Tag Archives: prose

A Society Cannot Stand Without Its Missing Piece

by Vivian

He asked me what we overlooked.

I told him love. The passionate one. The one that makes your skin crawl. Love that takes you to the edge of the universe and beyond.

I was in love once. I might be again.

He asked me if I’ve ever been in love. I told him yes. The “till death do us part” type of love. The blissfully falling type of love. Love that gives the butterflies in your stomach a permanent home.

I was in love once. I will never be again.

He asked me what it felt like. I told him, everything. The crazy, and high thrill. The ecstatic and melancholy, doleful and crestfallen love. Love that you think you understand – you don’t – but you do.

I was in love once. I might be again.

He asked me if I love him. I told him it’s just imaginary. The affair during the marriage that seemed so wrong but so right. The love of a wife, but not of a husband.

I was in love once. I will never be again.

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A Stranger II

by Bernice

“If you saw me at a bar—or any place—would you still be interested, and want to talk?”

Yes. I blink slowly. The ceiling doesn’t change. It’s always the same. Always white, with hairline cracks due to old age. I trace the cracks with my eyes, and back again. I frown.


Are you asking? Is the full question, but I don’t bother to finish it. He knows. He almost always understands when I don’t bother to finish my line of thought. Mostly, it annoys him. I’m too spaced-out or scatterbrained is what I think he thinks. He’s never called me either of those though.

“It’s a question whose answer Susanna thinks determines whether your partner is still interested in you.”

I nod slowly, although I don’t know if he’s looking at me. I place my arm over my forehead, shielding my eyes from nothing. The light on the ceiling is too dim to bother me.

“Yes, I would.”

I almost smile to myself, but stop short. What kind of question is that, anyway? With his thick, coarse hair, and almond shaped eyes, who wouldn’t be at least a little interested in him?

I sigh.

“What about you?” I ask quietly.

From the slight increase in pace of my heart, I’m aware that I’m a little nervous about his answer. I’ve changed a lot since we first met a year ago. I gained at least 15 pounds, and just two weeks ago, I chopped my hair off in my quest to go natural. He’d told me a million times before that he prefers long hair. But I wanted to be natural—I didn’t really care.

“Yes, especially with what you were wearing the other day. I think I’d want to talk to you, but would wait to see you again.”

I frown again. His answer is disappointing. All he needed to say was yes. Why did he include everything else? If I was wearing something else, would he not have been as interested? If he never saw me again after that, would he have been okay with it? I wonder if he knows his answer is dissatisfying, and purposefully made it dissatisfying because he’s mad.

He’s always mad. Or it feels like it. He has no patience for word games, or for when I don’t do something he thinks should be done in a certain way. He also hates when I don’t understand something that is evident to him. He’s a jerk in those times. In those times, I don’t understand him. We don’t understand each other.

We joke at times and say that he’s the scientist. I’m the artist. But aren’t artists scientists too? Of the mind, and the heart? I keep that to myself. I know he’d laugh. Or make that expression where he squints his eyes, knots his brow, and presses his lips together in mock confusion. I hate that, but not all the time. Sometimes, it’s cute. When I’m trying to communicate serious thoughts, I hate it. It makes me nervous—he makes me nervous. He doesn’t know that though.

When I’m nervous I don’t make sense, or at least, I think I don’t make sense. The more he makes that expression, the more sense I don’t make.

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Fatal Attraction

by Vanessa Carter 

I don’t think he understands the hold he has on me, but then again no one does. And I don’t think he understands that the idea of me without him makes my stomach quiver uncontrollably, like the uncontrollable shudder your gut makes from what I imagine is your heart descending from its original position in your body.

I don’t think he can feel the void I feel from trying to fill him with my love and commitment, I thought–thought that if I could just show him what authenticity looks like and what devotion felt like–you see, I devoted myself to him and it wasn’t easy but with time I broke down my walls and barriers and chains. I let it all go with him.

He knows everything. Now I hate to sound cliché, but it was love at first sight with him. The kind of love that took my breath away with just a simple gaze into his perfect brown eyes.

I loved him.

At that very moment, he had me under his spell. It was a marked fatal attraction and I couldn’t get enough of his insatiable stare. I was hooked before we even touched. Before our bodies ever touched, I felt him inside of me,

He was a part of me and I, him. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, we were connected by something neither one of us understood and we couldn’t walk away

We tried.

I remember when I asked him how much he loved me and his response was: he would kill and die for me. That excited me, but why?

Attraction grew into addiction and addiction grew into obsession and he was all mine! Funny thing is, I loved him the way he did me and any time an enemy attacked our fort, I envisioned fatalities.

We were meant for each other, except one thing:

He never broke down his walls for me and he never exposed his demons under the confidentiality clause so it created a stagnant pause in our potential to grow, like how it was intended to be because he doesn’t understand all the good he has to offer underneath all his baggage.

I was willing to bear his burden, but he had a different idea of how he would release his pain and I would be the punching bag.

The first time felt like a dream, at least, that’s what I forced myself to believe because he loved me. We loved each other.

That gaze in his eyes was unrecognizable every time, so maybe I convinced myself that it wasn’t him. But rather, the demons in control because he didn’t trust me with them.

Now I know it sounds crazy, but I understood and could hear his cry for help with every blow. He needed me to live, even if it meant I wasn’t.

Ironically, I felt his pain when he inflicted that on me.

Breakdowns create breakthroughs and it felt like there was no alternative because I needed him to break through the constraints in his mind and finally let me in.

Fighting a battle alone can bring the worst out of the best people and unfortunately, an unnourished brain isn’t equipped to sustain the fight without destroying everyone else on the battlefield.

I don’t think he understands that this was a team thing because he fought me like I was the enemy and I thought–I thought I could just show him that I was ride or die.

I mean, the hood part of me screamed Bonnie and Clyde ‘til the end, but now the end feels nearer than I anticipated. So that’s what comes with fatal attraction. Someone has to die in the end, even if it’s just figuratively.

So just die. Let all of who you were die, and all of what you’ve been through establish a new foundation in life and take control of your destiny.

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