom – I remember very well the pain I felt.

I remember anxiously searching – in an ordinary department store – for an affordable something that would not make me look too bad. I was flabby and unattractive; and being a scholarship student, I could not afford a designer label or a tailored dress, or a fancy hair-do. Then the boy I secretly pined for, chose one of the most popular girls as his date instead of me (doh, obviously). It was expected to go with a partner of opposite sex, so I resolved to ask a boy whom nobody wanted as well.

Looking back now I feel rather sorry for him, having used him as a prop. Not that I am ungrateful. He could not and would not dance, but he wore an outfit that would suit what he thought I would wear. When the social pressure inside the ballroom became too much to bear, he faithfully walked with me around the lobby, along the hallways, up and down the hotel stairs – without voicing a word of complaint. (Dear Friend, if you are reading this, many, many thanks.)

Later that night, having paid much money for the ballroom, the students were given a fifty percent discount to rent a suite. Those who opted to stay, among others, were me, my crush, and his date. Ouch. My date chose to go home.

It became a night of stabbing pain and fake smiles.

However, something much worse was the fact that I was foolish enough to overlook what I should have cherished.


Had I understood better, I would have focused on those who offered me the warmth and happiness of friendship. I should have better appreciated the gift a close friend gave later that night. I could have focused on the joy of sharing a blanket with good friends while watching The Truman Show in the hotel suite. I could have cherished the last few moments our little circle of friends had, before each of us went our separate ways. That circle of friends was one of nerds, geeks and dorks, but we love(d) each other.

Had I known better, I would not have worried so much about my looks. I would not have felt that heart-broken about my crush (whom I thought I loved very much – I was dead wrong) and that jealous of his date, who had all the looks and wore an exquisite princess dress specially tailored for the occasion. I should not have used my date as a prop and gone with a good friend instead – someone whose company I could genuinely enjoy and vice versa.


It is foolish to stack adolescent romantic dreams on a prom night. After all, it is only a prom. Most couples who exchanged romantic promises that night did break up a while later. I remember what some people wore and how stunning some people looked then. I remember who the prom king and queen were. Yet those things no longer matter now.

Prom should be a celebration of friendship and young adulthood; with good food, good company, and a good amount of sensibility. Apart from this, prom is not that important – really.

She laid on the chairs she had put together in that darkened corner. Her back hurt slightly on the uncomfortable makeshift bed. Still for that while it would suffice. Breathing deeply, she felt her muscles gradually relaxed. The sound of conversations became soft murmurs in her ears. She kept her eyes open nevertheless. 15 minutes, she reminded herself, trying to resist the temptations to drift into the oblivion, and to think forbidden thoughts. Difficult, as she was almost hoping, that she would feel him there, in the darkness of that corner, behind the curtains, even for just a second, brushing his lips against hers.