Midnight in Manhattan
In the heart of 1970s Manhattan, where the city pulsed like a living organism, there was a little coffee shop tucked between the towering skyscrapers on Bleecker Street called The Velvet Clover. It was the kind of place that welcomed tired artists, poets, and dreamers, all searching for connection in a world that spun too quickly.
Clara sat at a dimly lit corner table, her long, dark hair cascading down her shoulders like waves of melancholy. She wore a flowing dress, the kind that whispered stories of bohemian escapades, and her fingers played with the edges of an open notebook filled with verses and sketches. She often found solace in words, crafting lines that danced to Leonard Cohen’s haunting melodies.
One rainy evening, the door swung open, and a man walked in, shaking off droplets like a dog. Jack, a brooding musician with soulful eyes and a voice that could reel you in like a siren, spotted Clara. There was something magnetic about her, a spirits’ intertwining that seemed almost fated. He stepped toward her.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like a well-loved record.
Clara looked up, her heart quickening in the rhythmic silence of their shared gaze. “Only by my musings, but I suppose they won’t mind sharing,” she replied, a smile playing on her lips.
Jack pulled the chair closer, leaning in as if confessing a secret. “I hope they’re as delightful as your presence.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from Manhattan,” she said teasingly, glancing at him sideways. “But you must know, I’m a bit of a romantic.”
“Ah, a romantic in a city that’s forgotten how to love,” Jack mused, his voice gravelly but tender. “Are you searching for answers, or are you merely recounting your dreams?”
“Perhaps both,” Clara replied, her heart open to him as she chose her words like deliberate brushstrokes. “I write to escape the ordinary, to kiss the heavenly chaos of life. What about you, sir?”
“I strum the strings of my heart, looking for that elusive song that could make the world linger,” he said, his gaze deepening. “But I fear it’s lost amidst the noise.”
Clara’s eyes sparkled as if ignited by his confession. “Then let’s create our own music, one that sings through the shadows and lights.”
Days turned into nights, and their connection blossomed amidst the backdrop of Manhattan’s vibrant chaos. They spent afternoons wandering through art galleries, exchanging verses and dreams, each conversation an exploration of the oft-hidden layers of their souls.
One evening in Central Park, beneath a canopy of stars, Jack pulled out his guitar. The soft strumming echoed the cadence of their laughter and tender whispers. “This is for you,” he said, his voice a caress as he began to play.
“Dance with me, even if the world watches,” Clara murmured, her heart thrumming with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
As she stepped into his embrace, it felt as if time slowed—each note weaving a spell around them. “You know, Leonard Cohen once said that love is the only thing worth singing about,” Jack said quietly, his forehead resting against hers.
“Perhaps love is simply the echo of our souls crying for recognition,” Clara whispered back. “And here, in this moment, we are the song.”
Their laughter blended with the rustling leaves as they twirled under the moonlight, their shadows mingling in a cosmic ballet of newfound longing. But with love came the reality of life, and soon their paths would diverge.
Jack had ambitions, dreams of selling his music, while Clara was an artist pulling at the cords of her own fate. As the world around them swirled into the bright lights of the 1980s, Clara felt a pang of bittersweetness rooted deep in her heart.
One fateful night at The Velvet Clover, they sat across from each other—an unspeakable tension thick in the air.
“Jack, do you ever think about what lies ahead?” Clara asked, her voice wavering.
“Only if you’re included in it,” he said, his eyes smoldering like freshly lit embers. “But you need to be free to chase your dreams. You can’t tether a soul like yours.”
“I don’t want my dreams without you,” she countered, her heart breaking into shadows as she spoke. “And yet, perhaps we’re destined to be stars that burn bright, but can never touch.”
“Maybe,” he sighed deeply, a frown drawing across his brows. “But I’ll always hold the memory of your laughter, Clara. You set my heart ablaze in ways I never thought possible.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes as the weight of unspoken words hung between them. “We were poetry, you and I. Eclectic, chaotic, and beautiful. It’s all I ever wanted.”
Jack took her hands, the warmth radiating like quiet thunder. “Even if life pulls us apart, our words will still meet in the corners of this city. You’ll always be a verse in the song of my life.”
Time danced defiantly as they leaned into one another, their lips meeting in a slow, deep kiss—tasting the sweetness of a love that felt like both a promise and a farewell. In that moment, they lived every lyric, every sigh, and every heartbeat.
As the years rolled on, Manhattan continued its relentless march forward, but both Clara and Jack carried pieces of one another within their souls. Their paths separated, yet they remained intertwined in the lyrical threads of their parted love—echoes of Leonard Cohen’s haunting poetry lingering in the city’s streets.
And in the quiet moments, when the stars shone the brightest, Clara would hear Jack’s song reverberate against her heart, a melody grounding her lost dreams and soaring hopes. It reminded her that love, fleeting and intense, had woven a tapestry of moments that would never fade—for tales of heartache and beauty are the essence of life itself.
I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows?. I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.
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Julie O'Hara - Author, Poet and Spiritual Warrior
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Rage
Content Warning: Domestic Violence, Assault Rage D. A. Ratliff “Who did this?” My voice echoed through the house. All I wanted was a cup of tea, but one of the twins, running through the house like maniacs, knocked it over. My nerves tingled, and every muscle in my body felt coiled like a spring. Survival seemed out of reach.
By D. A. Ratliff5 days ago in Fiction
Until You Understand
You wake somewhere new. No memory of the night before. Light arrives from no visible source and refuses to cast shadows. The walls are pale, unmarked, faintly warm. The room has edges but no corners. Sound travels too cleanly. There is a door behind you. You know this without turning. You turn. The door is sealed. No handle. No seam. Only a rectangle slightly darker than the wall around it. A clock without hands is mounted at eye level. It ticks anyway. In the center of the room is a board set into the floor. Black and white squares. Perfectly even. A chessboard large enough to stand on. There is a desk made of glass along the far wall. On it rests a single sheet of paper. It wants a signature. You do not touch it. A tone sounds. It is calm. The board hums. Pieces rise from the floor. They do not slide into place. They emerge as if the room exhales them. Pawns first. Then rooks. Knights. Bishops. The King. The Queen. They arrange themselves. The tone sounds again. You understand without being told: it is your turn. You hesitate. The clock ticks louder. A sign fades into the wall beside the board. Stand here. Wait your turn. You step onto a white square. The room stills. A pawn moves on its own. The tone sounds. You are expected to respond. You choose a pawn. It is close. It seems harmless. You move it forward one square. The tone stops. The board hums. Nothing else happens. You wait. Another pawn advances. The tone sounds. You move again. The rhythm establishes itself. Tone. Move. Silence. You begin to anticipate. You think one move ahead. Then two. The board allows this. It does not resist. It simply answers. A bishop disappears. Not taken. Gone. You do not notice. Two turns later, a square darkens. The light narrows. The room feels smaller by a margin you cannot measure. You do not connect this to the bishop. The clock ticks. You keep playing. A knight vanishes. The hum deepens. The air grows denser. You adjust. You protect your King. You sacrifice a pawn. You gain space. The Queen is gone. You do not miss it yet. You will later. The board continues. You begin to understand the tones. One is for urgency. One is for error. One is for delay. You learn when to breathe. You learn when to wait. A rook disappears. The wall behind you warms. You turn. The door remains sealed. You play faster. You try to win. The board does not reward this. Three moves later, a row of squares becomes inert. You step onto one by habit. Your foot does not lift. The board holds you in place until the tone releases you. You stop rushing. You begin to watch. You notice that when a piece vanishes, the room changes later. Never immediately. Always delayed. Always proportional. You begin to count. One piece lost: light shifts. Two pieces lost: sound tightens. Three pieces lost: space contracts. The board is not punishing you. It is teaching you scale. You test it. You sacrifice a pawn. Nothing happens. You sacrifice another. The clock ticks louder. You sacrifice a third. The ceiling lowers by a breath. You recover a piece. The ceiling halts. You stop thinking about winning. You start thinking about cost. The board does not care about victory. It cares about consequence. A piece you save now will matter later. A move you make now will close a door you cannot yet see. You play more slowly. You let a knight fall because you understand what it will buy you. The room warms. The ticking softens. You learn that every square is a future. You learn that speed is not control. You learn that reaction is not choice. The tone sounds. You wait. Not because you are told. Because you see the board. You see the path your hand almost took. You see what it would have cost. You choose differently. The room exhales. The clock grows quiet. The door does not open. You are not finished. You make a move you have already lost. You see it this time. You do not take it. The board waits. The room waits. The tone does not sound. You move anyway. Not to escape. Not to win. To accept that every square you touch becomes the world that follows. The door unlocks without a sound.
By Tifani Power 5 days ago in Fiction
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