Category Archives: Romance
Over and Over – #fridayflash #amwriting
Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!
I just realized that I haven’t posted any “true” romance in quite some time. So here’s one inspired by [what I believe] is a beautiful romantic song – Crimson and Clover, (video at end of story).
Over and Over is rated PG according to my standards.
Over and Over, by Deanna Schrayer
Cole slammed the door of his Camaro and leaned against the car. “Some star quarterback I am”, he thought, “couldn’t complete a pass tonight if my life depended on it.” He unrolled his t-shirt sleeve, retrieved the pack of cigarettes and squinted his right eye shut as he lit one. The spark of the match illuminated the dark around him, revealing nothing. This is why he came here, under the bridge. It was full of life, yet free of life, giving him the space he needed to breathe.
He couldn’t get a moment’s peace at home, what with his dad pushing him to choose a college, and all the coaches coming by to visit. Maybe after tonight’s performance they’d leave him alone for a while. The music of the creek bubbling over the smooth stones relaxed him.
A twig snapped.
Cole startled. “Who’s there?” He looked around but saw no one.
The crunchy fall leaves rustled.
Still, Cole saw no one. He moved only his eyes as he scanned the brush for movement. Slowly a form began to take shape, as if the night itself was coming alive. “Hello?” he tried again.
A girl stepped from the shadows. “I heard your car.” The moonlight shone on her dark hair, which was the only feature outside of her comely silhouette he could see.
“Where did you come from?”
“I, um, I went for a walk after the game, and, um….it’s peaceful down here.” She stepped further out and Cole saw it was the new girl at school. She’d just joined the cheerleading team a week ago and he hadn’t had a chance to introduce himself. “I’m Penny,” She proffered her hand.
“Cole, Cole Motsinger.” He tossed his cigarette and took her hand. It was freezing.
“I know,” she laughed, tucking a curl behind her ear, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Oh yea?” his voice was a bit higher than he preferred. He cleared his throat.
“Yea, I hear you’re a pretty good player.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
“Ha!” he startled himself with his cackle, “You wouldn’t have thought that if you watched the game tonight.”
“I did watch it.”
“Oh yea.” God, I’m such an idiot, Cole thought.
“Well you didn’t have much of a chance to show how good you are, what with no one on the line blocking for you. You had no one to throw the ball to.”
A girl who knows football? Cole took a step closer and saw she was wearing her cheerleading uniform, but no sweater. “Aren’t you cold? It’s barely forty degrees out here.”
“Yea, a little bit I guess.”
“Do you want to sit in the car?”
She looked at him with a more discerning eye then, sizing him up.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” Cole smiled and Penny felt dizzy. He walked around to the passenger side, “Come on, get in.” He held the door open for her, then walked around the front of the car and slid in the driver’s seat. He rubbed his hands together, and started the engine. “It’ll just take a minute to warm up. Here.” He reached in the back seat and got his jacket, put it around her shoulders.
“Thanks.” She gathered the rough leather around herself and tried not to visibly inhale the musky scent of sweat and desperation that was him.
They stared at one another, each taking the other in, both feeling the charge of the heat now pouring through the vents. Cole cleared his throat and forced himself against his door, “So, you’re new, right? At school I mean.”
“Yea, we just moved here a couple of weeks ago, from Florida.”
“Florida? You’re from the beach?”
Penny barely stopped herself from laughing. “No, we lived in the middle of Florida, nowhere near a beach.”
“Oh.”
Cole could see Penny a bit better now, thanks to the moonlight shining through the windshield. She had thick, jet black hair and skin so white he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d kept it that way, considering she’d lived in Florida. He was staring at her eyes, trying to decide if they were green or blue, when she cleared her throat and looked away. Cole felt too warm now and turned the heat down.
“So, um, Penny…” he couldn’t believe he was lost for words. He was never lost for words. He glanced around, as if in search of someone to pull him out of this awkwardness. His eyes landed on the radio and he secretly chastised himself for not thinking of it before, “Do you like music?”
Penny lit up brighter than the moon that had escaped the clouds completely. He saw that her eyes were blue, very blue. “Oh, yes, I love music. Well, as long as it isn’t The Doors. There’s just something creepy about that guy, what’s his name, the lead singer?”
Cole loved The Doors, “Jim Morrison?”
“Yea, that’s him. He’s just weird, you know?”
“Yea, he is kind of strange I guess. Well,” Cole reached to turn on the radio, “hopefully the radio’s playing something else right now.”
They were. The quivering tones of Crimson and Clover, by Tommy James and The Shondells, surrounded them and Penny jumped in her seat, “Oh, I love Tommy James!” Realizing her enthusiasm, she amended that, “and The Shondells. They’re really good.”
“Yea, they’re all right I guess.” Cole tapped his fingers on his knees, noticed he was getting carried away and used his other hand to stop the tapping.
My, my such a sweet thing
Penny touched her warm hand to his.
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling
Cole’s heart stopped beating.
Crimson and clover
They moved closer together.
Over and over
He squeezed her hand.
Over and over
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
Over and over
Crimson and clover
Their lips met.
Over and over
Jolts of static electricity flashed through the night
Over and over….
*****
Crimson and Clover, by Tommy James and The Shondells – although I’m adding the video so you can listen to the song, I couldn’t help but notice how oddly beautiful the video itself is. I hope you enjoy!
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The Night Before Christmas – #fridayflash #amwriting
Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!
The Night Before Christmas is rated PG-13 according to my standards
The Night Before Christmas, by Deanna Schrayer
Susan sinks to her knees on the empty velvet tree skirt and buries her face in her hands. The tears slipping through her fingers taste metallic, sour, stinging her tongue. This is the first Christmas Eve in her life she’s been completely alone. She tried several times today to call her husband, Barry, at the hotel where he’s been staying since the day after Thanksgiving. But she got no answer.
The wind blows harsh and fierce outside the bungalow and Susan shivers, slips from her knees to lie on her side beneath the Christmas tree, the tree she decorated all by herself in a fit of false hope two days after Barry left. Now a silvery icicle slides down to caress her face, as if to comfort her, dry her tears.
Susan wants so much to be angry with her husband, she wants to march down to the elegant Mystic Haven Ritz and beat the hell out of him. But she has no basis for such longing – it was Susan who drove Barry away, it was she who had the affair.
Still, the anger has to come out and so Susan pounds her legs with her fists, she beats herself until she feels the pain ease from her heart down into her thighs. Exhausted, she bunches the tree skirt up and bundles it beneath her head, her fiery gold curls spilling over the burgundy velvet, brushing the hard wood floor. She tries to think of Barry – the man who appeared at just the right time, the man who saved her life – sitting here with her by the fire, holding her lithe body against his, arousing her with his feathery kisses.
But all she sees is Cliff. Her first husband’s hard-muscled hands kneading her shoulders as he nearly bruises her lips kissing her, Cliff’s urgent need to douse the fire coursing through Susan’s veins with a fire all his own. Cliff’s eyes burning from baby blue to scorching violet as his desire for her grows hotter and stronger. Cliff…
Susan recalls the first Christmas she and Cliff were married, (in fact they wed on Christmas Eve, this would’ve been their twentieth anniversary had they made it past those first few years), how they spent Christmas day wrapped in each other’s arms underneath a down comforter in the ski lodge as huge snowflakes fell outside their window and the ethereal glow from the fireplace warmed their already heated bodies. By the next Christmas they were expecting their first child, by the next they were mourning the loss of that child, and by the next….well, there was no next.
Again, Susan scolds herself for allowing her thoughts to turn back to the man who nearly killed her before she finally left him. She should be thinking about her husband, her current husband, the man who devoted his life to her, the man who has loved her so completely, despite her many flaws, for the past fifteen years. “Oh, Barry,” she thinks, “how could I do this to you?!” But before she starts to cry again Susan rubs her face vigorously and forces herself to get up off the floor, to pull herself together and figure out how to save her marriage. “I’ll go see him tomorrow,” she decides. He’ll be at his mom’s for sure, as they always are on Christmas. She won’t call ahead, she’ll just show up as if everything is fine, as if nothing at all has happened, as if she never stepped foot back into Cliff’s life.
Susan goes to the kitchen and pours herself a drink – Jack and coke, (mostly Jack), and takes it with her to the bedroom where she goes into her closet to decide what to wear tomorrow. She wants to look better than she ever has; she wants to make Barry’s mouth hang open with shock and yearning. She bends to reach for her black stiletto heels and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looks like hell. Her usually deep green eyes are nearly as red as her hair, there are mascara streaks staining her ruddy cheeks and her hair is frizzy and all over the place. But Susan doesn’t let the shock of her appearance deter her. She simply grabs her robe and heads to the bathroom.
After an hour-long hot bubble bath Susan is much more relaxed, in much better spirits. She’s laid out Barry’s favorite long black dress and her velvet duster to slip on in the morning, has her makeup ready and waiting on her vanity; she’s even painted her nails, which normally feels like a chore but now has made her even more confident. Barry won’t be able to refuse her tomorrow, she’s certain of it.
The two drinks Susan had, along with the bath, has thankfully relaxed her enough that she feels she may actually be able to sleep tonight, so she locks up, turns the lights out, (but leaves the Christmas tree twinkling), and heads for bed.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s him! Her spirits soar; she’s wide awake in the time it took to hear that knock. Susan fluffs her freshly washed hair and licks her lips as she goes to let her husband inside. He must’ve felt her thinking about him – they’ve always had that sort of connection. She’s so wound up she nearly trips over her own feet as she reaches for the doorknob. Barely able to contain her excitement Susan opens the door, and her arms, wide in one fluid motion.
“Hey babe,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, “Happy anniversary.”
Susan stands dumbfounded, able to croak out no more than his name. “Cliff.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I’m not sure why, but when I heard the song Thirty-three by the Smashing Pumpkins the other day this is the story that came immediately to mind. Christmas is a melancholy time for many, but I hope that isn’t the case for you. I wish you all a beautiful holiday season!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coming Soon: Frankie, (the snot-nosed, bratty muse), has been hanging around waiting for the white chocolate cheesecake while chatting me up this week. He says he’ll have the interview posted real soon, so stay tuned!
I hope you’ll stop in at my nonfiction site, The Life of a Working Writer Mommy to check out the top reads of 2011 as well as my reflection on being a writer (in response to Estrella Azul’s post My name is Estrella, and I am a writer. Thank you for the inspiration Estrella!
Image by Deanna Schrayer
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Recurrence: a poem – #amwriting
Most of you know that, though I am not a poet, I occasionally pen a poem because….well, that’s just the way the story comes out of my head. Here’s one I wrote after feeling inspired by the poetry of Ted Hughes, (don’t miss Ouija, which is in the book Birthday Letters –eerie and shocking!).
I hope you all enjoy Recurrence!
Recurrence, by Deanna Schrayer
Not the savory aroma of clove-infused
Black cigarettes,
Nor the taste of over-ripe
Peaches drenched in champagne.
Not the knee-knocking sight
Of misty ghost-eyes
Brushed by blistered knuckles,
Nor even the shock
Of rum-moist tongue
Devouring my parched lips.
None of these so convincing as
His voice
Quivering the memory-spot
Of my soul
With its soft murmur
Of shouted whispering
Sweet-somethings,
Deepest of faux truths
Into my ears
Singed to crisp rustles,
As breath suspends mid-twilight
Above my eyes
Shut open to this
Over-and-over
Specter
Of twenty years —-
Shot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Come Back! – #fridayflash #amwriting
Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!
Come Back is rated PG according to my standards.
Come Back! by Deanna Schrayer
The Frenzy creaks a high moan when I flip the switch to make it spin. I turn off the ancient roller coaster and walk around greasing every chain and bolt to stop the whining. Reaching the third cart I glance up and glimpse the Ferris Wheel we got stuck on.
I remember how your bright green eyes grew dark with fear – we were at the very top and you were terrified of heights. You gripped the bar holding us in place so tight I thought it may snap off, and you planted your cowgirl-booted feet against the metal below the bars. Your buttercup yellow sundress flapped in the heavy breeze like a beacon hailing ships to port.
I knew I had to calm you, but I was afraid to make any sudden moves. I gently pulled your gold hair back from your glistening sun-burnt shoulder and took hold of your arm, attempting to pry your hand from the bar without tugging. “Sandy” I whispered, and you shivered. But you wouldn’t look at me, refused to loosen your grip on the bar. So I cupped your chin and turned your vulnerable face to mine. And I kissed you. Our first kiss, your terror pressing against my lips, releasing the fear like a child letting go of her mother’s hand. Oh, how I worried you’d hate me for taking advantage of you like that! But when we were safely on the ground you hugged me, hard. Then you took my arm in yours and did not let go for the remaining four days we shared together.
Oh, Sandy how I miss you! Watching the brilliant red sun slide down for the night, I am flooded with the passionate memories of that week. At the top of the Ferris Wheel, you had you first real kiss. On the sand, below the pier, the excited waves slapping our moist legs, you had your first taste of love. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I know now – it was my first too. My first taste of true love.
I’ve not seen or heard from you since that night. You said you’d be back – same time next year. I’ve waited, selling ice cream to soaked children, greasing these tracks, these chains, looking for your glowing face amid the frowns of all these tired tourists. At sunrise. At sundown. For three years. Oh, Sandy! Will you ever come back?
This story was inspired by Keith Urban’s Till Summer Comes Around.
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Desire ~ For Jim – #fridayflash
My #fridayflash this week comes in the form of a poem, something I rarely write, and even more rarely share, (I’ve never studied poetry and so do not know the many different forms, and even less of the way those forms should be used).
Desire did begin as a flash piece, called Belonging, but when I experimented with it, removing many conjunctive words, moving the remaining words around, etc, I felt it worked better as a poem.
Although the narrator of Desire is a man, a man madly in love with his woman, it was written for my husband, Jim, the greatest man on the face of the earth, who took me out for our first date on Valentine’s Day, fourteen years ago. I love you Jim!
Be sure to visit Mad Utopia for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!
Desire is rated PG according to my standards.
_________________________________________
Desire, by Deanna Schrayer
For Jim
I awake
you aren’t here.
Where have you gone?
Never have I felt so lonely!
The first time,
since we met,
I left sleep
found you…
gone.
Six lingering but remarkably swift months
you’ve been here,
beside me,
never anywhere else
just here
beside me
Always against me
for me.
So used to your warm body
next to mine
confused
without you,
freezing, lost.
You belong here,
next to me.
I need you so much!
Behind my eyes:
You, dancing on scorching beach,
just as the day
I first saw you
Your long, impossibly black hair
bouncing in rhythm
to the bongo beat
village boy pounding
Your Caribbean eyes
sparkling sapphire in champagne
Your slim, copper arms
waving in wet air
as if to fly away
any moment.
I dared step towards you,
slowly –
a hungry, skittish cat!
The ocean breeze
blew your scent
my way.
My God, the spice!
My mouth watered
in want
of your taste.
Waters now,
in want
in need
Such need!
Your pillow in my chest,
hoping the softness
of your spirit
will calm
my erratic heartbeat.
I Inhale
deep as my trembling bones allow,
close my eyes,
breathe in
sweet scent of you –
a squall of cinnamon-sprinkled sunshine
Pray you return
I can’t face any further
aloneness.
Your warm, salty lips
on mine.
What a dream!
But no –
it isn’t a dream.
You’re here! You’re really here!
How could I ever think you’d leave me?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is one of my favorite pictures of Jim and me. We were in NYC for the day, the day after Christmas, two days before our ninth anniversary, in 2005 – wow, where did the time go?! (I look a bit flushed because we’d just walked in the freezing cold about seventy-eight blocks, and I’m fairly certain I’m not exaggerating!)
Jim and Deanna
