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That concludes this round. The voting has now started!

Unfortunately this is not Wicca related, but I feel its one of the most significant pieces of work I've written in a long time. This story is based of of a personal predicament involving feelings I've recently discovered for my favorite teacher and have been trying to deal with for months. I hoped to work some of those out with this piece.

A slight warning: though there isn't anything graphic if you find homosexuality offense its probably best not to read this piece.

I hope you guys enjoy it.



There’s No Sunshine When He’s Gone

As I’m sitting by the window, watching his car pull out the driveway the radio sings softly to the near empty house “ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone.” It’s one of those singers who takes a well known song and sings it themselves and changes the lyrics around to fit. I can’t help but laugh, because it seems so appropriate as I watch his car back away and turn around, his windshield wipers wiping away the sheets of rain that continuously pour in sympathy.

I never imagined I’d be here, pining in such a tragically romantic way for another man. I’d never gotten along with other guys my age. In fact, I’ve always been afraid of them. Their mannerism and personalities were so different from mine, the product of an insulated upbringing. I wondered if that would have been different had Dad lived. Or if the reason I was so afraid of other men was because of Dad. Because I was always afraid that they would judge and ridicule me for not being just another copy.

Images of my father flash through my mind and burn it with an unusual intensity. I had thought those memories healed, but occasionally the sting returns like a relapsing cancer patient, or a soldier suffering from bad dreams of the battlefield. I wonder how much has been blown out of proportion through the lens of my childhood.

All I remember is disappointment. His disappointment in me, and my own disappointment in myself. He seemed obsessed with ensuring that I was manly enough, as if the only measure of a man was how fast he could run, how well he could throw, how much he could lift. Always I fell below the bar which he had set, and always he would explode in rage.

He was always like a tank of propane ready to explode. There was no telling what tiny spark it was that may set him off. Maybe you interrupted him while you were talking, you were too loud while playing in your room, or you managed to trip while desperately trying to keep up with his stride. Sometimes, he wouldn’t react at all, sometimes he would even be kind, but most of the time he would ignite, and the explosion of his unreasonable rage would leave those around him trembling, as if visited by the fiery presence of Mars.

And then one day he disappeared. Several weeks passed without word, and then a call from a police station informed us that his body had been found in his car, a hose running from his exhaust pipe into his window. I don’t know if he killed himself out of guilt to save us from him, or if it was just a selfish act, a direct result of his frustration with those around him to never meet expectations. I guess I’ll never know.

I remember a combined sense of relief and fear. At last I was free of him, but what would happen to me without a father to teach me to be a man? For several years I lived alone with mom, and though I tried to reach out to other men my age and older, I found myself always frightened by the fear of rejection. I was too soft for most men, too sensitive to relate with their macho personas. I found myself in high school craving a father figure. I would find myself imprinting on my male teachers, desperately wanting to expose myself to them, but I was always haunted by the shadow of my father.

But looking back, I think my supposed fear of men was because I had never met a real man. Not until James, at least. A man should be individual; proud yet humble, strong yet gentle, but most importantly unique. There are no men left in the world, not real ones. There are only imitators, playing out stock characters portrayed on the television. They are hostile, arrogant, close-minded, shallow creatures driven by base sexual desires. They think man is an ape, but man is human. Man is, and should be, a creature inspired by the world, moved to the depths of his soul by the wonder of reality, he must have principals, he must be strong, but only so that he might protect those he loves. And man, above all, must love, and show his love. He must be honest of the storm of emotion that billows through his heart. Lest that hurricane strip it from the inside bare. He must always be honest.

I wince. Is James thinking up a lie as he drives through the thick rain to tell his wife as I sit here, gazing down the long straight road? His car is still visible. A blinker flashes as he prepares for a right turn. My thoughts turn to his wife, how he’ll come home, how they’ll talk to each other in stiff cold language. Or will she smile as he comes through the door, his hair and shoulders wet with rain, a smile on his face as his eyes blaze. He reminds me sometimes of a big dog, like a golden retriever. Will she feel the warmth that floods from him as I do, feel herself drawn to it like a flower to the sun?

As she holds him, taking in his sweet scent as I so often do, will she notice the smell of another man’s sweat? Or will his betrayal ever cross her mind as he delivers his well prepared lie, his eyes turning away from hers. Will she wither like a flower in the dark?

I close my eyes in anger at my own weakness. I can’t help but feel disgusted that I am the only flaw on a near perfect diamond. My mind wanders to the past, to memories of sitting, riveted, in his class. The desire to be him; to become half the man he was someday always overwhelmed me. Somewhere along the lines, as his brilliant blue eyes gazed into mine, I felt my admiration shift into deeper, more turbulent waters. I knew what the consequences may be, I can’t claim ignorance now.

Those days where I struggled to maintain my composure in his class were torture. Later, I would volunteer to intern for him, sentencing myself to purgatory, and sitting in his empty classroom we would discuss poetry and prose. He had a tendency to look down on himself, to make over humble comments on his ability as a teacher or a writer, or how this person was smarter than him or this person a better person. I wanted so desperately to say at those moments how much I idolized him, how much I longed for him to be the father I’d never had, even when Dad was alive, how disgustingly infatuated I had become.

I’m not sure where my feelings turned from a desire for a father figure to romantic feelings. I think they’re in fact one and the same. Perhaps that’s why the sensation was so powerful. I had felt love before, the way it shines from every cell of your body, the way your entire being bends around it, like a piece of paper wrapped around a candle. How easily the fire that burns might turn it all to ash.

I wanted him to be everything, my friend, my mentor, my father, my lover. All these desires fused in to one entangled emotion that dominated my heart and left my mind a muddled mess.

Surprisingly, the moments of greatest clarity were when I was with him. I expected it to be otherwise; that my love sick feelings would overwhelm me as I passed through his doorway and first made eye contact with him. It was the hours after that became the hardest to endure. Images of his sparkling eyes and a heart warming smile plagued my mind and set it churning with desire and guilt, setting my body aflame with frustration and confusion.

I sigh. Opening my eyes my head snaps up as I catch a reflection in the glass. I thought it was James, but it was just my own reflection.

I suppose I shouldn’t completely blame myself, it was after all his decision as well. But still, he would have been perfect. A perfect father, a perfect husband, a perfect mentor, if only I hadn’t wanted more. But I couldn’t keep going unresolved. I needed rejection, or acceptance. I was like an alcoholic in withdrawals as the lip of a bottle hang at my lips. I needed it taken away, or to quench the burning hunger. I’d rather be condemned to Hell then trapped forever in limbo.

I wonder if he regrets his choice, even as he comes here again and again, his eyes gazing into mine, entranced just as I. I remember so vividly how he always seemed to look at something else while he talked to others, but when he talked to me his eyes stayed firmly focused on mine. It was like staring straight into the sun. It was too intense to endure, but too beautiful to look away from.

I wonder how much it hurts him to lie to his wife. I wonder if it bothers him at all. I hope it does, I don’t think I could bare it if he could so coldly betray her. I hope he loves her still, and that she loves him. That he doesn’t come here, speaking soft words and vows of love because when he and his wife are together a silence hangs. I don’t mind if he loves her more, all that’s important is that he does love me. Whether he loves me more or less than anyone else is inconsequential.

I struggle to maintain this perfect image of him in the face of our secret meetings. This man with the kind of life I so desperately want. I wish that there were a way for him to love us both, and it not be a betrayal to her. I’d like to believe that he wasn’t hurting her, that he doesn’t want to. That he would never betray her because I want him to be what I see him as: a perfect man. For him to be anything less would break my heart. The irony of this of course, is that I am the reason he will never be the perfect man. That somehow my meager qualities managed to pull him from his path, like a bullet through space caught by Earth’s gravitational pull.

I find myself so confused by his returned feelings. I don’t understand why he is so strongly pulled towards me, for who I am, while I am drawn to him because of what I want myself to be. Does he find himself drawn because he sees one like himself in the making? That one day I will be a true man like him? Is he Narcissus caught by a reflection of his younger self? I daydream that this is the truth.

I pull myself away from the window, and wander quietly to my bed and burry myself in my sheets. I can still smell him there, a sweet yet masculine scent, and it conjures memories from hours prior.

I stand in front of him, slipping off my shirt in a jerky manner because I’ve yet to get over my own nervousness. His shirt is already unbuttoned, and the edges balance on his shoulders. My hand smoothly reaches up to his shoulders, sliding the shirt off his torso with unusual grace, almost as if my heart weren’t throbbing in my ears from nerves. My hand rests on his abdomen, not overly muscular, but with obvious definition. It slides up to his chest and I feel my hand run over his course hair. I am reminded of my own torso, flat, undefined. Beneath my hand I can feel his heart beating steadily, and I find myself wishing I could reach into his chest and unlock its mysteries. So I might be able to mirror the light which so surely burns inside of him.

His arms wrap around my shoulders, which always seemed too narrow to me, and I gaze up into his eyes. Though in everything else I pale, I know at least that I might match him with my own eyes. Usually dark blue, they suddenly become a brilliant brighter shade when I find myself filled with joy, and I know that right now they must be blazing as brilliantly as his. My hand moves to his jaw, pressing against the coarse hair of his beard to lock his face in place. His mirrors mine while sliding over the almost undetectable stubble of my chin and gliding over the smooth skin of my jaw. We stand there for a moment, our eyes locked, marveling at the glorious energy that shines through them from our souls.

As if by some predetermined cue, we kiss, and I find myself struggling to mirror his posture as a flood of emotion overwhelms my mind. By the time I’m self aware again he’s on top of me, our clothes stripped from our bodies. I find myself suddenly shy. I lay naked beneath Apollo himself, my own physique a pale reflection of his.

As if sensing my unease he leans down whispering, “I love you,” and kisses my ear. I haven’t any choice but to believe him. We seem to glow in unison at the affirmation. I stifle a moan of ecstasy at the sensation of his weight and heat against my body. He turns on his side, and I press my forehead, eyes closed against his. We are both whispering those words over and over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” As if by our saying it a thousand times would make up for its meager portrait of our feelings.

I press my body against him, trying to fill completely the empty space between us. As if his being may complete those large gaps of me that I find missing in my self. That in turn I might provide him some small part of myself that he is lacking. Our fingers intertwine with each other.

The end always escapes my memory. Eventually he slips away from me, his hand is always the last thing to pull away, our fingers straining collectively against the inevitable separation. For a while, his warmth stays with me, tempting me to sleep a few more seconds before it fades away entirely. At one point my eyelids open to see him standing at the window naked, staring out as the sunlight filters through the leaves of a nearby tree, sending shadows playing against his perfect body.

There is something intensely beautiful about his body when it is naked. It is not the physical beauty itself, but the fact it is so exposed. That vulnerability is what I love most, his ability to expose himself to me, to leave himself so open. It is the ultimate in strength. My eyes trail again over his form, admiring how the shadows of the leaves play on his skin and how shadows are cast on the grooves of his muscles.

I wonder what he is thinking then as he stands there. Is it guilt? Have his thoughts turned towards the children he loves so much, how this betrayal might affect them? I hate myself most for that. I feel as if I’ve stolen from them the father I’d been denied and always wanted. If anyone ever found out, the image of their perfect loving father would be dashed forever. Could he simply be admiring the view as the sun begins its steady decline?

Eventually I close my eyes because I cannot bare to look at him any more. Because if I don’t, I will never be able to forgive myself. Before leaving, he always kisses me on the forehead, his hand resting on my shoulder before trailing down my arms and back. His hands are rough but gentle and it leaves me feeling warm again. I lay there, pretending to be asleep because I don’t want to watch him leave. I’m not sure what I would say; if I would plead for him not to come back, or beg him not to leave.

Eventually, devoid of warmth, I find myself slipping from my bed to the window, standing in the same spot to watch as he takes his lonely drive down the street. By now it is usually sun set, and his car lights flicker on half way down the street. I find my joy muffled by guilt, and the realization that I must live out another interlude before our next meeting. Meanwhile I will feign an interest in life without him.

This is the most beautiful part of the day, when things recede to darkness, and everything is lit by a sad yet content mix of colors.

For the last time, it was a joke!

Congratulations to SwirlingDark for winning!

The next round starts now! biggrin

"RUN" copyrighted by me, dara. ask me for my permission before you take this! enjoy!


“Run, just keep running,” the voice told her. “You cant use your wings so just run.” Ellie’s legs were starting to give out from the exhaustion. Her lungs felt as if they were on fire as they struggled to catch a breath. Her feet thumped the pavement. Building after building zoomed past on either side of her.
“Keep going. You can outrun him. You can do it.” That voice again. Where was it coming from? Her mind? No, it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once. Ellie was so tired. ‘How much more of this can I take?’ she thought. Stopping for just a moment’s rest she looked behind her. She looked down the dark empty street. The only light was coming from a flickering streetlight. The empty stores made her nervous as she peered into them, trying to decipher the shadows, looking for her predator. She put her hands on her bare but bleeding knees. Ellie looked down at her ripped blue jeans and her blood stained, ‘Rancid’ T-shirt. Her leather jacket fell off awhile back, she only noticed because the cold winter chill was starting to get to her. Ellie leaned a shoulder against a dark streetlight.
“Oh… why… me?” She asked herself quietly between shallow breaths. Ellie felt a hand wrapping around her thin waist. A cold hand riddled with scars. His hand.
“Because you are so beautiful, I couldn’t possibly let you get away.” Valcor said as he squeezed Ellie closer to him. His other hand came up stroking along her stomach and chest to caress her cheek softly. Ellie tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. He had her.
“Ellie. My sweet Ellie.” Valcor whispered over and over again as he leaned down and kissed her neck and face. “Ellie, Ellie, Ellie…”

“Ellie! Ellie! Wake up!”
Ellie felt a sharp shake on her shoulder and reluctantly opened her eyes. Her older brother’s face was just inches from hers.
“Finally you lazy bum! Get dressed. I need you to run me an errand.” Arnkel said sternly. His green eyes softened after that and he shook his head, allowing a few wisps of his black Mohawk to fall into his face. “I swear, I could write a novel of all the crap you say while your sleeping.” He walked out of the room to grab a cup of coffee.
Sleep? Was it really just a dream? So, Valcor really wasn’t chasing her. No, of course not, he disappeared years ago; everyone in the magickal world knew that. Ellie was his last captive. And would have been his last victim if Kegan hadn’t been there. That was the last time she saw her beloved shape shifter. He was handsome in his mortal form; that was Ellie’s favorite image of him. Tall – at least two heads taller than her – with fair skin and blonde hair, and brown eyes so mesmerizing they seemed to look into your soul. He knew her – inside and out. He loved her. He protected her. Sometimes Ellie felt his presence. ‘How could he have survived the worst of Valcor’s wrath?’ Her thoughts were interrupted with a handsome looking bluebird outside of her bedroom window. It was singing.
“I know that song.” Ellie said to herself. She got up and threw the covers off of her to rush over open the window to the window. The blue bird winked at her and gave a happy chirp. Ellie reached out for it. The bird bounced over to her hand and nuzzled her finger. Then flew off. “Ke-“
“Ellie! Close that damn window and get dressed! It’s the middle of winter, for Odin’s sake! What the hell is the matter with you?” Arnkel yelled from behind her. But it was useless; Ellie was still lost in thinking about the blue bird.
“But brother, there was a blue bird outside of the window sitting on the sill. It was Kegan I know it! He was singing my lullaby. Brother I’d know him anywhere.”
“Now, now, my sister. Blue birds don’t hang around here in the city at this time of winter. They head more south, looking for warmer weather.” Arnkel walked over and put his arm around Ellie’s shoulders. ‘She’s so beautiful’ he thought, ‘no wonder why Kegan wants to have her so badly. She has everything. Of course she does, she’s a Valkyrie. Irresistible in battle and in bed.’ Arnkel had admired his sister - almost incestuously – ever since they were young. Ellie was always beautiful. Rich, chocolaty brown hair, reddish-brown eyes, fair skin and red lips that made wild strawberries look pale. And oh, what a figure! Ellie was muscular, with voluptuous curves. Yes, Brynnhilde couldn’t have been more proud of her ninth daughter, the youngest of all her children. All of Brynnhilde’s children were gorgeous. Except Arnkel. He wasn’t like his brothers and sisters. He was… pudgy, if you will. And he never grew wings. He was born with emerald eyes and raven hair. Ellie and their sister Angie were the only ones who ever accepted him. ‘Oh Angie, it’s been 15 years since you sealed your fate by marrying that mortal. Would you be proud of our baby sister falling for this damn shape shifter? ‘Course, it’s better than you being rejected by the heavens by loving a mortal. You are more like mother than you think. Evangelina, is he taking care of you? That abomination of a man. His face was permanently smiling. A woman as beautiful as you were deserves better than that… that monster. What was his name? Ah well, I guess it doesn’t matter much; he’s still just a mortal.’
“But I could have sworn he was there.”
“Will just go get me some more poppies from Jenko’s store. Quickly, before he goes of for lunch. You know those gnomes, never reliable.” Arnkel bent over to kiss Ellie’s forehead. He turned to walk out of Ellie’s bedroom, giving the window a short glare.
Ellie walked over to her dresser to get some clothes to wear out. ‘Iknow it was him. I just know it.’


Kegan flew from the window before Arnkel could see him. He landed on a windowsill across the street. He looked around to make sure there weren’t any cats around. Cats were notorious at this part of the city. And they love eating and chasing around magickal creatures like faeries, gnomes, and the tinier breeds of elf and gargoyle. Shape shifters have to watch out. Cats have very keen eyesight. Their sight is keener than any human ever to be born. ‘Damn b*****d, you’re just jealous that I’m permitted to be with Ellie without damning her to a mortal life. Poor Arnkel, no wonder why the Aesir rejected you to live in Midguard – your incestuous feelings towards your little sister have been your downfall.’ Kegan paused his bitter thoughts as he gazed at his love. ‘Oh Ellie, I promise I will come back for you. Oh don’t fret my darling. I’ll continue to watch over you.’ He looked up to see Arnkel throw a glare at him as he walked out of Ellie’s bedroom.
“Sure does have a mean streak in ‘im don’t he? Don’t know why ya just don’t take Ellie from ‘im. Ya’ll can run off with her and get y’rselves married. You can even kill that Arnkel fella if he gets in your way.”
Kegan looked over at the man sitting next to him. He was dressed in back from head to toe – black cowboy boots, black pants and coat, and a black cowboy hat. The man was clean shaved and his lips held a half burnt cigarette.
“Alright, Adelheid, cut the John Wayne crap! Plus, it’s not that easy to just take her away. Arnkel would skin me alive.” Kegan stated. He was only slightly peeved that Adelheid had enough nerve to show up. They looked across the street to Ellie’s house. Adelheid was more interested in watching Ellie get undressed than shape shifting into something more inconspicuous.
“Damn, she’s purty!” Adelheid stated with his mouth hanging wide open. His cigarette was ready to fall into the hair of the old lady sitting below them. Her name was Miss Maddie. She was half deaf in both ears and was as blind as a bat, but every day for twenty years she went out to sit on the bench in front of her apartment. She was old and her time was almost at it’s end, so nobody paid attention to her and her crazy banter.
Kegan pecked Adelheid’s arm fiercely – or at least as fiercely as a little blue bird can when you talk about his woman. “What? I was just sayin’!” Adelheid got the idea not to continue talking about Ellie like that in front of Kegan. “Well, my idea of killing rnkel is still good.”
“Again, dimwit, its not that easy! Ellie would have my head served on a silver platter for the gods if I laid a harmful finger on her brother. No, I’m not going to risk it. And would you PLEASE change into something less noticeable!”
“Fine!”
A bright light glowed from Adelheid’s core and radiated out until it engulfed his entire body. The light was warm and welcoming; but also very noticeable to humans. From that light came a blue-footed booty.
“Oh, yeah, because THAT is something nobody could POSSIBLY notice! Way to be surreptitious.” Kegan said loudly – nearly shouting.
“Said the talking bluebird…” Adelheid mumbled sarcastically. “Hey! Your dame is gettin’ away. Aren’t you going to go after ‘er?”
Kegan looked down and saw Ellie heading off towards ‘Madame Sullivan’s Olde Shoppe for the Magicks.’ He gave one last hard look at Adelheid before heading off.
“Be careful. Now that Ellie’s brother has seen ya, y’ll want to keep an eye out.”

Ellie was still thinking about Kegan when she entered the shop. There, the Madame will try to sell you anything. For a steep price. The Madame had elves fingers, pickled toad, powdered newt eyes, every herb known to every living creature, and more. But she wasn’t going to buy the poppies from The Madame. She walked past the desk to enter the back room. Her chunky boots scraped against the hardwood floor. The back room was messy. Books were everywhere, papers looked as if the were just slug to every corner of the room, jars and boxes were full of extra things that were up front. The Madame liked to keep the back room like this. She thought it would make burglars not want to steal from her. Ha! Like any burglar in their right mind would even think about coming into her shop. The last time someone tried to steal from The Madame was back in 1824, and she had that boy turned into a rat and fed it to her giant python.
Ellie walked along a path about four inches wide, trying not to disturb too much. She made her way to the closet at the far end of the room. The closet was made of hard wood and was a deep chocolate and red color. It had primroses pinned just above the doorway. Primroses gave you passage into the fairy realm. Which was Ellie’s destination.

Congratulations to MiladyMidnight for winning!

The next round is now open!

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