Here's where we'll build our exhange. Please comment with wants and needs and who you are and what you write. I'll paste it back into the second to top header on the first page. And when it builds up, I'll encourage cross emailing. We'll get started.
RW Richard
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Ninety-Nine Stories
NINETY-NINE STORIES
by RW Richard
A wall of searing blue flames pressed Hussam to the melted and broken windows. He couldn’t breathe and the heat was hell.
“It’s you,” the pretty girl from personnel said. Over the months he had stolen glances of her and she did the same, both gutless wonders.
“I’m Hussam Fayyad, your boss’s boss.”
“I know. Save your breath. I’m Sarah Bernstein.” He knew. They locked their hands, tight. Leaned out and hesitated. Then, Sarah’s wavy auburn hair caught fire.
“Marry me.” She screamed from the pain, tears evaporating. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped her head.
“I will. I do.” Holding hands tight, they jumped out from the ninety-ninth floor.
“I do,” she tried to say—her breath pushed inward by the rush of air—not that he could hear her anyway. She closed her eyes, he held unto her like a vise, as if they were one. Perhaps now they were.
“Mom and dad I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Hussam Fayyad.” Her folks' home, a big split-level in Oradell New Jersey, had beautiful large tile floors, a modern kitchen, with a menorah on the table. The candles had pooled on the table top.
“I guess it’s stupid for me to tell my daughter she should have chosen a nice Jewish boy?” Sarah’s mom asked rhetorically.
“We’re soul mates,” Hussam said.
“We’re besherte, mom.” She put it in Yiddish terms. He dared not open his eyes and lose this vision of her mom and dad. He had always thought about Sarah, trying to get up the nerve to ask her out. Worried of cultural, political, and religious differences. He didn’t believe in treating women like second class citizens, not at work, not in marriage. His hiring practices and office policies touted the heart of a modern liberated Moslem.
“We’ll always love the thought of you,” her mom and dad said, hugging him.
“We have to go to the wedding now,” Sarah said, pulling his hand.
At the wedding, Hussam’s little brother carried the ring on a purple pillow. Sarah always knew Hussam would come by, lean on her desk, ask her out. They’d marry, have three kids, two girls, one boy, or the other way around. They both wanted to be outvoted in either case. These gorgeous kids would grow up brilliant and loving, real menches; oh yes, two dogs, just right.
“I am so happy to have you in my heart.” Hussam’s parents, both a little portly, hugged her by the orchids stationed at the first row of seats in their garden. Tears turned to rivers. Images rifted through her of falafel, lamb kebob, along with gefilte fish, Manischewitz Blackberry for the toast. Bruce Springsteen’s band struck up, ‘Here Comes the Bride.’
“He took my hand,” she explained to his mom and dad by way of apology.
“Thank you pretty Sarah. My son, he always work, work, work.” She wished the world a better place, maybe a little less work, a little more love.
“He needs a strong Jewish girl to love him,” his dad said. They kissed her cheeks.
“I always had and always will love him,” Sarah said. She had harbored a tiny love, like a seedling, hoping to water it. No doubt about her feelings, now.
Martin Luther King without thinking forgot to add one word, Moslem. “. . . when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews, Moslems, and Gentiles, Protestant and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: 'Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.'” Sarah’s heart beat the rhythm of Martin’s words. She felt Hussam heard and saw Martin with her at the Lincoln Memorial, because he squeezed her. He’d never let go.
I am within you, Sarah.
I am within you, Hussam.
“Great Grand Papa.” Isaac Bernstein was gassed at Auschwitz, yet thin, young, suspendered, a silly fedora, munching on a pipe, his eyes opened to heaven.
“You bring the right man with you, mazel tov. Hussam’s great grand mom and pop are at the bridge table with your great grandma, waiting for me to come back. You see, I’m the dummy. Those two died in Gaza. Bam, to pieces.” He splayed his hands.
At the wedding, Cyndi Lauper spread her many orange, red, and yellow petty coats on the back step. With a sad face, she sang, 'Time After Time.'
The Rabbi and Imam smiled from under the canopy on this day of brilliant blue. They finished with one voice, “in death you will start, because love is eternal.”
Almighty God, Allah, blessed them, opened his arms and said, “kiss already.”
We kissed.
member of http://northcountywritersbloc.blogspot.com as W Bloc
by RW Richard
A wall of searing blue flames pressed Hussam to the melted and broken windows. He couldn’t breathe and the heat was hell.
“It’s you,” the pretty girl from personnel said. Over the months he had stolen glances of her and she did the same, both gutless wonders.
“I’m Hussam Fayyad, your boss’s boss.”
“I know. Save your breath. I’m Sarah Bernstein.” He knew. They locked their hands, tight. Leaned out and hesitated. Then, Sarah’s wavy auburn hair caught fire.
“Marry me.” She screamed from the pain, tears evaporating. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped her head.
“I will. I do.” Holding hands tight, they jumped out from the ninety-ninth floor.
“I do,” she tried to say—her breath pushed inward by the rush of air—not that he could hear her anyway. She closed her eyes, he held unto her like a vise, as if they were one. Perhaps now they were.
“Mom and dad I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Hussam Fayyad.” Her folks' home, a big split-level in Oradell New Jersey, had beautiful large tile floors, a modern kitchen, with a menorah on the table. The candles had pooled on the table top.
“I guess it’s stupid for me to tell my daughter she should have chosen a nice Jewish boy?” Sarah’s mom asked rhetorically.
“We’re soul mates,” Hussam said.
“We’re besherte, mom.” She put it in Yiddish terms. He dared not open his eyes and lose this vision of her mom and dad. He had always thought about Sarah, trying to get up the nerve to ask her out. Worried of cultural, political, and religious differences. He didn’t believe in treating women like second class citizens, not at work, not in marriage. His hiring practices and office policies touted the heart of a modern liberated Moslem.
“We’ll always love the thought of you,” her mom and dad said, hugging him.
“We have to go to the wedding now,” Sarah said, pulling his hand.
At the wedding, Hussam’s little brother carried the ring on a purple pillow. Sarah always knew Hussam would come by, lean on her desk, ask her out. They’d marry, have three kids, two girls, one boy, or the other way around. They both wanted to be outvoted in either case. These gorgeous kids would grow up brilliant and loving, real menches; oh yes, two dogs, just right.
“I am so happy to have you in my heart.” Hussam’s parents, both a little portly, hugged her by the orchids stationed at the first row of seats in their garden. Tears turned to rivers. Images rifted through her of falafel, lamb kebob, along with gefilte fish, Manischewitz Blackberry for the toast. Bruce Springsteen’s band struck up, ‘Here Comes the Bride.’
“He took my hand,” she explained to his mom and dad by way of apology.
“Thank you pretty Sarah. My son, he always work, work, work.” She wished the world a better place, maybe a little less work, a little more love.
“He needs a strong Jewish girl to love him,” his dad said. They kissed her cheeks.
“I always had and always will love him,” Sarah said. She had harbored a tiny love, like a seedling, hoping to water it. No doubt about her feelings, now.
Martin Luther King without thinking forgot to add one word, Moslem. “. . . when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews, Moslems, and Gentiles, Protestant and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: 'Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.'” Sarah’s heart beat the rhythm of Martin’s words. She felt Hussam heard and saw Martin with her at the Lincoln Memorial, because he squeezed her. He’d never let go.
I am within you, Sarah.
I am within you, Hussam.
“Great Grand Papa.” Isaac Bernstein was gassed at Auschwitz, yet thin, young, suspendered, a silly fedora, munching on a pipe, his eyes opened to heaven.
“You bring the right man with you, mazel tov. Hussam’s great grand mom and pop are at the bridge table with your great grandma, waiting for me to come back. You see, I’m the dummy. Those two died in Gaza. Bam, to pieces.” He splayed his hands.
At the wedding, Cyndi Lauper spread her many orange, red, and yellow petty coats on the back step. With a sad face, she sang, 'Time After Time.'
The Rabbi and Imam smiled from under the canopy on this day of brilliant blue. They finished with one voice, “in death you will start, because love is eternal.”
Almighty God, Allah, blessed them, opened his arms and said, “kiss already.”
We kissed.
member of http://northcountywritersbloc.blogspot.com as W Bloc
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Halloween Story
Hi friends and family, Halloween is upon us and I thought you’d like this little heart warming story (blood curdling) I created. I had fun with the words and intent of Edgar Allan Poe’s THE RAVEN and mixed in some of my own. I’m not sure this can ever be published (without permissions). For now, partake of this, as if it were your last read. If you like it, send it out to your friends. Perhaps it will catch a virus (go viral).
Uncle Edgar’s Halloween Story
by RW Richard
Ah Uncle Edgar, could you tell me a scary story?
Might I suggest, much to my pleasure, you’ll listen once
Then never again will thy cross my door.
No, I entreat thee, dear Uncle; nothing you could say will deplete me.
Alas, then I will plea to you, what digs in and eats me,
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of Christmas lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door.‘Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my kitchen door -Only this, and nothing more.’Ah, distinctly I remember t’was a Christmas caroler I dismembered,
A crooner alone outside my kitchen door, said her name was ‘Lenore.’
Into the kitchen she walked, to my cocoa boiling, she hadn’t balked.
Soon Lenore became the course you thought last Christmas’s curried boar.
Alas lad I much regret, such a lovely, she may have given, I bet.
Not to say I could have married, rather our bodies may have parried.
Oh I payed and dearly, do not follow my path even rarely.
Each time I light the kitchen hearth I remember,
Dying embers teasing her ghost upon the floor.Each time I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for killing Lenore -A lone and foolish maiden who bedeviled me - Lenore -Nameless here for evermore.Alas lad, not speaking her name purchased me nothing more.
T’was then, you see, some ghoul beset me. I hope I do not bore.
Tis a trifle Uncle, nothing more.
Well then I will issue you a serving of gore.
The silken sad uncertain rustling of each blood soaked curtain cords knockingThrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that then, to still the beating of my tricked heart, I stood repeating‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my kitchen door’ -Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my kitchen door,That I scarce was sure I heard you’ - here I opened wide the door; -Darkness there, and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing. The only word there spoken was my whisper, ‘Lenore!’An echo murmured back, ‘Lenore!’ Merely this and nothing more.Back into the kitchen turning, all my soul within me burning.Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my kitchen lattice;Let me see then, what is the status, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment. – Tis the wind, nothing more!’Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the deadly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my kitchen door -Perched upon a pot for boiling just above my kitchen door -Perched, and sat, then spouting, ‘Nevermore.’Much I marveled, this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly.Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
Oh be still. It is just the bird’s name. Then said again to a thrill,
‘Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the pot for boiling, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Startled at the stillness, I issued,
‘Doubtless what it utters to me is to kill no more,Sent by some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Sever-nevermore."'But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and pot and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, could this bird be from Lenore?No, Oh God no, I promise, I shall kill, ahhh, nevermore!Or perchance this feather fiend is the devil, ‘thing of evil! Leave my door’ -Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this deserted land enchanted -On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore’ -Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -‘Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my desolation unbroken! - quit the pot above my door!’
The bird perhaps too high and fast for cleaver thrusting.‘Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form, flurry off I implore!’Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingStuffed in the cooking pot just above my kitchen door;And his eyes plucked out and candied, which you my nephew fancied.Harken the black feathered lamp-light streaming shadows on the floor.And my soul from out that shadow there lies floating on the floorShall be lifted - nevermore!
Have I done you in, yet, my dear nephew?
He ran by cleaver and now boiling pot, crashing out my kitchen door.
Into the moonless night, he scampered, shouting just one word,
‘Nevermore.’
Uncle Edgar’s Halloween Story
by RW Richard
Ah Uncle Edgar, could you tell me a scary story?
Might I suggest, much to my pleasure, you’ll listen once
Then never again will thy cross my door.
No, I entreat thee, dear Uncle; nothing you could say will deplete me.
Alas, then I will plea to you, what digs in and eats me,
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of Christmas lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door.‘Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my kitchen door -Only this, and nothing more.’Ah, distinctly I remember t’was a Christmas caroler I dismembered,
A crooner alone outside my kitchen door, said her name was ‘Lenore.’
Into the kitchen she walked, to my cocoa boiling, she hadn’t balked.
Soon Lenore became the course you thought last Christmas’s curried boar.
Alas lad I much regret, such a lovely, she may have given, I bet.
Not to say I could have married, rather our bodies may have parried.
Oh I payed and dearly, do not follow my path even rarely.
Each time I light the kitchen hearth I remember,
Dying embers teasing her ghost upon the floor.Each time I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for killing Lenore -A lone and foolish maiden who bedeviled me - Lenore -Nameless here for evermore.Alas lad, not speaking her name purchased me nothing more.
T’was then, you see, some ghoul beset me. I hope I do not bore.
Tis a trifle Uncle, nothing more.
Well then I will issue you a serving of gore.
The silken sad uncertain rustling of each blood soaked curtain cords knockingThrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that then, to still the beating of my tricked heart, I stood repeating‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my kitchen door’ -Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my kitchen door,That I scarce was sure I heard you’ - here I opened wide the door; -Darkness there, and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing. The only word there spoken was my whisper, ‘Lenore!’An echo murmured back, ‘Lenore!’ Merely this and nothing more.Back into the kitchen turning, all my soul within me burning.Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my kitchen lattice;Let me see then, what is the status, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment. – Tis the wind, nothing more!’Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the deadly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my kitchen door -Perched upon a pot for boiling just above my kitchen door -Perched, and sat, then spouting, ‘Nevermore.’Much I marveled, this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly.Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
Oh be still. It is just the bird’s name. Then said again to a thrill,
‘Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the pot for boiling, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Startled at the stillness, I issued,
‘Doubtless what it utters to me is to kill no more,Sent by some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Sever-nevermore."'But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and pot and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, could this bird be from Lenore?No, Oh God no, I promise, I shall kill, ahhh, nevermore!Or perchance this feather fiend is the devil, ‘thing of evil! Leave my door’ -Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this deserted land enchanted -On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore’ -Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -‘Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my desolation unbroken! - quit the pot above my door!’
The bird perhaps too high and fast for cleaver thrusting.‘Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form, flurry off I implore!’Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingStuffed in the cooking pot just above my kitchen door;And his eyes plucked out and candied, which you my nephew fancied.Harken the black feathered lamp-light streaming shadows on the floor.And my soul from out that shadow there lies floating on the floorShall be lifted - nevermore!
Have I done you in, yet, my dear nephew?
He ran by cleaver and now boiling pot, crashing out my kitchen door.
Into the moonless night, he scampered, shouting just one word,
‘Nevermore.’
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Locksley
Well, I have no idea what I'm doing yet. Here's a test message...my first blog. More later.
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