The Writings of Mary Lewys

“Wait.”

She tossed her hair like a wild mustang. Her eyes burned with all her secrets. All I could do was stare. I stepped once, twice reaching but not touching her. I couldn’t be sure which one of us would break. “Stay with me.”

“What?”

“Stay with me, please.” I put my hand on her arm to stop my shaking. My throat was as dry as the asphalt beneath our feet. I prayed it was sweat running down my cheek. “I love you.”
I said it. As crazy as it sounded coming out of my mouth, I felt the slow, sweet burn, just like in those dimestore romance novels. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. I crashed my mouth into hers. She tasted like nothing I’d ever known and yet like home.

I took her breath away – a little. She gasped when we parted. “Spence.”

I wanted to do it again. It was more than just passion – I felt it all the way through my body. I begged her with every ounce of me. “You don’t have to do this, whatever it is. I know, I know, you told me, but it doesn’t have to go that way. Come back with me to my place. Spend the night. Spend the next night. Stay the whole week to see how it goes.”

“Spence, I – “

“Please, Bridget, stay with me. Don’t do this. You don’t want to die.”

The first time I saw her was in my bar in Santa Monica. I was there to celebrate. Some ditzy dame paid me to find out her husband wasn’t having an affair. Instead of banging some broad, he was banging a keyboard in a small Hollywood office, an aspiring playwright. The wife forked over for time, expenses and then some. Most of it went to last month’s rent, but I rewarded myself with a nice, tall glass of Killian’s Red.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

On the outskirts of Verona, in the latter part of the 18th century, lived a watchmaker. Nestled in the sleepy hills, his cottage held a sign that neither boasted of his prowess nor called undue attention. Nevertheless, he was the watchmaker for kings all over Europe. He was known by reputation but not by sight.

In his later years, after his apprentice assumed most of the duties, the watchmaker took to tinkering on a very special project. The steam-powered, horseless buggies he saw putter around his village had given him the idea. He did not want a ride, for he knew the wisdom in walking, but saw the potential of what could be done and set about creating his greatest masterpiece.

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© Mary Lewys, 2008

published in the eighth issue of Don’t Look zine.

The first night afterwards, I dreamt of purple mountains and quiet towns. An old woman beckoned, calling me towards the rays of light streaming down from the low slung clouds moving across the valley. She promised hardship and hard work, but claimed it was all for the right reasons. I woke in the morning in my bed with a start.

The second night afterwards, I dreamt of dry dirt and drier air. Glistening lights of a gold city sat far from everywhere. His smile was sweet. His voice was low and smooth as well-aged whiskey. He never made frightening demands or empty promises, but anything I wanted would be mine. Coming morning, I shivered underneath my covers.

Each night, one or the other came into my dreams. One or the other begged, pleaded, commanded, shouted, or cried. But every morning, I woke and did the same thing I had come to do afterwards. I picked my fishing pole and headed down to water. The vast, never-ending ocean licked at my ankles until I remembered nothing more than the taste of last night’s catch.

Maybe my new neighbor needed a fish. She was the only other person for miles. I would traded it for a tomato or two growing in her yard.

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© Mary Lewys, 2008