angel of heaven - love stories

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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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The love that lasts - love stories - part 2

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You drive me sane

It can't be that simple. Ask about the problems. Everyone has problems.

"We've had our bumps, I'm sure," Kay says. "I've thought of killing him several times."

Ask John Gaver why he married Kay 33 years ago and he says it was to fulfill his needs. Kay says she married John because she loved him. Replies John: Oops.

Of course you have. Go on.

"He can really be an obstinate SOB."

Hell yeah, he is. Go on. Give us examples.

And you wait, and she's thinking about it. And thinking. And thinking. And God love her, she's trying to take a free shot at her husband, but she can't come up with anything that bad.

Finally, there's this: "He drives like a madman. An absolute crazed person."

But even that isn't much of a sore spot.

"I just don't dwell on stuff," she says.

You keep looking for trouble. You look for conflict in their eyes. Search for it in the uncomfortable silences. But the silences are comfortable. Fact is, they're the most comfortable.

Spend an afternoon with them and you'll see it. On Super Bowl Sunday, you watch the game with the Gavers at the home of their friends Jim and Terri Bolton. John spends most of the game on the couch, next to you. Kay sits on the floor, white wine in hand, at the other end of the couch. They watch mostly in silence.

Denver scores. Kay extends her hand to John: "Give me five." Not "gimme," by the way, but "give me." You could cut a steak with that V.

John, licking rib juice from his fingers, declines the high-five. She's okay with that.

They seem to be okay with everything. Of course, you can know only as much about the Gavers' marriage as they're willing to tell. But when they say they don't get on each other's nerves, it's easy to believe them. Perhaps they're lucky or blessed or just meant for each other, but whatever it is, you want some.

How strong is this friendship? This strong:

If they've ever had a serious fight, John says, "I can't recall under what circumstances."

Three reasons to stay married

The Gaver children are grown now -- grown more than most, deriving as they do from sizable stock. Jeff, 31, and Glenn, 23, eclipse 6 feet, and Heather, 27, scrapes it on tiptoe. Jeff lives in Jacksonville, Heather near Orlando; Glenn is back home for now, leading a mostly nocturnal existence while he plans a journey to California with hopes of becoming a screenwriter.

During the years the Gavers have been married, more and more American women have been trying to have it all the husband, the family, the stellar career. Some have actually pulled it off.

But Kay never attempted it: When the children came, she gave up her interior design work to become a mom.

She did it because she wanted to, not because she had to, she says.

"We wanted Jeff more than I wanted to be an interior designer," she says. "Jeff was the priority.''

Kay, the professional mom, did most of the work of rearing the children. She fixed their lunches and bought their school clothes and made sure they got to their scout meetings on time. John's role was to support the family and help out where he could. The Gavers might as well have been the Cleavers, except Kay didn't put on pearls to make dinner.

Though Kay was the main caretaker, bringing up the kids was a shared responsibility, one that brought the Gavers closer together.

"It's so great having someone who likes your kids as much as you do," Kay says. "The best thing about it is you get them to be young adults and then have lots of fun with them. Because you raise them to be people you like."

Some of the Gaver children are now embarking on marriages of their own. Jeff, the oldest, is married and has two sons. In July, Heather will marry David Mandel, a Jacksonville surgon. The Gavers are hoping their marriage will serve as a positive model, just as their parents' marriages did for them.

"All we really set out to be, if anything, was a good value system for our children," John says.

So that's another component. Having children wasn't just a way to test the limits of their patience. It gave the relationship a purpose. The kids weren't just a product of the marriage but eventually part of its engine. They drove the family forward. On such things are civilizations built.

Oops. Now you're on the soapbox.

Taking the plunge

On John's 55th birthday, his first stop was not his Brandon office. It was Skydive City in Zephyrhills, where he signed up for his first jump ever, a tandem dive. That means they strap another person to your back and toss you out of a plane.

John and his Siamese twin did a free fall from 13,500 feet to 4,500 feet, where the chute opened and they floated to earth. John had it videotaped and showed it to Kay later. "I thought he was crazy and I still think he was crazy. It's nothing I'd ever want to do," she says. But she has done it, of course. She did it on August 21, 1965, when she stood at the altar of a Methodist church in Omaha and said she would take John Gaver to be her husband, to have and to hold, and so on and so on. On that day, she and John took a giant leap, the kind of leap thousands of couples take every day, too often with disastrous results.

"I don't know how people could have years together, and all this history, and just go, "I don't want to do this anymore,' " she says. You have your answers, or some of them, anyway: They're friends. They're committed to each other but haven't lost their independence and individuality. They share values and a love for their children. They don't let little things drive them nuts.

You call an expert and run all this by her. Her name is Naomi S. Korn, a licensed clinical social worker in St. Petersburg with years of experience counseling couples.

Yes, she says, all these things help strengthen a relationship, help make it last a long time.

But Korn, who has been married 30 years, says that when it comes down to it, a long-lasting relationship requires something, well, undefinable.

"It's their style, it's their unique timing and how they are," she says. "If the spark is there for them, it's there for them." There. That's the rest of the answer. Love is a mystery, and precisely what makes it last can never be fully understood, certainly not by pesky outsiders, and probably not even by the people who are living it. Which brings you back to beginning. Back to the miracle.

It's Super Bowl Sunday, fourth quarter. The ribs have been decimated, and so have the Falcons. Kay puts her plate in the kitchen and returns to the living room. She is offered a nearby seat. No thanks, she says. A spot has opened on the couch, next to John. "I've got a victim," she says, plopping down beside him, pulling him close. "It's you, big boy."

Her left hand nestles into the crook of his elbow. She puts her arm around his shoulders. And they sit in silence some more.

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The love that lasts - love stories - part 1

Read love stories , true stories , poems of love and what you want and interesting whith us . in our blog we offer nice , new stories about love , children stories , poems for children , and more . we hope nice reading with this new love story named  The love that lasts
part 1 



love stories

TAMPA -- For her, it was compromise at first sight.
But John Gaver was intrigued, and no wonder: Kay Rydberg, then 23, was blond and statuesque, 5 foot 10, her long legs well-displayed in a short skirt.
They worked together at a home furnishings store. John, only 19 and still in school, wore thick-lensed glasses with black frames and shirts with pocket protectors. An introvert who had a meaningful relationship with his slide rule, he knew by eighth grade he wanted to be an engineer. He was Dilbert primeval.

But on a summer day in 1962, John willed the courage to ask Kay out.
"What the heck?" she thought. "I don't know anyone else in town."
Almost three years later, in an Omaha, Neb., bowling alley, they decided to marry. League night. Beer and balls and pins, but no proposal, no ring.
And even now, after 33 years of marriage, no split. "He's my best friend," Kay says. And she is his.
Why tell the story of this long marriage? Because it is a miracle. Because any marriage that has survived the last third of a century is a miracle.
Once upon a time in America, couples got married and stayed married, for better or for worse. The few who divorced were seen as moral failures.
Then, about the time the Gavers got married, society went through an extraordinary transformation. Women, once typecast as housewives, contemplated new choices. The pill launched an era of free and easy sex. Religion lost influence. States passed laws allowing people to end their marriages just because they felt like it.
The divorce rate, which had risen only slightly in the previous 25 years, suddenly jumped. It has doubled -- doubled -- during the years the Gavers have shared a last name. In 1996, the last year for which statistics are available, 150,000 couples got married in Florida -- and 80,000 got divorced.
And yet through it all the Gavers stayed married. Happily, even.
So why has this union succeeded while others have failed?
You are a stranger arriving at the Gavers' home to ask this intimate question. Your mission is to elicit the secret of their love's longevity. You will do this by probing into their most personal corners, questioning their most deeply held beliefs and testing the validity and value of their lifelong commitment.
They let you in anyway.
"My own personal person'
Thursday night. You meet the Gavers at their home in Carrollwood at 6:30, then head to nearby Circles restaurant, a favorite of Kay's. They choose a round table that could seat six. That they sit almost shoulder-to-shoulder could be a sign of intimacy, or just of the reporter and photographer crashing the meal.
John and Kay Gaver sit close together at Circles, one of Kay's favorite restaurants. Is it an intimate moment? Or are they just trying to help out the photographer?
John, 55, runs the Florida operation of Wehr Constructors Inc., a Kentucky company that builds hospitals, among other things. He is tall and athletic, indicative of a workout schedule lately punctuated by a twice-weekly karate class. Within this rugged frame ticks the stainless-steel heart of an engineer: John breaks everything down like a scientific formula.
Ask why he married Kay and he says, "I guess to provide all the things I thought I needed."
Kay, 59, is an interior designer, albeit between jobs. John's answer doesn't go over with her. She married him, she says, because she loved him.
"Guess that won't look too good," John says.
Kay goes on.
"I can remember when we first got married, it was the coolest thing," she is saying. "I've got my own personal person. . . . I've got this person forever. It's really cool."
John wasn't the most romantic soul in Nebraska, but he had other qualities. He's a stand-up guy, for one. When, early in their marriage, the Vietnam War escalated, he joined the Air Force because he thought it his duty to serve.
He opines that everyone should perform some kind of national service.
Kay rolls her eyes.
"I tell him he has an invisible soapbox that he drags around with him," she says. "Every now and again he pulls it out and jumps up on the soapbox and delivers an oratory. . . . I'm like, "Get off the box. Enough! You've made your point.' "
John was stationed first in Japan. The Gavers lived there when Kay, who had gone off the pill, gave birth to the couple's first son, Jeff, in 1967. Then the couple experienced the first real test of their marriage. In 1970, John was sent to Vietnam and Kay and Jeff returned to Omaha.
In John's 11-month stint on an Air Force base, he did not see combat, nor anything like it. His job allowed him to play tennis every day and golf every weekend.
But he shunned other perks of his position, he says. He tells of an Air Force saying: Wheels up, rings off. Its meaning: When you traveled to a temporary duty assignment, as soon as the plane took off -- and the wheels went in their well -- you took off your wedding band.
After all, this was the era of free love: Movie theaters were showing Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, in which two couples consider swapping spouses. Hippies proclaimed "Make Love, Not War." Women were burning their bras in a show of independence and sexual liberation.
Had John slipped off his ring, Kay, half a world away, wouldn't have known a thing.
"There isn't any way you can do that," John says. "The harm is there. Something's lost."
Besides, the only love he was interested in was Kay's.
"I actually can't imagine being with anybody else," he says. "I can't imagine not wanting to be with her. Seriously. There's never been a temptation."
Kay says the same is true for her, but she still has two good eyes. She recently saw the film Jerry Maguire and observed: "Cuba Gooding's got a great butt."
That's about as close to free love as these two ever get. While other young people adopted radical new attitudes toward relationships, the Gavers have always relied on something more grounded: what John calls "traditional Midwestern values." Their parents' marriages lasted forever and they expected theirs to do the same. Their engagement, though ratified in a bowling alley, was not agreed upon lightly. The Gavers come from a value system where commitment means, well, exactly that.
John's not impressed with any other definition.
"We've gotten into a throwaway society. You can get married, and if things don't work out, no big deal. There's no stigma," he says. "If you figure it's easy to get out of it, then you don't have to think too hard before you get into it."

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Short Love Story - Inspirational short stories

Read in our blog more ispiraing stories ( love , child , kids , funny ... stories)

this is inspirational love story we hope nice time whith  it .

One night when Joe was driving back home he was quite upset because of his miserable condition and his failure to bring up his family in prosperity and proper care. 

He had been unemployed since the Levis factory closed, but Joe did not want to abandon his birthplace where he had buried his parents. On his way back, he came across this old woman who was waiting in dismay by her car for some one to come and help her. Her car had broken down in the middle of the road.

Joe approached her with a friendly smile on his face but he could see her perplexed. Probably she thought he was going to hurt her. Joe saw that her car had a flat tire only. But for an old woman even that was too much of a burden. In order to make her feel comfortable, Joe asked her to go and sit in the car where it was warm and cozy. He told her his name and soon enough he had changed the tire. She couldn't thank him enough for going out of the way to help her. In order to show her gratitude she asked him how much she owed him, as she couldn't think of the misery that nature would have inflicted on her. He told her if she really wanted to pay him back, then the next time she met someone in peril she could give them a helping hand and while doing so just think of him once. Though it was a cold and depressing day for him, at the end of the day he felt good after helping her.

The lady headed for a small cafe down the road where she halted to catch up on some food. It was a dismal and drab restaurant. A waitress came around to help her. The waitress had a sweet and untiring smile on her face, one that a whole day's hard work couldn't wipe away from her face. The lady noticed the eight months pregnancy of the waitress and even then she was attending to every one without complain. The old lady wondered how someone who had so less could be so giving to a stranger and at that moment she remembered Joe. When the waitress went inside to get her change from a hundred dollar bill, the lady whisked out of the cafe and left a note for the waitress which read, "You don't owe me a thing, I've been there too. Someone once helped me out, the way I'm helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here's what you do. Don't let the chain of love end with you." Tears ran down her cheeks. The waitress went back home to her husband, happy at this windfall. While in bed she wondered how the old lady knew that they were in dire need of financial aid for her delivery, which was due next month. She knew her husband would be highly worried and thus she turned to him and while giving him a soft kiss she whispered to him, "Everything's going to be alright, I love you Joe

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taking a chance - short stories about love ~ short stories

taking a chance - short stories about love ~ short stories

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Silent Love - short love story - free short stories

Hi friends in new short story about love we meet in our blog 

read in this blog more stories ( love stories , high schoole stories , short stories for children,short stories by edgar allan poe,short stories in spanish )

 Silent Love

She was not thinking of love, not something important in her life, but love that comes at a time. May come silently .

She was so stout……..with stout persons, sometimes she became so sensitive, as all the characters were immersed in her……she was decent and never brought sadness in anyone’s face, but happiness. She never ever endeavored for those which were of others. Always was appearing with a sweet smile on her face, whether how much dismal she was……she sacrificed her whole likenesses for others………………and probably for this even she lost her love. Whether her destiny brought her to her valentine but also adversity took her away from her love and from this world.

The story begins from here;

“Oh mum we’re getting late, hurry up” she shouted

“Yeah, just coming don’t impassionate” Mum said…..

Actually, she was going in another city for attending the wedding of her cousin.

At last they set out for attending wedding.

By the next dawn she arrived in that city, where some one was waiting for her……..

After arriving there, all persons turned busy in the chore and some in the practice for dace.

All cousins decided to for buying CDs of their favourite songs. In evening they set out for shopping and outing. After shopping they turned so hungry and tired. They went in a restaurant for dinner.

“Oh no, I’ve forgotten my CDs in that restaurant and I’ve also written my address and contact no: in that CDs” She said.

“Shit! If anyone would’ve picked your CDs, so….” Her 1 cousin said with exasperation.

“So, lets go for picking them” her cousins said.

When they entered in restaurant, so she saw………….and stared and he also.

They both lost in their eyes. He came toward her, simultaneously when she saw her CDs in his hand, she snatched and ran away…..

She did not want to arouse her feelings of love, but his love was wishing her.

Perhaps they both were avoiding from, and that’s why couldn’t express their feelings about each other. When she returned, she intended to forget him but all in vain. She again thought and thought, his condition was also such like her. Whether they did not want to show their love to each other, but they couldn’t stop their selves from missing and loving each other.

Next day she again went at the same restaurant and had forgotten some thing their,

But when she went again for picking she found that same guy, as he was waiting for her.

This case remained continue for four days. The things which she used to forget there in restaurant for seeing only a blink of him, she remained them unopened and marked them safe in her closet. On the fifth day, when she was setting out for the same restaurant, there a misfortunate came between both of them, which brought her far from his world.

During crossing the road a red big container hitted she and she died in the victim of that accident. On one side she was eagering to say only one word and also hearing from him that I LOVE YOU. On other hand he was awaiting for her. For three days she continuously used to come in that restaurant but she couldn’t. Next day, she reminded her address which was written in her CD and set out for her house. After arriving there when he got a wind about her so he offed her wits. She went to her room and when he opened her closet so he found her all things unopened which she used to forget there in restaurant. Actually he had kept his lo in inside those things, but she couldn’t read them. He cried and cried and burst into tears. Their silent love remained silent.

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sad love story - The Love Letter Part 1- free online short stories

Again we meet with our blog readers to give them a new story, of love stories entitled the love Letter, let you read the story, be with us always and short stories about love, short stories with tragic endings to Eriks ... ETC

part 1 - the love letter

Iwas always a little in awe of Great-aunt Stephina Roos. Indeed, as children we were all frankly terrified of her. The fact that she did not live with the family, preferring her tiny cottage and solitude to the comfortable but rather noisy household where we were brought up-added to the respectful fear in which she was held. We used to take it in turn to carry small delicacies which my mother had made down from the big house to the little cottage where Aunt Stephia and an old colored maid spent their days. Old Tnate Sanna would open the door to the rather frightened little messenger and would usher him-or her - into the dark voor-kamer, where the shutters were always closed to keep out the heat and the flies. There we would wait, in trembling but not altogether unpleasant. She was a tiny little woman to inspire so much veneration. She was always dressed in black, and her dark clothes melted into the shadows of the voor-kamer and made her look smaller than ever. But you felt. The moment she entered. That something vital and strong and somehow indestructible had come in with her, although she moved slowly, and her voice was sweet and soft. She never embraced us. She would greet us and take out hot little hands in her own beautiful cool one, with blue veins standing out on the back of it, as though the white skin were almost too delicate to contain them. Tante Sanna would bring in dishes of sweet, sweet, sticky candy, or a great bowl of grapes or peaches, and Great-aunt Stephina would converse gravely about happenings on the farm ,and, more rarely, of the outer world. When we had finished our sweetmeats or fruit she would accompany us to the stoep, bidding us thank our mother for her gift and sending quaint, old-fashioned messages to her and the Father. Then she would turn and enter the house, closing the door behind, so that it became once more a place of mystery. As I grew older I found, rather to my surprise, that I had become genuinely fond of my aloof old great-aunt. But to this day I do not know what strange impulse made me take George to see her and to tell her, before I had confided in another living soul, of our engagement. To my astonishment, she was delighted. "An Englishman,"she exclaimed."But that is splendid, splendid. And you,"she turned to George,"you are making your home in this country? You do not intend to return to England just yet?" She seemed relieved when she heard that George had bought a farm near our own farm and intended to settle in South Africa. She became quite animated, and chattered away to him. After that I would often slip away to the little cottage by the mealie lands. Once she was somewhat disappointed on hearing that we had decided to wait for two years before getting married, but when she learned that my father and mother were both pleased with the match she seemed reassured. Still, she often appeared anxious about my love affair, and would ask questions that seemed to me strange, almost as though she feared that something would happen to destroy my romance. But I was quite unprepared for her outburst when I mentioned that George thought of paying a lightning visit to England before we were married."He must not do it,"she cried."Ina, you must not let him go. Promise me you will prevent him."she was trembling all over. I did what I could to console her, but she looked so tired and pale that I persuaded her to go to her room and rest, promising to return the next day. When I arrived I found her sitting on the stoep. She looked lonely and pathetic, and for the first time I wondered why no man had ever taken her and looked after her and loved her. Mother had told me that Great-aunt Stephina had been lovely as a young girl, and although no trace of that beauty remained, except perhaps in her brown eyes, yet she looked so small and appealing that any man, one felt, would have wanted to protect her. She paused, as though she did not quite know how to begin. Then she seemed to give herself, mentally, a little shake. "You must have wondered ", she said, "why I was so upset at the thought of young George's going to England without you. I am an old woman, and perhaps I have the silly fancies of the old, but I should like to tell you my own love story, and then you can decide whether it is wise for your man to leave you before you are married." "I was quite a young girl when I first met Richard Weston. He was an Englishman who boarded with the Van Rensburgs on the next farm, four or five miles from us. Richard was not strong. He had a weak chest, and the doctors had sent him to South Africa so that the dry air could cure him. He taught the Van Rensburg children, who were younger than I was, though we often played together, but he did this for pleasure and not because he needed money.

the love letter part 2 

We loved one another from the first moment we met, though we did not speak of our love until the evening of my eighteenth birthday. All our friends and relatives had come to my party, and in the evening we danced on the big old carpet which we had laid down in the barn. Richard had come with the Van Rensburgs, and we danced together as often as we dared, which was not very often, for my father hated the Uitlanders. Indeed, for a time he had quarreled with Mynheer Van Rensburg for allowing Richard to board with him, but afterwards he got used to the idea, and was always polite to the Englishman, though he never liked him. "That was the happiest birthday of my life, for while we were resting between dances Richard took me outside into the cool, moonlit night, and there, under the stars ,he told me he loved me and asked me to marry him. Of course I promised I would, for I was too happy to think of what my parents would say, or indeed of anything except Richard was not at our meeting place as he had arranged. I was disappointed but not alarmed, for so many things could happen to either of us to prevent out keeping our tryst. I thought that next time we visited the Van Ransburgs, I should hear what had kept him and we could plan further meetings… "So when my father asked if I would drive with him to Driefontein I was delighted. But when we reached the homestead and were sitting on the stoep drinking our coffee, we heard that Richard had left quite suddenly and had gone back to England. His father had died, and now he was the heir and must go back to look after his estates. "I do not remember very much more about that day, except that the sun seemed to have stopped shining and the country no longer looked beautiful and full of promise, but bleak and desolate as it sometimes does in winter or in times of drought. Late that afternoon, Jantje, the little Hottentot herd boy, came up to me and handed me a letter , which he said the English baas had left for me. It was the only love letter I ever received, but it turned all my bitterness and grief into a peacefulness which was the nearest I could get, then, to happiness. I knew Richard still loved me, and somehow, as long as I had his letter, I felt that we could never be really parted, even if he were in England and I had to remain on the farm. I have it yet, and though I am an old, tired woman, it still gives me hope and courage." "I must have been a wonderful letter, Aunt Stephia,"I said The old lady came back from her dreams of that far-off romance."Perhaps," she said, hesitating a little, "perhaps, my dear, you would care to read it ?" "I should love to , Aunt Stephia,"I said gently She rose at once and tripped into the house as eagerly as a young girl. When she came back she handed me a letter, faded and yellow with age, the edges of the envelope worn and frayed as though it had been much handled. But when I came to open it I found that the seal was unbroken. "Open it ,open it,"said Great-aunt Stephia, and her voice was shaking I broke the seal and read. It was not a love letter in the true sense of the word, but pages of the minutest directions of how"my sweetest Phina"was to elude her father's vigilance, creep down to the drift at night and there meet Jantje with a horse which would take her to Smitsdorp. There she was to go to "my true friend, Henry Wilson",who would give her money and make arrangements for her to follow her lover to Cape Town and from there to England ," where, my love, we can he be married at once. But if, my dearest, you are not sure that you can face lift with me in a land strange to you, then do not take this important step, for I love you too much to wish you the smallest unhappiness. If you do not come, and if I do not hear from you, then I shall know that you could never be happy so far from the people and the country which you love. If, however, you feel you can keep your promise to me, but are of too timid and modest a journey to England unaccompanied, then write to me, and I will, by some means, return to fetch my bride." I read no further. "But Aunt Phina!"I gasped. "Why…why…?" The old lady was watching me with trembling eagerness, her face flushed and her eyes bright with expectation."Read it aloud, my dear,"she said."I want to hear every word of it. There was never anyone I could trust…Uitlanders were hated in my young days…I could not ask anyone." "But, Auntie, don't you even know what he wrote?" The old lady looked down, troubled and shy like a child who has unwittingly done wrong. "No, dear," she said, speaking very low."You see, I never learned to read.

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