Basshunter - All I Ever Wanted

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The RIng - short romance story

Find your story whith us , love , true, inspirational stories and poems


A girl was sitting on a chair at the gas station she worked at.
She looked up and saw her boyfriend walk in.
As he was looking at snacks, a man walked in and pointed a gun at her.
He had been admiring her ring her boyfriend had  given to her as a token of his love.
When he asked her to give it to him, she said no.

Her boyfriend looked up just in time to see her shot.
He ran over to the killer and hit him on the head with a hammer that was for sale.
Then he ran and called 911.
When the ambulance came, he was sobbing uncontrollably near his girlfriend.

The doctor came over and felt for her pulse.
He told the boyfriend that she was still alive.
Later at the hospital, as he was sitting beside her, he asked, "Why didn't you just give him the ring?"
and then she softly spoke "Because when you gave it to me, you said it was part of your love for me and I knew if I gave him the ring, I would lose that love."
The next day, she was pronounced dead.

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A Room with Windows - kids stories

 Read Online Children Story Short. Be with us and enjoy more of the stories and poems

Few people would disagree with the developmental
importance of books and reading. Today, in a world beset
by change, the importance of reading seems greater
than ever. Children must become literate in the fullest
sense of the word. The demand is for individuals who
are rich in language, communication and technical
skillsÑall of which grow out of reading. To prepare
children, we must stimulate their curiosity and imagination,
cultivate their learning potential, and encourage the
habits of lifelong learning.
For many children the place where this happensÐ
their house filled with books, their room with windowsÐ
is the local public library. With its wealth of books (more
books than any one family can afford), the public library
provides a fertile ground for the growth of young people.
If knowledge is the key then a local library constitutes a
brilliant opportunity. Public libraries offer children a
chance to mix ideas, knowledge and hope.

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angel of heaven - love stories

Continued with us more stories of love and romance, as well as the finest poems of love and romance, with children's stories, true stories
angel of heaven - love stories 
by Hira 


Come go,
We all follow.
As drams fill you in their thoughts, you gaze over hills and valleys to find me.
You left me and thought I‘ll be fine;
But now that I’m lost and nowhere to be found.
You; search high and low, over here and there until…
You corner me in a corner.
Dreaming again about the fun and pleasure
We shared, I run to you and you hold me against you never to let go again.
Once, twice, my heart stops beating.
I fall and die, never being able to complete that life.
You yell and cry, as the tears run down from your eyes.
I watch you from high, because that’s…
Where I am.
You try to wake me, tell me that you love me!
But I’m gone; it’s the hard truth.
Now, as everyone followed,
They all saw, what two people could always lose.
Friendship or love their pretty much the same.
If not valued, they can do the same.
Now, as you hold me and cry, I wanna tell you
That I’ll be fine.
You wish you breathed your last too,
As someone comes behind you.
You turn your heard and see the most prettiest women before.
But as loyal as you were, you gave me one last look at me;
And, laid me there on the ground.
You stood and held her in your arms, forgotten all about me in seconds.
I stare as tears well up,
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
He’s handsome and tall, with wings
That covers up everything.
He holds out his hands waiting for me to accept;
I look back at you holding her again.
I’m loyal and I’ll always will be, I turn back to him and tell him I’m sorry.
He’s hurt, but understands, but says, “one day you’ll be finally gone too”
He flies away, leaving ma alone, as I
Stare back at you.
Being loyal is important no matter how long it will take for you and I and everyone else to follow
Along!

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Collared - Collared - love romantic story

New and useful stories of love and romance is always found here, kids stories, true stories, funny stories .. enjoy with a love story titled Collared - Collared

Collared - Collared 

by Johnny Miles
romantice love
 

 My hands trembled as I fumbled the car key. When I finally managed to slip the car key into the lock I opened the door, careful not to make any noise, then slipped behind the wheel of the rental.

I don’t know what I was scared of. I was an adult. Finally legal to drink. It’s not like I was going out to murder anyone. And yet, I glanced about the dimly lit parking lot as if I were afraid I’d get caught slinking around. It was as if I were broadcasting to the world where I was, where I was going, and what I was hoping to do.

It was Independence Day weekend, 1984. I’d taken a few days off to vacation in Fort Lauderdale. The Marlin Beach Hotel -- once a happening, straight bar/restaurant featured in “Where The Boys Are” -- was falling into disrepair from it’s 50s heyday; but it had a certain edgy appeal.

The seediness was titillating and I walked around with a partial hard-on from the moment I checked in two nights ago. It was as if I could sense all the sex that had ever been had there, like I was being haunted by the Ghost of Lust Past.

Despite the holiday weekend, there weren’t many guests. Of the men that were there, none appealed to me. Winter, I’d been told, was the time to come down. That’s when they were stuffed to the limit with naked men from all walks of life, cavorting in the sun and swimming in the pool, which could be observed from the Jules Verne room.

After wandering the deserted corridors of the infamous hotel, cruising Birch Street into the wee hours of morning, and observing the men that disappeared behind bushes on the beach, I was more than ready to get laid.

But I didn’t want regular sex.

I wanted something different. Something dark and sinister. I yearned for someone to grab hold of me and possess me with his desire. I longed to be taken, by force if necessary, and used until he, whomever he was, was sated.

Apparently, there was only one place for that.

Which is why I sat in the rental, dressed in my tightest pair of acid-washed jeans and black tank-top. I was showered, cleaned out, and shaking internally at what I might find. But I swallowed back my fear, rolled down the window, and cranked up the engine.

“Good luck!” A voice called out, startling me out of my focused determination. I jumped and looked up to see the clerk behind the desk smiling at me. I watched him stride up to his car, parked beside mine, secretly hoping he wouldn’t ask to join me. When hunting for cock it was usually best to do it alone.

I smiled, feeling embarrassed, and nodded awkwardly. A short while ago I'd asked him where a guy might find something a bit less…mainstream.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The man grinned as I slowly pulled out and waved goodbye.

I turned left onto Atlantic Boulevard, known by the locals as A1A, and drove north towards Sunrise Boulevard. From there, it was several miles to NE 3rd, then a quick right.

The bar was on a poorly lit street, in a particularly rough neighborhood. As I climbed out of the car, I wondered why it was that most gay bars I’d ever been to were in shitty areas. I pressed down on the lock, slammed the door shut and pocketed the key. Then I walked to the front entrance of the leather bar and stopped short.

“Scared, boy?” A deep, gravelly voice boomed in the night. I turned my head and drank in the sight of a huge, intimidating mountain of a black man as my eyes adjusted to the blue and black light.

I cleared my throat, noticing the way the bouncer sat on the bar stool, head cocked, scrutinizing me curiously. He wore a leather vest, a cap raked so low I couldn’t see his eyes, and a leather band around his left bicep. His arms were huge and his hands more like paws. Something impossibly long and unbelievably thick snaked down the inside of his left thigh.

Yes, I was afraid but I couldn’t let him know that.

“No!” I replied, my voice higher than I would have liked. To my own ears it sounded like a pitiful squeak.

The man laughed in a deep bass that rumbled in my chest.

“Don’t lie to me son. I can smell it on you.”

“Sh– should I be? Scared?”

The bouncer stood with a low grumble and leaned forward. I took a step back. But he only grabbed the handle and pulled the door open for me. The dull thump of dance music became a roar.

“Get your ass inside, son. This neighborhood isn’t safe for pretty white boys like you.”

I had to brush up against him in order to step inside and wondered if he’d positioned himself that way on purpose. But the moment I walked in and the door shut ominously behind me, the thought popped out of my head. I suddenly understood how Dorothy might have felt when she first stepped out of her freshly transported house. This was Oz, or at least a version of it, and there was no turning back.

I stood in the narrow vestibule, my senses assaulted by the loud music, the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with sweat. But it was so much more than that.

I sniffed at the air.

The place reeked so heavily of sex you could practically taste it. There was also an energy, thick with expectation, that permeated the air as surely as the scent of leather made my nostrils flare.

This was where I belonged, what I had been looking for. My pulse quickened and my cock twitched with arousal as I slowly moved forward.

The bar was to my right, just beyond the floor-to-ceiling beaded curtain. To my left was a leather shop. I decided to traipse through, like foreplay, and look at the contraptions and paraphernalia; some of which I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what they could be used for.

There were dildos, whips and paddles. Long, clear tubes of all sizes for your nipples, your cock. Tit clamps, cuffs and row upon row of tiny brown bottles. There were books, magazines and video tapes, racks of leather shorts, vests, caps. Cock rings, ball stretchers and several sizes of butt plugs.

There was a pounding in my head as I lost myself in the dark, seedy world of kink and fetish. Someone grabbed my ass and I spun around to see who’d groped me but there was no one there ready to stake his claim.

I crossed the hallway and stepped into the bar. It was even darker here than it was outside. I stood, in what I hoped was my best New York City stone-face, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then, with hands in my pockets, I weaved through the crowd.

To my right was a throng of men surrounding the bar while to my left, another group watched two burly, hairy-chested men circling the pool table. I could see the glint of metal and knew quarters from the next challenger were already lined up.

I pressed on, pushing past a small group of men playing at the pig trough while others watched. The atmosphere in the room crackled with perverse anticipation.

I continued moving.

Out on the patio there was a small bar to my right and a built-in, one-person cage to my left. A crowd of beefy men stood in front of the bars. I struggled to get past them and saw one of them throw his head back and howl into the night while holding on to either side of the makeshift cell. I didn’t need to see what was happening to know he’d just come. Another man quickly took his place as the man who’d been drained emerged from the throng, working his cock back into his jeans and pulling up his zipper.

As I stood and observed the scene around me I realized that, aside from the leather, kink, and heavy sexual tension, it wasn’t much different from the other bars I’d been to. The men still talked, laughed, and flirted.

I began to relax, gradually becoming aware that no one would pounce on me unless I wanted them to.

I moved once again, heading to the door on the opposite side of the small bar. A small hallway led to private toilets the size of closets and just beyond, the space opened back into the main bar.

I sidled up to the counter and ordered a beer.

To my right, two men talked casually over the loud music while another was on his knees servicing them both. A handful of voyeurs stood around them like a protective barrier.

Above the bar, a smooth-skinned body builder lay in a sling suspended from the ceiling. He’d been blindfolded, wrists and ankles cuffed to the hanging chains. His massive legs were spread wide and, every so often, the bartenders would take turns working a large dildo in and out of the bodybuilders ass while patrons egged them on.

On a large bulky television, two bound hunks tag-teamed and wrestled a third down onto a mat. I watched as the two muscle gods tied-up the other with his own singlet then stripped and had their way with him using their fingers, their cocks, and toys that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

I was on sensory overload. As wild and crazy as New York could be, nothing like this ever happened in the clubs anymore. The viral spread of AIDS had seen to that, claiming practically an entire generation of gay men.

I was conflicted by the decimation I’d seen back home, and the carefree lust that surrounded me. What had been a sexually charged atmosphere, upon my arrival, now filled me with dread. I briefly wondered if I’d done the right thing by coming here.

How could I ever expect to meet anyone in a place this?

Then I saw him, across the bar, in the crowd of people. He stared at me intently while sucking down his beer. The rest of the world had fallen away as I forgot where I was. The only thing that existed was him, a dull thumping in my body that registered as music, and me.

I was transfixed as the big beefy man approached. He was totally cut and ripped, his dark eyes focused. Clad in leather pants and a harness, he wore a cod piece that set my imagination to wander and a metal band around his left bicep. A tribal tattoo went all the way around his right.

He looked into my eyes as he reached for something at his side and the next thing I knew I had a collar around my neck. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. He gave me one of those smiles, the kind that said he knew exactly who I was, what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

“Let’s fuck!” His lips moved but there was no sound. At least, none that I heard.

And then I was in his arms. He held me in place with one hand at the back of my neck while pulling my hips towards his with the other hand. He held me tight and his amazingly wicked tongue penetrated my mouth, devouring me. I didn’t know his name but I’d never felt so aroused and so dirty all at the same time.

In that moment, I knew I’d be with him the rest of my life.

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The Only Way to Paradise- romance love stories

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The Only Way to Paradise by G.G. Vandagriff
ROMANCE LOVE STORIES


While viewing Enchanted April with her therapy group, MacKenzie relaxed for the first time
since her husband had disappeared. She had found a character counterpart in the movie: Rose—a driven, unhappy woman—slowly mellowing under Italy’s spell. Mirroring Rose’s tension at the beginning, MacKenzie gripped her armrest, the muscles in her neck and back taut. Now, as the steel melted in Rose’s British backbone, MacKenzie’s feelings actually approached tranquility.
In Italy, things like that could happen. It was the next best thing to Paradise. You could stop your sensible pursuits in the middle of the day, lie half-dressed on a friendly slab of rock, hand trailing in gentle currents of seawater, while the sun in its periwinkle sky warmed your body clear through to your heart. Problems dissolved, heartbreaks vanished. Italy embraced you with its vast love of mankind. Philia—that’s what the Greeks called it. Right now, MacKenzie hungered for that all-embracing love.
The credits began scrolling and she dropped back into reality. She had always taken for granted that she would have a happily-ever-after. But MacKenzie’s life had taken a hairpin turn.
She was definitely not in Italy. She was in Oakwood, Ohio, sitting with the three other members of her therapy group in Georgia Todd’s home theater. Her marriage was probably over, but she still had no clue why Kurt had left so mysteriously in the night, six months ago. His voice mail said only: “This is Kurt Davenport. If you need to reach me urgently, you can leave a message for me at the Naples, Florida Yacht Club, number . . . .”
She tried to picture him living on the sailboat he had inherited from his father. Kurt was no sailor.
Next to her, Roxie, her perfect curves disguised in oversized purple scrubs, bounced to her feet, her pony tail swinging out the back of her “Dayton Flyers” baseball cap. “So—if Italy is so therapeutic and healing, what are we doing in Ohio?” She planted her fists on her hips, challenging them.
MacKenzie smiled. So crazily Roxie. With her approach to life as a circus, you might think her a children’s book writer, but never a journalism professor. One of the many mysteries about Roxie was her choice of that staid profession. She was as miscast as Sara, their fourth group member, a miserable ob-gyn, still much too enmeshed with her traditional Vietnamese immigrant parents.
“Calm down, Roxie, for heaven’s sake,” Sara said, her usually pale cheeks flushed. “We are in Ohio because we belong here. This is our home. We have responsibilities.” She lowered her almond-shaped eyes. Even after six weeks in group therapy, no one knew what Sara was really about.
Georgia ignored Sara’s dash of cold water. “I admit, my thoughts run along lines similar to Roxie’s.” Her lazy voice sounded like a cello playing something warm and melancholy. In her silver-threaded caftan, her white hair in a Gibson-girl do, she exuded glamour. “That’s the reason I wanted you to see the movie. We needed to detoxify after that horrible therapy session today. Dr. Kathy is so condescending. You know, after seven weeks, she hasn’t a clue where our real problems lie. We know far more about each other than she does about us.”
Sara agreed. “I’ve never been in therapy, but I don’t think it’s supposed to make you feel worse.”
“You girls are all still so young,” Georgia said, as she picked up her intercom telephone. “But even for me, there are still possibilities out there. Dr. Kathy traps us so tightly into our anxious little spheres, we can’t see out.” She paused, tapping a fuchsia painted fingernail on her phone. “And in Italy, there are always men. Fascinating men.” While the group digested this, she said into her intercom, “Tina, you can bring in the gelato now.”
MacKenzie silently agreed with the assessment of Dr. Kathy, as she arched her back, which had cramped up again. What happened to the carefree student I was all those years ago when I was in Florence? The second half of Georgia’s statement drew a scoff. “You think men are the answer to everything, George. If I were to go back to Italy, it wouldn’t be for a man.”
Roxie collapsed onto the floor and did one of her spontaneous somersaults, ending in the lotus position. MacKenzie strongly suspected Roxie suffered from ADHD. “Not for a man,” the gymnast said, “but because of that rat you’re married to.” Throwing her arms up and using the bright red fingernails of one hand to smooth an exotic caress down her other arm, she said in her Jean Harlow voice, “Dahlings, I really do think we should just drop everything and skedaddle.”
MacKenzie shook her head. Thirty-year-old Roxie often gave in to her spurts of imagination. It was easy to picture her flying off to Italy this very afternoon. Only heaven knew what had brought the colorful Cubana to a place like Oakwood.
“C’mon, guys!” Roxie propped her fists on her thighs, elbows out. “Show some life here! We’re not dead yet. Let’s give it a try. Can anyone honestly say that Dr. Kathy’s therapy group has helped? She’s on a ‘God trip’ and we’re her little acolytes. I’ve had enough.”
“Roxie, that’s unkind,” Sara said. “I’m sure she’s doing her best. The thing is that there aren’t easy solutions to any of our problems. Like, she can’t bring Georgia’s Ben back from the dead, or make her be able to play the violin again.”
The gelato arrived, carried by Georgia’s cook, Tina, who wore her hair in two nobs twisted on top of her head.
“Umm,” Georgia said, making Tina a circle with her thumb and forefinger after her first taste. “I’d say you got the consistency perfect, Tina dear. Chocolate and pistachio! It always reminds me of standing on the Piazzale d’ Michelangelo looking down on the dear Duomo. Did you know it was the first dome of its kind? My Ben was fond of saying it was an engineering miracle.”
MacKenzie took a bite of gelato and savored it, considering Sara’s earlier statement. “I’m beginning to think my problem with Kurt leaving isn’t really meant for group therapy, either. Dr. Kathy isn’t married, and none of you are. Besides, even if Dr. Kathy taught me how to be the perfect wife, I’m only half the problem. I don’t know what Kurt wants or even have the vaguest idea why he left.” Taking another bite of gelato, she tilted her head thoughtfully. “So the problem isn’t just with me. George’s right. I mean going to Florence maybe a little extreme, but we are all too focused on our ‘own anxious little spheres.’” Lightly tapping her spoon on the crystal dish, she said, “Therapy makes you look inward. Maybe the solution is looking outward.”
“Using those very rational words, you’re looking inward again,” Roxie said. “But I only look outward, and as far as I can tell, no offense, but I’m the best-adjusted of our bunch.” She licked every last bit of her gelato from her spoon. “I still have no idea why my doctor bullied me into signing up for therapy. But Florence sounds like just the ticket for me—and for the rest of you, too.”
MacKenzie squirmed. With the temptation of that golden city digging at her, she spoke more sharply than she intended. “Quit talking crazy, Roxie.” Putting down her dish, MacKenzie tightened her boiled-wool jacket around her spare torso and crossed her arms over it. “This is real life. Much as I hate to admit it, Sara’s right.”
But she couldn’t quell a tiny spark of hope. Wasn’t Italy once my creative touchstone? What would it be like to go back there now? This very minute?
“We’re all crazy.” Georgia said, chuckling and throwing her arms wide. “Why else would we be in therapy? We’re expected to do things no sane woman would consider!”
In the dim light of the home theater, MacKenzie watched Roxie thrust out her bottom lip. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not crazy. Just Cubana. We’re impulsive. We know how to enjoy life.”
MacKenzie grinned. “If you’re not crazy, why did you stuff a $250 jacket into the ladies’ room trash at the opera?”
Roxie glared. “That was your fault! You promised it wouldn’t make me look like J-Lo!”
This was a very sticky issue. Although Roxie’s natural golden beauty, tawny brown eyes, and signature one-sided smile marked her as one gorgeous Latina, her life’s mission was to obscure any resemblance she might have to the uber-famous Jennifer Lopez. Far from being just a whim, Roxie’s preoccupation was pathological. Another mystery.
MacKenzie’s grin faded and she knotted her fingers. “Sorry, Rox.” Then, “Do you know that my daughter’s latest tattoo is this horrible snake that winds around her arm?” Closing her eyes, she tried to bolt her battered emotional doors. “And Josh sneaked out of the house tonight without telling me where he was going, so I know he’ll come home drunk again. He’s only fifteen!” She looked at Georgia. “And here you go tempting me with Tuscany, the perfect escape. But my life isn’t important now. My children’s lives are. And they’re falling apart.”
“What makes you think it would make any difference whether you’re in Oakwood or Italy?” Sara said, still eating her gelato in tiny spoonfuls. “Can’t you see their rebellion is about their father, not you? Why do you take it so personally?” Her voice was that flat, no-nonsense doctor’s voice MacKenzie had come to dread.
The childless Sara’s comments about her situation had always inflamed her. She had tried to give the Asian doctor the benefit of the doubt. After all, everyone knew where those words came from. Sara was thirty-one, way too old to buckle under her immigrant parents’ tyranny. But despite her advice to MacKenzie, Sara was the queen of bucklers.
Roxie scowled at the doctor. “Enough already. You’re always so hard on MacKenzie. But how would you like it if your parents didn’t care if you were a drug addict or put a silver stud in your tongue?”
Sara’s eyes widened. This wasn’t Dr. Kathy’s therapy room. The gloves were off. MacKenzie shot Roxie a thumbs-up.
Bowing her doll-like head, Sara said, “This is not really me. I mean, I’m not really this angry person.” Silence descended. MacKenzie could make out the glitter of a tear traveling down Sara’s cheek. “Forgive me, MacKenzie. I’m the last one who should be giving you advice. Maybe I do need to get away.”
MacKenzie reached where Sara sat next to her and gave her shiny black hair a caress, as though she were calming a kitten. “It’s okay. I know I’m not myself either. There’s a reason we’re in therapy.”
Sara was right, as usual. The children never would have done these things if Kurt were home. He had been such a devoted father. Why had he left? The question tortured her almost every moment. She had become a real drag to be around and hated herself for it.
A rare burst of anger jolted her. This is Kurt’s fault! How is it fair that I have to deal with the consequences? As she had learned, anger only triggered her cortisol hormones, and she twitched with new anxiety. Pulling at a loose thread on her jacket, she watched it unravel. She tried snapping it off, but to her annoyance, it kept unraveling. Just like me.
She felt the normal urge to defend her kids, even as she despaired of them. “The point is that my children are not really Goths even if they dress that way. They’re not nihilists, but basically good, caring people. I mean Josh never forgets to kiss me good-bye before school, and he still sleeps with a scrap of his satin baby quilt, for heaven’s sake.” Holding out her hands, fingers spread, she showed off her sparkly golden fingernails. “And look what Jessica did tonight. She wants to give me a ‘new look.’ I think it’s sweet.”
Sara wiped her tear and showed a naughty grin. “I think you should tell Kurt to pull his hindquarters out of the Gulf, say good-bye to his sailboat, and come home to look after his children. Meanwhile you can go off to sample some of Georgia’s Italian men.” Reaching out, she put a hand over MacKenzie’s. “Who knows? Maybe Kurt’ll be jealous.”
“Do it!” Roxie said. She was always antagonistic when MacKenzie’s husband was mentioned. “It’s time he saw what his desertion has done to his white-bread children!”
MacKenzie bridled. “What do you have against white bread? This is Oakwood, you know. It’s completely beyond me why you chose to move here.”
“We’re getting off topic,” Georgia said. “Are we going to Italy to have a try at mending ourselves, or not?”
“You really mean it?” MacKenzie unfolded the arms that were holding in her dangerous desires. Thinking of all her charities and obligations, her problems, and her fruitless attempts to fix them, an urgent need to flee overcame her.
I am a stranger in a strange land. The artistic, “Florence MacKenzie” of more than 20 years ago had never pictured herself as a suburban housewife, wrestling for board positions in a back-biting community full of frustrated women. What has happened to me?
She craved the irreverent sound and smell of brightly colored motor scooters dodging in and out of traffic. Oakwood would never allow motor scooters. She wanted to lick authentic gelato on the Piazzale d’Michelangelo as the setting sun warmed her back and changed the city below her to gold. Mostly, she wanted to “go home” to the pure white David, the frescoed Pitti Palace of the Medici, and the pink, green, and white Duomo with its signature brick dome.
“I lived in Florence as a graduate student,” she said.
Staring at the blank widescreen TV, she could almost smell the exhaust of the scooters, combined with the fragrance of fresh dough and basil emitting from a pizzeria. MacKenzie could even imagine the bearded proprietor leaning against a peeling green doorframe, smoking a cigarette. Of course, there was the brilliance of the Renaissance everywhere—the galleries, the streets, the architecture. “I always felt like the answers to life’s hard questions were hidden there. You know what I mean? It’s a city of creative genius.”
“It would reawaken your passions,” Roxie said. “Once you’d rested. Your self-image is all messed up because of that lousy husband and the hundred and one things you expect of yourself. I think you’re so tired that you can’t even feel anymore.”
“Thanks, Dr. Kathy.” MacKenzie shot her a glare. “I’m aware that I’ve turned into someone I never thought I’d be. I don’t want to go anywhere with you if you’re going to psychoanalyze me.”
Roxie raised her perfect eyebrows. “You’re the one who brought up the jacket.”
Sara stood to her full five feet, looking as unlike an ob-gyn as possible in her Bryn Mawr sweatshirt and no-name jeans. She faced them. “Okay, guys. The only way we could ever make this work is if we have a pact. No cracks about my parents. No one talks disparagingly about Kurt. Comments about Roxie’s determination to look as different from J-Lo as possible are taboo.” She looked at Georgia. “Anything you want to say?”
The diva smiled. “I believe you once called me a narcissist?”
Sara colored. “That was before I knew how much you were hurting. I’m sorry.” She raised her small hands up in a gesture of surrender. “My insensitivity shows why we just can’t criticize or make judgments. We can’t really understand each other’s pain. If we go anywhere, we go with the object of letting each other work out her problems. Now, convince me why I should go to Florence.”
“It’s a magical place,” MacKenzie said, her fingers curved in front of her as though she were clutching a sphere. “You have to feel it for yourself.” It was never easy to put ethereal thoughts into words. She repeated, “Literally magical. I mean a miracle happened there.” She leaned forward. “Try to imagine it. There we were in the Dark Ages. Then came the Medici, who must have had some kind of vision or something. They began commissioning art from men whose gifts were astonishing. They made the Renaissance their ‘brand.’ The world changed almost overnight. How Brunelleschi, Donatello, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Botticelli, and the rest of the greats happened to be in the same place at the same time was a miracle in itself.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “And this is supposed to help me how?”
Frustrated by Sara’s lack of imagination, she said, “In Florence, the world started to wake up and live again after a thousand years of darkness!”
Sara’s face remained a blank.
“There is something about the Florentines and their surroundings that made that happen.” She grabbed Sara’s hands and squeezed them. “I tell you, it’s still there. I remember feeling like I was in the midst of some creative energy source. The best way I can describe it is that it makes you sure your own dreams can come true.” Her words surprised her with their intensity. Oakwood had forced her into its mold of conformity, and she hadn’t been in touch with her Florentine self in far too long. She stood and paced the room, fueled by urgency to recapture that self before it died of neglect. It was, it seemed to her now, the best part of her. A part that deserved saving.
And her children? This mother had failed them. Maybe a new one, revitalized by Florence, would have better perspective.
Roxie gave Sara her most beguiling smile. “Isn’t that more appealing to your imagination than sitting around a table and listening to Dr. Kathy trying to be our mentor?”
“As long as it doesn’t end up making us delusional.” Sara ran both hands through her shiny hair, pulling it out of her face where it tended to fall like a curtain. MacKenzie chose to see the action as a grudging attempt to listen.
“We can go our own ways,” MacKenzie said. “I know we’re all different, but if we stay in Florence, there’s not only fabulous art, but great food, music, and, of course, the street market where you could spend days prowling the stalls for bargains. And if you prefer the country, there’s the whole of Tuscany just a bus ride away. Autumn in Tuscany shows colors you never knew existed.” Sitting again, she clamped her hands together between her knees to still their sudden trembling. I’m actually talking about this as if it were going to happen!
Roxie said, “That’s all I need to hear. I’m gone.”
Georgia looked at Sara. “Would it help if we looked at this practically? I believe I’m right in saying we can all afford it. Can’t we all spare a month? October is the perfect time—after the tourists and before the winter rains.”
“William could take over my Intro to Journalism classes,” Roxie said. “He’d be a treat for my graduate seminar kids. And wouldn’t the Dayton Daily News love a nice meaty feature on Tuscany for the travel and entertainment section?”
Roxie’s words blew MacKenzie’s inner spark into a blaze. She straightened her shoulders. “Kurt owes me this. And he needs to see what his irresponsible actions have done to the children.”
“Sara?” Georgia asked. “How about you?”
The doctor picked at her fingernails, her head down so the fall of her hair covered her face again. “I’m actually on mandated leave right now for therapy.”
The other three women exchanged glances and there was a moment of silence. MacKenzie held her breath. That was the first clue Sara had ever given about why such a closed person would consent to join their group. But the important thing was her decision. “You could always have your parents sleep in your house at night,” she said. “Then you wouldn’t worry about them being in that slum that creeps you out.”
Sara nodded. “I guess that’s a possibility.”
Georgia didn’t wait another second. Lowering her recliner, she stood and lightly clapped her hands. “We’re on then. This Saturday. Five days away. I know the perfect bed and breakfast.” Her hands rested on her knees as she looked at each one of them in turn. “Elisabetta and her son Cosimo are like family to me. Ben and I always stayed there when we visited Florence.” Her voice dropped an octave. “It was our favorite city.”
“Won’t it be hard for you to go back?” Sara asked, a new gentleness in her voice.
Georgia sighed and then smiled her sad smile. “I have to start living again sometime. And won’t the city of the Renaissance be the perfect place? Maybe I don’t have Ben any longer, but I do have at least twenty more years of life to live. What I need is reinvention.”
“Hear, hear,” MacKenzie said.
“I second the motion,” declared Roxie.
Georgia took a deep breath and put her twisted, arthritic hand flat on the ebony coffee table in front of her. “All in favor of an escape to Florence, put your hand on top of mine. It’s a pact.”
Sara hesitated while everyone looked at her. Then, slowly, she put her hand over Georgia’s swollen knuckles. Roxie was quick to place her hand on top of Sara’s. MacKenzie followed.
“No angst, no worries,” Roxie said when second hands had been placed on top of firsts. “Here’s to the Crazy Ladies of Oakwood!”


CHAPTER TWO
JOURNALING
ROXIE
Oct 1
I wish I could be loved by a blind man. Lady Caroline in Georgia’s movie had no idea how lucky she was to be loved by a man who couldn’t put her physical beauty into the equation. And here I am, committed to go to a land full of men famous for their flattery. And talk about grabbers! Didn’t I move away from Little Havana just to be rid of them?
Madre de Dios, I should be an investigative journalist! I am finding Oakwood far too tame for me. I should be using my education and mind to write about things that matter. Like how to achieve world peace. It’s the only justification I have for becoming a journalist instead of someone truly scary, like a novelist.
The closest I dare come to the feelings in my heart is in thoughts of William, the Unattainable. When I told him yesterday I was going to Florence for a month and asked if he would take my classes, I worried he would think I was loco. But all he did was slap the armrests of his wheelchair and smile that wonderful smile that turns his face soft. “What else does a department head have to do?” Sarcastic or sweet at heart? Will I ever know?
The DDN is delighted with the idea of a series on Tuscany for the paper.
Oct 2
Tengo miedo. Flat-out scared. Of what, I have no idea. I woke with my stomach in knots, and it even took me a while to realize I was scared; it’s been so long since I’ve had knots. Since I’ve been in Oakwood, they’ve vanished. No se para que. I have no idea why, just as I can’t understand what drove me from Florida to this typical American suburb and a white frame house.
Por que tengo miedo ahora? Because I’m going to be spending a month with women who only know me as a clown and think I’m nuts because of the jacket-in-the-trash incident?
Maybe. But Sara doesn’t think I am nuts. Technically, all four of us are neurotic, but Sara defended my right to throw the jacket away without obligating me to answer a lot of questions. I can almost see her doing something similar. But she wouldn’t have been public about it. She would have taken it down to her basement and cut it into tiny pieces and then set fire to them. And no one would have ever known.
Will I get to peek behind that mask of hers? Is it even fair to her that I want to? She’s allowed me my privacy. Shouldn’t I allow her hers?
Oct 3
I woke moments ago with black dread hanging over me—the kind of dread I used to have of the summerhouse on Grandfather’s estate at home. With the ivy crawling over it and the palmettos crowded around it, it gets no light. And the damp has gotten in. It’s a haven for spiders. Even snakes. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were an alligator in there one day. Ay mi!
But why this dread? Perhaps it’s left over from a dream I can’t remember. I can’t have any dread of Florence. I only spent a weekend there years ago, but it’s magnificent. Not a bit like the summerhouse. Florence is full of light and beauty. And the Italians laugh and take life as leisurely as the Cubanos. We’re like cousins.
I’ll do my deep breathing exercises.
MACKENZIE
Oct 1
I woke with mixed feelings this morning. I am very excited about going to Florence again. But is it possible for a good mother to want to leave her children?
I think I won’t even straighten my hair in the mornings—I’ll just let it go curly like it always wants to.
I have to admit that the dread/excitement I feel over seeing Kurt is threatening to overcome everything else. When I called him yesterday, it was very strange. It’s the first time since he left that I have called him, so he was, of course, very surprised. It was so good to hear his voice, even though I know he’s a traitor to us all.
But he didn’t hesitate about the kids. He really wants to see them. I decided not to warn him about the changes he would find. I just didn’t have the guts.
The kids looked a little panicked when I told them my plans. But when they heard their father was coming, I could tell they were pleased, even though they tried to hide it.
Oct 2
Kurt arrives today and my little bit of excitement is gone. Now I am scared to death at how I will feel when I see him again. For some crazy reason, I still love him, and am so afraid of him seeing how much. I just wish he could walk into a perfect family and want to be part of us again.
But I’m just going to dress in sober black. I may even wear my glasses instead of my contacts. I’ve already decided I’m not taking contacts to Florence. Too much trouble with all the fluid restrictions, etc., at the airport.
I just know being in Florence again will open up all this constriction in my chest and I will be able to really breathe.
Oct 3
Kurt no longer looks like a doctor. He has let his beard grow. And his hair. In fact, he looks just like he did when I met him at the Met in front of Van Gogh’s Olive Trees. I remember he asked me about their significance. I pointed out the red in the corner and said I thought it represented Christ’s atoning blood, and that the olive trees were the twelve apostles. As though there were no doubt about it! Where did that confidence go?
When he came, he used the front door and knocked. We just stood and looked at each another.
Then, he said, “Hi, Mac.” He hasn’t called me that in years. My heart’s pounding as I write this: THE KISS.
I was so shocked when he grabbed me like that, kissing me like he never does any more. We couldn’t get enough of each other. We were absolutely welded together and couldn’t end it. If I had any doubts, the passion between us in the early days is still there. And there was such neediness and wanting. Kurt once said that I was the only one in his life who had opened his “love door.” I believed him in that moment. From his kiss, which seemed to bracket our whole life together, I surmise that this must still be so. I could feel his heart racing beneath his perennial golfer’s shirt. It was pink.
Now I don’t know what to think. I had convinced myself it was over. It must be over! How can I forgive him for what he has done to the family?
“Are you really still my Mac?” he asked. I could only stare like the proverbial doe in the headlights into those blue eyes under his heavy black brows. To my shame, all the electricity and urgency came up from its near-dormancy inside me, meeting what seemed to be the same feelings in him. I could read the want in his eyes. Kurt takes his kisses seriously, unlike the other men I dated. Another woman might have found him stiff and reserved, but for me, breaking down his barriers, knowing how much he wanted me, had been a thrill. Probably the Elizabeth/Darcy syndrome. I know that this man was not unfaithful to me. All my doubts on that subject are gone.
Perhaps we could have solved things then and there if we had simply walked out the door and left to meander in Elizabeth Gardens, sorting our feelings as we did years ago. But the children were staring. We were like two teenagers making out in the back row of the theater! I was embarrassed and I pulled away. I tried to quench the feelings rising in me by searching inside for my anger.
I did this by showing him Josh’s basketball and track trophies, all boxed up and addressed to Kurt. I told him about the drinking and smoking. I pointed out Jessica’s body piercings. He was stunned. Our intimacy fled and my anger took over again. I wanted to shake him, I was so mad.
I left the house before he could see me cry and wandered around alone through Elizabeth Gardens, throwing rocks in the stream to get my feelings out. I know I was upset with myself about that kiss. How could I have gotten so carried away, when he had done a 180 in the middle of our marriage and let us all down?
Then I went to WalMart of all places and bought some cheap jeans. I don’t know why I did it. I never wear jeans and the fit is terrible. I’m going to eat in Florence and I’ll probably fill out these hideous jeans and look like Two-Ton-Tessie. I’m definitely feeling defiant.
While I was packing, Jessica came to my room and said something like, “Mom, I’m really glad you’re going. I think it’s going to be totally good for you to do something for yourself for a change. And good for you, ordering pizza for dinner! You’ve always been, like, too linear, Mom. There really are more levels of existence outside Oakwood!”
Somehow, Jess understands. Maybe it’s the T. S. Eliot quote she read to me yesterday about getting from where you are to where you are not by going through the way in which you are not. I found myself smiling like a conspirator. “Give your dad heck, Jess. Show him your navel ring and tats and play Stravinsky till he loses his mind.”
“If the opportunity arises,” she said, grinning. It’s been a long time since she’s shared a smile with me.
SARA
Oct 1
Keeping these “morning pages” like Dr. Kathy prescribed is a very unlikely thing for a person like me to do. But it is forcing me to dwell on my thoughts. They are so far below the surface, I can’t even find them. Searching for them is counterintuitive, but probably good for me. Haven’t I been in hiding most of my life?
Why did I agree to go to Florence with three other women I barely know? The fact is I’m exhausted. Perhaps I will sleep for a month.
Oct 2
Last night I panicked and called Georgia. I couldn’t go through with it. But she simply would not accept my excuses. She came to my house and made me call to tell my parents while she was here. To my shock, they were happy! They want me to go. I told them that I would only do it if they stayed in my house at night while I was gone. My father told me something I never knew. He speaks Italian and studied art in Florence when he was a young man. It must be the romantic, French part of him.
I wonder if I have inherited any of that romance? How is Florence going to make me feel? Apart from Georgia, I really don’t know these women. I’m used to such a solitary life, except for the constant responsibility for my parents. I think they have taught me to always think the worst of everyone. Will that change?
Oct 3
I am more scared than before my medical boards. I am completely overcome by fear—of the unknown, of three women with strong personalities, even of the flight. And failure, always failure. How can I fail at a vacation?
GEORGIA
Oct 1
Finally! Something wonderful to look forward to! I booked the B&B yesterday. Tina cried when I told her to take the month off. She’s going to live here and take care of the house, but I’m afraid she might be lonely. I’ve never wondered until now why such a lovely girl would rather cook for me and live here in this spooky, dark mansion, rather than somewhere with friends. That doesn’t speak very well of me. I’ve been such a prima donna!
Without Ben or my dramatic violin persona as Sasha Delacourt, I’m having to learn a whole new way of getting from day to day. I’m finding that I can’t do that in staid Oakwood. It’s too insular and homogeneous. Florence with three complex, delightful young women will be a wonderful change. A definite improvement over self-destruction, no matter what great opera dictates.
Oct 2
I am writing this while listening to my CD of the Dvorak. I always have a terrible time deciding which concerto I like best. Ben fell in love with me when I played the Mendelssohn. He said it was like silk.
I am my music. When Ben was alive, conducting hither and yon all over the world, I felt like I was still engaged in the “Life,” though my hands were so crippled by then I could no longer play. How can I ever have an identity without music? What else could ever fill this huge hole inside of me? Perhaps, as in the past, another man would be the answer. There has always been a man.
Arturo? I’m dreaming. It’s just that I recorded this when I was in Italy with him, in a funny little place outside of Florence, years before I met Ben. Maybe that’s why I picked Italy. I wonder where Arturo is now and what he’s doing. He would still look great. Italian men always do. Silver hair combed straight back, immaculate suit, and a Mercedes. Maybe even a Vespa for around town. What would I do if I ran into him? Just the prospect of that gives me the desire to go to the spa and have a complete day of it. Must take care of my hair, my nails, and get a good facial. I wonder if I can still turn heads?
Oct 3
Tomorrow is the day, and now I find that I have butterflies in my stomach, just like I used to before a performance. I feel responsible for these women. I want so much for them to enjoy themselves. I want an “Enchanted October” for them! I suppose that’s very co-dependent of me, my happiness depending on theirs. Maybe I’m not a narcissist after all.
What kind of mother would I have been? Is that what getting old is all about—more and more hypothetical questions?

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Saturday, January 7, 2012

Three romantic poems

  THREE ROMANTIC POEMS

READ MORE LOVE POEMS 

 

Always 

The day you were born, the whole world was blessed
These thoughts in my mind to you I must confess

The time has come for me to express my true feelings
You are the center of my thoughts and the essence of my being

What you have brought me I never thought I could procure
The gift of comfort, with you I am secure

For you have lifted me up from a life filled with sorrow
And made me realize there is always a better tomorrow

It amazes me how someone can make me feel this way
I love you more and more with each passing day

You brighten my days and lift my spirits
I have felt this for so long and now want you to hear it

So you may know the place you hold in my heart
You are always with me even when we're apart

I truly believe what we have is meant to be
Just open your heart and soon you shall see

What I am willing to do to keep a smile on your face
Just know that I'm here and will be always



You Hold The Key To My Heart

By Cami Surrett
As we lie beneath the stars,
We wonder who we really are,
I wonder what you see in me,
We'll fall asleep beneath the trees.

Run your fingers through my hair,
Show me that you truly care,
Day by day, and night by night,
When I'm with you I have no fright.

The day you told you loved me,
That's when I gave you the key,
To my heart, soul and mind,
I'm glad to know that you're all mine.

I want it to last forever,
To know that we'll always be together,
Feel no pain or sadness dear,
I want you to always be near.

In every hug and every kiss,
When I'm with you I feel true love exists.
Hold me close and never let me go,
Don't let me fall amidst the shadow.

For I am yours, forever it may be,
I am yours for all eternity.
I mean it all; all I've said,
Without you, a part of me is dead.


The Beginning of Love. 

by Andrew Tu'akoi 



I have traveled far and deep
to gain the affection of Love

I prayed with an open heart
seeking guidance from Above

I have been deceived, hurt and
manipulated a multiple times

To toy with one persons emotions,
defines an unspeakable crime

That power you can give over to someone,
to trust and to believe

Can destroy you as a whole
when they turn around to leave

But love is a value obtained
through a series of pain

True love is when you make it through
the struggle and
your relationship maintains
A bond like no other

Your soul strives for her connection
Fully aware of the world but
to give her your only attention

I have finally found love, and
made an endless commitment

To love her forever and eternity
to forever share every Moment

I was blinded, looking for love in
every wrong direction

When love has grown inside of me
like an incurable infection

This is my beginning
to a new found definition of Love

It's a feeling that i enjoy and
I can't get enough :)

 
 

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Dreams of Love -love and romantic poems

You cun find more poems of ( love , kids ,frindship , sad and other ) in this web search our blog to find your Demand .





Only a dream
I'm dancing in a dream
On a wide green meadow
I'm sitting under a tree
In a great big wood
There comes my prince
On his white horse to safe me
But then I wake up
And it was only a dream

****

This bird
This bird can't sing
This bird does not fly
So why is it there?
I don't know why

****

Home is...
Home is
Where your heart is
And mine is
Far away
Please bring it
Back to me
When you return
Into my arms
Home is
Where your heart is
And mine is
Always with you

****

Summer rain
I'm dancing in the rain
And keep on singing
I'm getting wet
But that's ok
It's so lovely to dance
In a warm summer rain

****

I’m dreaming
I'm dreaming of a journey
Far, far away
Where my dreams lift me up
So I can touch the sky
Where nobody is sad
And all are glad
To be alive
Where somebody waits for me
And I can be
Only myself and nobody else

****

I can love
I'm not pretty
And I'm not rich
But I can love you
I stay with you
Forever and more
And love you till the end
I hope we go to
Heaven as one
And stay there for a while

****

How?
How can you feel alone?
In the middle of so many people
How can you feel not loved?
When you know people who love you
How can you cry?
When nobody hurt you
How can you move on?
When you have no reason
How can you be sad?
When he was only a dream

****

Lilac
The scent of lilac
Drifts over to me
And mingles with sunshine
In my head
It lets me remember
The time we had
Before you left me
Before you were gone

Thes is poems
By Julia Averbeck

Smashwords Edition

Copyright June 2011, Julia Averbeck







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Collections of Romantic and Love Poems

THIS IS Love and Romantic Love Poems read poems and stories(love , kids , loneliness) 
 
love poems
collections os Love and Romantic Love Poems
Only a dream

I'm dancing in a dream
On a wide green meadow
I'm sitting under a tree
In a great big wood
There comes my prince
On his white horse to safe me
But then I wake up
And it was only a dream

 Julia Averbeck

 
 
Lonely without you


woke up today
with your name on my lips
went about my way
you were in all my steps

saw a movie and it made me cry
if only I could tell you why
but there are no words for this loneliness
because it s you I miss

Ana



Complete

To the one who makes my life complete:
Please stop asking when it's time to eat.
Can't you see I'm getting fat.
I heard there's a restaurant serving cat.
Maybe we'll just skip this meal,
at least the dishes we'll not have to deal.
Full we not be,
but always complete with you and me.

Angela Fears


Black-Hearted Bliss

I could talk to you for hours with my kiss.
I could tantalize your senses with my lips.
Our significant others are totally oblivious to our forbidden bliss.
Could we write to each other for a while with our tongues?
Could we let our infidelity go unsung?
I feel less guilty for our Dark Exctasy knowing that I'm not the only one.

Manchuella


How Do I Know I Love You?

How do I know I love you?
Even though we're far apart
You'll always be here in my heart.
Through thick and thin we've been through
You know I'll always be with you.
As you hold me in your arms
And also tease me with your charms,
I know you'll always comfort me,
And that is how I want to be,
In a paradise for two,
That's how I know I love you!

Abigail Bis


Sealed Pages

Like a book I wait to be opened, to be read,
To be liked for who I am, not what I look like
or what people have said
Will I be kept and loved or tossed back on the shelf?
No worry, because I know now you will always love me yourself
I'm always here in any way you need,
When you need to talk, cry or just open me up to read

Dustin Gagnon


Love is

love is the light that brightens the day
love is the hope that guides the way
love is the quiet that shares the silence
love is the ears that hear the snoring
love is the time when life is boring
love is you

andrea taplin


why

sweet baby girl in heaven above,
God sent you to us with much love,
not knowing what pain it would cause.
I deal with it just because
the few moments I had you in my arms,
will last me till the end of time.
till I see and know you were really mine.

soy lee v.s.


my search

From the peak of the highest mountain
I stood and gazed upon the world
In search of to share my abode with me
I looked from the east to the west
I searched from the north to the south
I wept because I could find no one
No one to call my own
I looked upwards at the sky
I found you on the chords of the rainbow
gazing down at me. Smiling
You stretched your hands and reached out for me
You took me from the earth to your sky
You gave me a home at your home
A place with you to live with you in love
I am grateful
Thanks my cherubic Angel

chiedu chiadika


I saw the rose grow

I saw roses grow
through hail,
snow,
rain
and beating rays.

my love like the rose
will grow
Nicolas Bugden


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Saturday, September 24, 2011

I miss you - love poems

Discover our website to find everything you want from love poems, romance and love stories and many other topics on the true stories, stories of children and ebook stories. This new love poem entitled I miss you

love poem Imiss you



Threw out the day your all
thats in my thoughts

Your with me every night
in my dreams but i still
miss you.

I feel the connection
between our hearts
but i still miss you

I can touch your cheek
I can kiss your lips
But I would still miss you

There is a day that is not
today that we will be together
forever than only than will
I not miss you anymore

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Love Defined - poem of love

Be always with us and between our pages you will find most beautiful poems and love stories. And more true stories and stories of children

love poem
What is love, but an emotion,
So strong and so pure,
That nurtured and shared with another
All tests it will endure?

What is love, but a force
To bring the mighty low,
With the strength to shame the mountains
And halt time’s ceaseless flow?

What is love, but a triumph,
A glorious goal attained,
The union of two souls, two hearts
A bond the angels have ordained?

What is love, but a champion,
To cast the tyrant from his throne,
And raise the flag of truth and peace,
And fear of death o’erthrow?

What is love, but a beacon,
To guide the wayward heart,
A blazing light upon the shoals
That dash cherished dreams apart?

And what is love, but forever,
Eternal and sincere,
A flame that through wax and wane
Will outlive life’s brief years?

So I’ll tell it on the mountaintops,
In all places high and low,
That love for you is my reason to be,
And will never break or bow.

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