Curran was about nineteen when the war finally broke. He had seen the horror of death and destruction. He had seen the horrors of rape. He had seen much. He had holed up in a crumbled remnant of a university he could no longer remember. He knew he was safe. The soldiers had long ago abandoned this playground. He was alone. His father having passed away when he was five, his mother strangled to death by

That was a great first date. I picked her up in my Rambler American, and off we drove for some dance hallbar somewhere, and on the way I pulled out the half gallon jug of cheap wine I had with me and asked her if she was one of those girls who objected to drinking while driving. And when she took the bottle and had a swig, I knew we were going to get along fine. So we went dancing and drinking - dancing was where I took most of my first dates in those days, and it generally

Tiptoeing in the corners of your mind, lurking. Ever present, always watchful, waiting for a moment of weakness. Hunting, as though for prey. Seeking to find what lacks. Watching for it will do you no good; for just like a pot of boiling water, the more conscious you are of it, the further from your grasp it slips. Bittersweet and tantalizing, it seeks to wrap you in its embrace and hold on for good.

Authors Note This is my first attempt at nonerotic writing. In my endeavor to become a better writer, I am expanding my horizons. I welcome any constructive criticism and comments. Please vote and if you are so inclined, leave public comment. Thanks. The tears are unstoppable. Only they decide when they will reappear and to what extent. I sit on my own in a near-empty house, willing myself to remain calm.

As the curtains drew back they reveled the big white screen. Darcy squirmed in her seat a little. She hated the seats at the theatre just as much as she hated the previews. Although they did give her plenty of time to reflect on everything that her mind was still trying to process. This week had been really hard on her fragile soul. Sitting on both sides of her was her really good friends. Voices in her head were constantly askingdo they know? The voices were very persistent and just wouldnt let her be.

The Poets room; The Dark Ladys bedroom; Young Lords house; the street. SET: A rude desk and chair UR, with paper, quills, ink, etc. Ornately-appointed bed UL, with accompanying chairtable. Open area downstage. This is envisioned to be a thrust stage, but proscenium would work arena would work, I suppose...if YOU want to work NOTE: There is no dialogue. The style should be somewhere between realism and dance, like a poem.

Prologue "You cant be serious." Kazuo Abe stepped back, away from his shadowed assailant. His eyes darted, desperately looking for help or hope. His head stayed locked in place, his sweat-coated face twitching. The other man said nothing, moving ever quicker towards Kazuo. There was nobody else to be seen. But then, why would there be? The only other men on board were down below. They worked for the approaching man, and they didnt speak English.

The air circulating through the woods was damp and pungent. There were no stars in the spacious night sky above. In the distance, the sounds of night creatures were a constant drone to the shadowy figure among them. With the passage of time, the shadow shifted and moved. The figure descended to the ground, not disturbing the surrounding foliage around him.

Finally, after nineteen years, HE dumped ME. What a nerve! So now, the worlds longest series of unfulfilled mutual crushes is finally over...or is it? Let me tell you the story. Ive known "Buddy" since college, almost twenty years now. He sat directly across from me in the college band, a freshman smugly dropping himself into the first trumpet section.

Introduction: where we meet our intrepid heroine and her nefarious plot is conceived during a naked perusal of self, followed by a long hot soak in a bubble bath during plot refinements. Cynthia yawned and stretched. It had been a long night and she was tired. Life was hardly what she had planned growing up back home in Indiana, but it was still good. Life as a high-priced call girl beat being married to a redneck asshole whose idea of a good time was drinking beer down at the local honky-tonk.