The sister site to this one, A Bunch of Wordz: A Readers’ Blog, is enjoying popularity and success.  Okay, it’s not actually enjoying anything, because it’s inanimate, but you know what I mean.

The site you’re on now, A Bunch of Wordz 2: A Literary Blogazine, isn’t getting the crossover traffic that I had hoped.  For that reason, I’ve decided to concentrate my efforts on A Bunch of Wordz: A Readers’ Blog, which means the A Bunch of Wordz 2 site will no longer be updated, although I will keep it here for your enjoyment.  Please head over to A Bunch of Wordz: A Readers’ Blog, which always has new stories, poems, book reviews, blog reviews, and random cool stuff for you to read.

Every House is a World
by Christopher Woods

Now, after spending the better part of the day in bed, they sipped wine and read the afternoon newspaper. For a long time, they passed sections back and forth in silence. It was a consecrated hour, as hours go. It seemed that nothing else needed to be said. Finally, when the light had begun to fade in the window, he spread the paper out on his lap and cleared his throat.

“If I had to describe us,” he said, “we would be like an old cathedral. Lasting, you know.”

She considered this for a moment, and began to smile. She ran her green fingernails across his wide chest, then traced the small line of hair down his stomach.

“Us, a church?” she asked. This was a revelation to her.

They both began laughing, she because of his statement, he because she had tickled him in a tender place.

“A physical cathedral,” he explained. “Nothing more.”

He took her wandering hand and anchored it in his own. It amazed him still, how long and lovely her hands were. And how they fit so nicely inside his own. He ran his fingertip across her palm, tracing her lifeline. Then he placed his palm against hers. She then laced her fingers around his. Together, their fingers made steeples.

“We aren’t as stone cold as that,” she said. “Like a dark old church. Not us.”

She ran her tongue over her lips and made them shiny again. No, they weren’t like that at all, she was sure. They still had fires inside them. Wasn’t the afternoon proof of that? Then she stopped and thought about it. Was he trying to tell her something? Some sad, or final?

He ran his finger across her still wet lips, and leaned over to kiss her. He could not remember ever having wanted someone this badly, or this often. When he saw the confused look in her soft, dark eyes, he realized he had not made himself clear.

“Don’t you remember,” he said, “the summer we visited all those cathedrals in France? How they had lasted? Supported from the outside?”

“Buttresses, you mean?”

“Right,” he nodded. “Sturdy stuff. Moored in the earth.”

“I see now,” she said, quite relieved.

“Good, then. That’s how it is, this thing between us.”

He put his arms around her and drew her body next to his. Her head resting on his chest, he played with the long strands of her dark hair. He pulled a strand through his mouth and bit it gently. He was certain, he had never felt like this before, with anyone. The rarity of it, the simple joy of her, was a thing he could not now imagine living without. In the past, he had not known anything like this. In the past, he decided, he had not even been alive.

“Someday,” she said, making steeples again, “all cathedrals will be like this. Rising up to the sky.”

“We don’t need sky,” he said gently. “Just earth. Sturdy, and solid. Something else might bring bad luck.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. “Let’s leave it the way it is.”

Through the window, unknown to them, the moon was rising. A slight gust of wind blew across the bed. Without another word, he shifted his body, moving until she was beneath him.

They began moving slowly then, deliberately, like all the hours on either side of them now.

Christopher Woods is the author of a prose collection, Under A Riverbed Sky (Panther Creek Press), and a collection of monologues for actors, Heart Speak (Stone River Press).  His plays have been produced in Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York.  He lives in Houston and in Chappell Hill, Texas.

This story was previously published in the book, Under A Riverbed Sky.

The September header photo was taken from the justsexy account at the stock xchange, which is a small selection of some of the photographs found at iofoto.com.

Cinderella’s Diary Page 44
by Kimberly D. Robinson

Lost my glass slipper
for quick I had to run,
to board before the Chariot
turn to pumpkin and mice
spell was done

How could I imagine myself
wrapped in such precious arms
of a man, my evil step-sisters’
tried to win, while longing
for his quiet yet unbeknownst charms

My Fairy Godmother said, “Rubbish!”
to those of wicked woes
no alternative at midnight
yet I reminisce of my Prince
and those glass slippers on my toes

How dare they? How could they?
Treat me so torturous and cruel
peace and love is all I long for
I combine revenge with a cup of tears
till I concoct one of their own witch’s brew

Bug eyes, prickly pear
add scorpions and snails
a dash of their perfume
pinch of snake spice and
a cup of cat-o-nine tails

Positively would bring me joy
to witness the evil one’s wince
to serve them this grand lunch
as I pray the matching slipper finds me
as I silently beckon my handsome Prince

Please enjoy the meal, courtesy from me to you
as I dream of a life with my Prince
alas evil step-mother and sisters too
for one by one will certainly die
in the name of Cinderella vengeance

Kimberly D. Robinson is a 44-year-old scientist, science teacher, writer, poet, artist, mentor, and pianist.  She has been writing and doing artwork for over 33 years.  She currently lives in West Chester, Pennsylvania.  She has online publications in poetry and flash fiction, and an anthology publication of poetry and short fiction.

Sand
by Pavelle Wesser

Ellen shifted in the rental car, trying to forget that she was lost in the desert of a foreign country and that her boyfriend was missing. Where was Andrew? He’d left, stating simply:

“I’ll be back.”

If they hadn’t gone out to dinner, this would never have happened. Ellen cursed the night just as the headlights of a vehicle lit up the empty road behind her. Silhouetted against the darkness, she saw a man approaching. He tapped on her window and she cracked the door open:

“Yes?”

He stood perfectly straight in his khaki army fatigues and addressed her in his language.

“I’m sorry,” said Ellen, “I speak only English.”

Her words appeared to anger him, as he procured a semi-automatic rifle and motioned for her to get out. She felt helpless standing in the desert sand, and even more so when he pointed at the trunk of his jeep and indicated she should get in.

“My boyfriend will be back,” said Ellen. “He loves me.” She touched the silver cross at her neck, “So if you could tell him ..”

# # #

Andrew counted the money, periodically touching the silver cross at his neck. How much was a life worth: In Ellen’s case, not much. She was pathetic in her refusal to let him break up with her. This was it: ‘Plan A,’ the first and final exit off the highway. He peeled off some bills just as the man in khakis grabbed the entire wad.

“Hey!” Andrew snapped.

The man’s eyes burned into him.

“It’s cool!” Andrew smiled, “as long as I never see her again, O.K.?”

He ran filthy fingers through his matted hair and stared at the man, who was preoccupied counting cash.

“Anyways, I’m done here!”

Andrew trudged toward the rental car in his orange, glow-in-the-dark flip-flops. As the hot sand scorched his feet, a cold resentment rose within him for Ellen. A shot rang out and he fell face-first in the sand. The man in khakis was running over to him just as another shot rang out, leaving him only a split second to consider the tenets upon which he’d based his life:

Never want
Never trust
Never fear

His last breath was ragged.

# # #

Ellen hugged the rifle she’d found in the jeep to her chest. She extended two trembling fingers to touch the silver cross at her neck, remembering the day she and Andrew had exchanged matching amulets while professing their love for one another. At this thought, she laughed until she cried. But her tears could no more nourish the desert sand than a heart which has ceased to beat could have sustained a human life.

She lifted the rifle and fired. A final shot rang out, and Ellen fell dead in the sand.

Pavelle Wesser’s writing has appeared or will appear in various webzines and paper magazines, including:”Flashshot,” “MicroHorror,” “Uncle Ba’s,” “Twisted Tongue,” “NightsandWeekends,” “Ascent Aspirations” and “Wingspan Quarterly.” She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children.

Six Kinds of Fool
by M.C. Bruce

all day I look for you
in the shops and cafes
trailing your laughter
echoing in dim hallways 

I ask for you but no one
looks me in the eye, they know
what I know, but what
do I know?

only that your absence
embeds itself into my heart
sharp, insistent
as if I’d fallen

into the bed of thorns
where we first lay.
 

M.C. Bruce has been published in a number of small press journals, such as “Rattle,” “Iodine,” and “Urban Spaghetti.” He works as a lawyer in Northern California. His greatest creative achievement is his 14 year old son, who plays double bass and drums, both classical and jazz. If you’re interested, you can buy his comic novel of the solo lawyer’s life at lulu.com/swanduckling.

Thank you to Ciaran Cosgrave of Dublin, Ireland, for this photo titled “Bob.”  This is a picture of Ciaran and his brother.  You can find and download this and other photographs taken by Ciaran at the stock xchange (go here).

I’m currently not receiving the amount of quality submittals I had hoped for, so I’m changing the tagline, for now, from “Your Daily Fix” to “A Literary Blogazine.”  Instead of posting daily, I’ll post intermittently whenever I get something in I like.  I’d rather publish less frequently and maintain a higher standard than just publish anything.

Ironically, in order to attract more people to the blog, I have to start posting, but in order to start posting, I have to attract more people to the blog.  You see my dilemma. 

So, look for the first literary post, coming to you on August 15th, and more poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction to follow that can be found nowhere else on the internet except here at A Bunch of Wordz 2.

Welcome to A Bunch of Wordz 2, Your Daily Fix, a new literary ezine.  Currently accepting submissions.  See the Submissions Guidelines tab at the top of this page.

In the meantime, please visit the sister site, A Bunch of Wordz (A Reader’s Blog).

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