In your everyday, normal life you don't think about how much your hands touch and are a part of how you perceive the world. When you are with someone that you love, your hands are usually the first thing that your partner touches. This may be in the form of holding hands or even just a slight touch on your shoulder. Now think about how much that little touch means. You are allowing that person to come into your space and to share the sensation of touch. Can you remember what it felt like the first time your partner held you? One of the most intimate thing a couple can do is hold each other. It allows you to be vulnerable, like you can communicate without words. There is a reason why people like being held, hold hands, or even just a simple hand on the back or hip. As humans, we crave touch, and that touch starts with just the tip of a finger.

"Moreover, and Maybe also that Very Interesting Information(Info.), and Perhaps also those Very Interesting News articles(N.A.), from Around those Planets, and from Around those Globes, and from Around those Worlds. And Maybe for example."

"Brandon Katrena

one minute ago

Definition of family | Dictionary.com

Definition of family | Dictionary.com www.dictionary.com

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Brandon Katrena

Brandon Katrena

two minutes ago

https://www.si.com/nfl/2022/01/29/why-tampa-bay-bucca..

Maybe also that Particular, "Report: [Perhaps also that Particular?] Tom Brady’s Potential Retirement Based on Family, Health Factors for the Future

Wilton Jackson

4 hours ago

In the last several days, rumors surfaced that all signs pointed to [Maybe also that Particular?] Buccaneers quarterback Tom Brady retiring from [Perhaps that Particular?] NFL." Perhaps for example. Maybe, "So-Called". Perhaps Not about. Maybe approximately about then. Perhaps Not approximately about then. Maybe for example.

Why Tom Brady is Reportedly Choosing Now to Retire www.si.com

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Brandon Katrena

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7 minutes ago

Seven Reasons Why Peter is the Rock

Seven Reasons Why Peter is the Rock www.catholic.com

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Brandon Katrena

10 minutes ago

‘Culture Beat’: High Society Gets Punked In New Man-On-The-Street Comedy Episodic – Sundance Studio

‘Culture Beat’: High Society Gets Punked In New Man-On-The-Street Comedy Episodic – Sundance Studio deadline.com

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Brandon Katrena

11 minutes ago

Barnes & Noble removes ‘The Protocols of the Elders of Zion’ from website

Barnes & Noble removes ‘The Protocols of the Elders of Zion’ from website

Barnes & Noble removes ‘The Protocols of the Elders of Zion’ from website

www.timesofisrael.com

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13 minutes ago

YouTube7:13

Such An Awesome God (Lyrics) - Maverick City Music feat. Maryanne George | TRIBL

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Brandon Katrena

Brandon Katrena

22 minutes ago

YouTube2:31:22

A BIG UPHEAVAL".

dear reader,

if one day I call myself a writer,

or even if after one day

comes another

and I never do,

this is the beginning of filling pages without worrying of their significance to you.

as a child,

I chopped each idea into a

bite-sized

appetizer.

wedding cakes now teacakes arranged on a platter,

but I never left full enough from the latter.

adolescence stuck my notebooks in the back of the closet.

doomed forever oblivious of

honestly expressing myself.

she laughed

a piercing shrill

whenever I thought of returning them to their shelf.

blind-fold on, freefall,

semester after semester,

destined for world-renowned discoveries!

the greatest unsolved mystery left buried in mind–

self-inflicted turmoil

over an identity I could never really find.

sometimes my existence still eludes me in

blinding daylight,

a lost relative I’ve decided to shun,

but my writing impulse rides in with the setting sun.

seducing me with the scarce satisfaction of

crafting a single line I don’t hate.

coaxing me with the promise of an empty page–

it turns out moonlight is all it takes to dissolve a cage.

newfound freedom is a mother to change.

peering into empty space with a blank stare,

half the time I swear there’s poetic genius hidden there.

late hours, in-between days,

piecing together the parts of myself I was

taught to forgo.

Insecurities crumble to mere punctuation.

I rebuilt what was lost a long time ago.

regardless,

if I made it

you’re out there reading this,

or if I didn’t you’re not,

but to me and my poem

the difference is meaningless.

Yours Truly,

A Circadian Writer

Staying alert, Warren only paused to hit his head on a low-hanging stalagmite as they made their way down the sloping passageway they had found at the bottom of a narrow, twisting staircase in the floor of the cavern. He felt more relaxed, more confident than he had been for a long time. With a dagger, a cloak, and the dark shadows of the underground (not quite the Under-dark, but he'd take it), the future seemed certain. At least, the future in which he stabbed someone.

Behind him, the rest of the party scraped and jostled their way down the stairs. Anastri, he knew, could see in the dark, but he wasn't sure about the rest of them. Flicking a glowworm off of the wall and crushing it in his hand, he drew the motes of dust in the air together into a set of glowing orbs that bobbed a meter or two above the ground behind him. They lit up the tunnel with light which - due to the mobile nature of the orbs - flickered wildly as shadows warped and distended on the walls. Ash winced.

"You couldn't have a stationary light spell?" he groaned, already reaching into his pack for a torch.

"Of course not," Warren hissed under his breath. "They're dynamic. At a moments notice they can be moved, banished, or brought together into the form of a person who can do a jig to distract the enemies while we make our getaway. Bobbing is an essential part of their design."

Ash didn't comment on this but lit his torch, which at least served to diminish the shadows. At the same time, the hallway opened up onto a small, circular room. It was empty of creatures, but Warren could see two doors leading off in different directions. As he ventured further into the room, he beckoned his companions forward.

"You guys, looks like there's a room here. I see two doors, but there could be-" he was cut off suddenly as Ash strode forward and swung the door closest to him open. "-traps," he finished, and winced. The huge dragonborn stood silhouetted by the light of his torch in the doorway, peering into the dark corridor beyond. For a moment he didn't move, and then...

"Nope, nothing," he said, and strode forward without waiting for the rest of the group. Anastri hurried up behind Warren, who was at this point gaping in outrage at the injustice of it all. She glanced at him like what can you do? and stepped past him to join Ash, who was banging open doors down the length of the hallway.

While Warren was still frozen Solus came up to the hallway entrance, sighed heavily, and rolled her eyes before following the first two. This immediately broke Warren out of his paralysis and he straightened his back as he walked through the doorway, determined to do whatever the opposite of what Solus did was. If Solus was annoyed at Ash's actions, he reasoned, then he was positively delighted that Ash had announced their presence in such an obnoxious way! There was no way he would give her the satisfaction of thinking he agreed with her.

"Looks like there's a room up here not filled with old dead stuff," Ash called as he moved from the corridor to the room beyond. "Sort of like a porch or something, but for a big fancy stone building."

"An antechamber," Anastri responded without looking up, picking her way ahead of Warren down the corridor. And indeed, as Warren neared the entrance it did begin to look like an antechamber. The ceiling was rather tall, and crushed and broken glass on the floor suggested that it had once had windows looking out on the sky. Since then the roof had buckled slightly, and debris littered the floor. A small half-wall separated part of the room from the rest, and as he crept closer Warren could swear he saw something dark through a crack between two crumbling stone bricks.

To the right was a body, and Salorien drew in a breath of surprise as she approached it. "Well, I'll say. Old Dave. Never thought I'd see you again."

Warren saw Anastri wheel around in surprise. "'Old Dave'? You've met this dead goblin?" For indeed, the body was that of a goblin, stuck to the wall with a spear through its chest.

Salorien regarded the corpse thoughtfully. "Yup. He was the one who nearly cut my viol strap in that skirmish I mentioned to you earlier." Her eyes darkened perceptibly. "Looks like he got what was coming to him." Almost as an afterthought she tugged at the spear and it came away from the wall with a grinding sound. Without its point holding him up, the goblin started to topple over and Warren instinctively stepped back as a word carved into the stone behind him revealed itself. It was in a script he didn't recognize, but Ash stepped forward and ran his clawed hand over the letters.

"Ashardalon. It says Ashardalon," he muttered to himself. Then, to everyone: "I think we might be in more trouble than we thought."

It was at that moment that the dark patch behind the wall moved and with a blur a spear came sailing out of the darkness and hit Anastri in the leg, toppling her to the ground.

Snow falls into the waves. By the thousands, flakes unify with the water while I sip coffee and watch, separated from the chill by my sweater, the fire I lit upon waking, the tall pane of glass that overlooks Keuka Lake.

I dream of winter because the lake is for summers. It’s not cheap at any time of year to rent a house on a shore: if you’re spending the money, you do it when you can kayak or swim or fish, or at least read a novel in the shade of a tree without the upstate January driving you indoors. My wife and I married within sight of our lake in July 2008; since then, her parents have rented a house on Keuka for a week every summer for us to gather. Those seven days are a highlight of the year because they exist outside of man-made time, without external demands or appointment calendars. There is food; there is love; there is the water. Two million years ago, glacial ice scraped out the valleys that would fill. Since then, the lake has been. Lakes invite being.

We have a couple kayaks and a canoe in our garage where we ought to park a car. Between May and October, I’ll hoist the boats atop our vehicles, lash them down and drive fifteen minutes to the public beach, solo or with the family. We admire the various lake houses as we paddle. Our favorites are not the new constructions, whose thousands of square feet dwarf the family cottages they replaced. We prefer the homes that have been here for at least the fifteen years we have, the old favorites.

“I wish we could live in that one,” my daughter said once as our canoe glided by.

“We could have owned a lake house,” I answered. “I started college as a business major on a finance track. Fund managers make a lot more money than teachers.”

“Why did you become a teacher?” she asked.

“People in finance told me to expect 80-hour work weeks, and I knew I wanted a family. A house on a lake is no good if you don’t have time to be with your family. And I wanted to teach,” I added. “I believe in it.”

My own father passed on lucrative promotions that would have uprooted us from our home and schools; he did, genuinely, attend every baseball game and concert. I understood then, as his son. I understand as a father now, and I hope my children will, too.

Regardless, I chose my path. As I told friends at the time I changed my major, I did not want to dedicate my life to earning more money for rich people—I wanted to teach; I wanted to have a family. These were the right choices. There are good days and bad days, but I do not pine for a road not taken. My hours are meaningful and good. The road ahead has unseen twists and turns, and there may be bridges out. Accidents. I feel optimistic, though, that I can continue to glance in the rearview mirror and see a life well-lived. Be a simple kind of man, Lynyrd Skynyrd sang. Be something you love and understand.

A teacher can live securely, not luxuriously. It is still possible my wife and I could someday retire to a lake house of our own through a combination of prudence and luck, but well-lived lives do not necessarily yield dollars. I am at peace with that truth. All the same, as my kayak cuts through Keuka’s waves, I dream sometimes of occupying one of those homes for decades rather than a rented week. I dream not just of summer but winter days, of that coffee and snow on the water. I dream of watching seasons pass over the water a morning at a time so I am part of the cycle of the lake. Of being there.

Unfortunately, with each room and corner, I found not one shred of evidence of what I was looking for. I even checked the basement: in and around the washer and dryer, the air ducts, and the abandoned, cobwebbed metal shelves with a few rusty nails resting on top. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was beyond frustrated. Where are these scents coming from? And why did they appear to be stalking me causing a twisting knot in my chest? I could feel the rage building up inside of me because I felt more insane than I had before I had started my search for a particular sign of Grey-M operatives having been here that I was nearly tempted to scream out loud. But I didn’t want to cause any damage to the “new” house or my unit, so I tried to take some calming breaths, trying to find a more rational explanations. Like maybe, the wet dog and baby powder aromas were just really hard to get rid of. I mean I’ve never had a dog or lived with a baby, so how would I know if this theoretical conclusion was the case. Yet, based on my past experiences with the foul odors in some of the vans my unit and I had to endure, perhaps if all the windows were to be open, it would alleviate these three annoying and combining scents. Then there was the potential reason for the third odor. The landlord could have baked something, so that when my unit and I arrived, we would feel like we were at home and feel all gooey inside… no pun intended.

Yet all of this seemed far fetched. You and the rest of my unit would have every right to say that this was just my wild imagination running amuck and heightened due to the recent death of my mother.

But you see, as my breathing became slightly more even and the rage of frustration slowly diminished, though the beating of my heart still raced, I remembered, prior to my unit’s escape from the compound, overhearing Grey-M had been developing ways to give targets a false sense of ease by means of sound or smell long before they sent in a team to attack. They used, if memory serves correctly, a minuscule cylindrical device placed in high corners of a room or space. I overheard this, quite by accident— well not exactly, when the scientists were doing tests on me to ensure the formally dominant ability of my father hadn’t gone into remission. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time because my unit and I were sure any of our plans to escape would work. Nonetheless, any information, no matter how small or big, from the scientists had been stored deep in my memory incase it would be useful for our potential escape.

It didn’t, when my unit finally agreed on a course of action on how to escape, but the knowledge— as you’ve already noticed—stuck with me. And as I looked around the basement, my back to the staircase, I failed to hear, though not unexpectedly, Feather coming down until his hand rested on my shoulder. I jumped a little before turning my head to look at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked with concern.

I’m not sure, I telepathically replied before projecting the memory of the day in the lab, before unsteadily continuing, The smells of baby powder, wet dog, and the freshly baked goods… I-I don’t know.

I didn’t know what else to say, as I became aware of Vapor opening the front door with muffled speaking to a strange man and the heavy waft of pizza took the place of the three aromas that had bagged me for who knows how long. But in true Feather fashion, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. Though, he usually spun me around to hug me in a very platonic way, I strangely welcomed the intimacy of the gesture and leaned further into him until our bodies seemed to meld into one. I reached my hand up to intertwine my fingers to the back part of his hair by his neck. Similar to the moment we had shared after I had discovered my mother’s butchered body, I wondered why this closeness felt so right. He didn’t show any sign of pulling away, but I had the need to delve into his mind to see if he was feeling the same way I did.

Unfortunately and quite peculiarly, I wasn’t able to get a reading. It was as though he had found a way to shield his thoughts from my telepathy. I would have asked why, but I was too exhausted from all the searching throughout the entire house to ask. I allowed his natural earthy musk and his embrace wash over me until I no longer felt paranoid, frustrated, or crazy. It wasn’t until I heard the whining of the top step and heard Dialect speak, that Feather and I pulled away from one another and returning back to our brother and sister status.

“Pizzas here!” Dialect almost shout with glee.

“We’ll be up in a minute,” Feather said, as I turned my whole body to face him.

Here is the thing and I know it's true

people are people, just like me and you

we come here and write while looking forward to

your likes and reposts and when they don't come

it's like tissue being ripped through

by this time everyone is aware that our brains release dopamine

when our shit that we write is liked or perhaps there's a share

All I am saying is that hitting like is not even hard

even if you feel like what you read was not worth your regard

What's hard is being the writer who feels like their writing is trash

that type of feeling is what causes decisions which can be rash

like the one my good friend made last Monday

she committed suicide and every day since has been less than a funday.

I have to fucking do a wake and funeral on Tuesday.

The world around us is burning, and we are face to face in the swimming pool

I’m looking at the wall, wondering how long I can tread in the deep end before turning back

Your suit is light blue, criss-crossed around your back

I remember tying it around your neck because you couldn’t reach

It’s light blue, the color of a robin’s egg, the kind you’re not supposed to touch or else the mother will abandon it

The sun is my accomplice, the scapegoat for my red cheeks

There is ice in my veins and you could melt it

But then water would fill my lungs

To tell you the honest truth, I wouldn’t mind

Not even a little bit

I was picked up

I was put down

Click

Tap

As I made contact with the paper

It was constant

I was happy.

I rose

I fell

I waited

To be lifted

once again

For I hadn't been used

in a long time.

So I waited,

hanging there, staying there,

expecting there

to be

a change,

but none arrived.

I was misused

Practically thrown away

but somehow I was seen

and so I was wielded once more

by the next person

who happened to pick me back up

Off of the ground.

Sure, I was lost,

but now I was found.