Tag Archives: story

Poetry Friday ~ Congregate & Passion

10 Aug

Hello, everyone! Welcome to my blog!


Today I wrote a two sentence Horror/Romance story and a Haiku. I’m not sure if the combination of these can be called a Haibun. I also wrote a Tanka. I hope you enjoy.

the-last-emoji-Sprint-Poetry_Friday-haiku-haibun-Vashti Quiroz Vega-Vashti Q-texting and driving-poems-Colleen Chesebro-Tanka_Tuesday

Sprint Turned a Wrecked Car Into a Mangled Emoji for This ‘Don’t Text and Drive’ Sculpture.

Each night on the stroke of midnight her young, dead husband would text her. His final message, the one found beside the body at the crash site, read, ‘Stop texting me. I’m driving’.

Final rendezvous

Fire ignited your obsession

A text snuffed it out

On a less tragic note . . . 

Poetry_Friday-Vashti Quiroz Vega-Vashti Q-The Writer Next Door-poems-haibun-haiku-tanka-romance-Colleen Chesebro-Tanka_Tuesday

Soft rosy petals

Your lips pressing against mine

Under a blanket of stars

In a place where there is love

Rendezvous in the moonlight

Poetry_Friday-Vashti Quiroz Vega-romance-poems-Facebook-Haiku-Haibun-Tanka-Vashti Q-Tanka_Tuesday

Congregate and Passion are this week’s prompt words chosen by Colleen Chesebro ~ The Fairy Whisperer. *The catch is that we can only use the synonyms to these words in our poems.

Colleen hosts a challenge that anyone could participate in called, Colleen’s Weekly Tanka Tuesday Poetry Challenge every Tuesday, and you have until Sunday to create a post featuring your Haiku, Tanka, Haibun or Cinquain poem. She is an author and poet, and also does book reviews and so much more on her blog. Be sure to check it out.

Thanks for the visit and have a happy Friday!

Don’t text and drive. 

Haiku Friday – Sweat & Heat

24 Feb

Hello everyone! Thanks for stopping by and reading. 😀 xx

Sweat and Heat are this week’s prompt words chosen by Ronovan Hester of Ronovan Writes.

Ron hosts a challenge that anyone could participate in called Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge every Monday, and you have until Sunday to create a post featuring your haiku poem. He is an author and poet and also does author interviews and much more on his blog. Be sure to check it out. Read Ron’s Haiku Prompt Challenge Guidelines for more information.

♥ I have a short story for you today and hidden (in plain sight) within the story is today’s poem. I hope you enjoy. ♥

little_girl_shadow_by_agnes_cecile-d8t108a_The Writer Next Door_Poetry-short stories

‘Little Girl Shadow’ by Silvia Pelissero (agnes-cecile on DeviantArt)


The Girl Who Lost Her Shadow

by Vashti Q

I walked past a schoolyard and noticed several children doing something peculiar. They used color chalk to outline each other’s shadows. It was a brilliant idea, so I entered the yard to join them.


“Hello! May I play too?” I waited for a response but the kids were too busy drawing and giggling to notice me. I shrugged and picked up a piece of chalk left on the ground.


I smoothed my hair and fluffed my skirt. I wanted my shadow to look pretty and neat. I looked down–– “Where’s my shadow?” I scanned the area but didn’t find her.


I watched the children trace each other’s long morning shadows, smiling and laughing all the while. The day was bright and hot and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I faced away from the fiery sun and stared at the ground. “Where is it?” I sunk to the hard pavement sulking while watching the other children play with their silhouettes.


After a while, I left the school grounds. “What was I doing there? I should have been looking for my shadow. Those kids ignored me, anyway.” I rolled my eyes and moved on.


Across the street a large smooth wall bordered the sidewalk. Perhaps, I would find my shadow there. I stood facing the beige wall, as if gawking at it would produce a dark form, which would resemble me and mimic my every move.


I sighed deeply and turned my sights to a beautiful teenage girl wearing pink satin ballerina shoes and a romantic tutu that reached below her calf. She twirled and pranced up the street toward me. Her ebullient shadow danced on pointes in a succession of slow, soft, lyrical movements upon the wall. As the ballerina’s pose changed from pirouette to arabesque her shadow’s dance created the illusion that their movements flowed from one into another.


The ballet dancer and her shadow enchanted me. I wanted to be her–– lithe and elegant and to have a lovely shade to dance with me.


“Hello! You’re a delightful ballerina. I love your tutu skirt and shoes and . . .” My words drifted toward silence as she past me by without a glance.


I dragged my feet on the sidewalk while heaviness settled in my chest. Nevertheless, I kept vigilant and continued to search for my shadow. “Where are you, my shadow? Why have you left me?”


I wandered not knowing where I was going and then I heard mellifluous sounds in the distance. I was compelled to follow it. The music led me to a large cemetery. At first, I didn’t want to enter but glorious angels made of marble beckoned me and I couldn’t resist. “Perhaps I will find my shadow here.”


I approached a group of men playing musical instruments. They played a cheerful melody whilst wearing somber faces. “Has any of you seen the lone shadow of a girl?” The musicians ignored me and continued performing.


Shadows drummed, blew on clarinets, tooted horns and struck tambourines. The sun was angry now. I raised my squinted eyes to it. It was high in the sky––noon time and the shadows were short.


No one took notice of me. No one cared that my shadow is lost. “Why is this happening to me?” I uttered a shriek and kicked a rock lying before me.


“Are you alright?”


The words made me jump.


A boy with a wan complexion stood a short distance from me.  “You look upset.” He stared with doleful eyes.


“You are the first person that has spoken to me all day.” I smiled. ” My name is Emily––Emily Johnson. What is yours?”


“Hi Emily. I’m Michael. So, what’s wrong?”


“I seem to have misplaced my shadow,” I said feeling heat rise to my cheeks.


“I don’t have one either.” His voice was sad and he wore a wistful expression. “But the reason . . .”


“We both lost our shadows!” I interrupted. “Why don’t we look for them together?” I grabbed his hand before he could utter another word and tugged him all around the cemetery.


Michael pulled on my dress’ sleeve. “Emily wait . . . there’s something I must tell you.”


The sun began to dim. I brushed his hand away and hurried, my eyes flickering in every direction.


There were many people in the graveyard and their shadows were now long and scraggy, some looked rather creepy in the dim light. “We must hurry,” I said. “If we don’t find our shadows before sundown we may never find them.” I snatched his hand again but he wrested it out of mine.


He stopped and pointed straight ahead. “Look!” His expression was haunting.


I scrunched my forehead in confusion. I swallowed what felt like a sock rolled into a ball and took a few apprehensive steps forward. There was a dark form sitting on a headstone. I inched closer. The silhouette looked familiar. “Is that my shadow?” My words were but a breath.


Now, it was the pallid boy that took me by the hand. He led me to the grave where my shadow sat. I stood before it and read the engraving on the gravestone.

Emily Johnson

2005 – 2017

Here she lies but she never died!


Grief beyond all tears

Sweet bud that never blossomed

Turn to ageless dust

Burn in Mother Nature’s veins

Set all the blooms on fire


Suddenly, I was trembling like my bones had turned to frost. “That’s my name.” I looked at the boy and he lowered his eyes and nodded.


“That’s me? I’m dead?” My legs faltered and I fell to my knees. I stared at him. “You––are you dead too?”


He nodded. “We both died in the school fire. All the other kids got out but we were trapped and consumed by the fire.”


I shook my head in disbelief and pressed my face to my hands.


I glanced up and through misty eyes I saw my shadow leap from the tombstone into my grave and disappear.


Michael stood by my side and placed a hand on my shoulder. I had not noticed, until now, how cold his hands were. “I tried to tell you,” he said, “it was not your shadow that was lost; it was you.”


shadow-short_stories-The Writer Next Door-Poetry-RonovanWrites-haiku_Friday

I hope you enjoyed the short story and the poem hidden within. Have a happy Friday!










The Unread Story Is Not A Story . . .

24 Mar

Hi everyone! Today I’m participating in Colleen’s Writer’s Quote Wednesday. Check out Colleen’s blog, Silver Threading, for some great quotes, poems, and articles. Today I’m sharing one of my favorite quotes by author Ursula K. Le Guin. I appreciate my readers very much and when I post a story it gives me great pleasure to read their comments. I especially love when they mention my characters by name––it annimates them. The illustration I used for this quote is my concept brought to life by artist George Miltiadis. It’s amazing to see the characters you made up in your head materialize in art.


The Fall of Lilith, Vashti Quiroz-Vega, writer, books

The above characters are from my Fantasy Angels Series. The 1st book in the series, The Fall of Lilith, will be out later this year.


Candid Talk with Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin

7 Oct

Hello everyone! Thank you for visiting my blog. It is my great pleasure to introduce to you today the lovely, talented writer and blogger Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin. I met Yolanda on Google+ and it didn’t take me long to discover that she is a wonderful person. I visited her blog Love, Pain and Other Catastrophes and quickly became a fan. Read on and you’ll see why.


In her words…

I was born in Madrid Spain and immigrated to Australia with my parents when I was four years old  I speak and write Spanish fluently and dabble in Italian.  I have grown up surrounded by Spanish culture and traditions and have integrated them into my life in the land downunder.  I guess you could call me a Spanaussie.

I live in beautiful Sydney, Australia and am a Licensed Conveyancer.  For those of you who don’t know what that is … I practice Property Law and all that it involves.

I have many interests one of them being the theatre both performing and attending.  I am a member of a community theatre at which I perform.

I enjoy photography, trying capture the place … the moment, through the lens of a camera.  Hand in hand with this is my love for travel.  I  feel I have learnt so much through experiencing the different cultures and the colours of the many countries I have been lucky enough to have visited.

My greatest passion is writing.  Life is my inspiration with all its beauty and its ugliness.  I have always enjoyed writing, but started my blog as a way of externalising my thoughts and emotions. Whilst I enjoy writing prose, poetry is my first love.  I love the freedom of expression it allows.  Writing allows me to immerse myself in another character or travel to another world.  It feeds my soul and lets my imagination take flight.  It is as essential as breathing.

I live, I love, I breathe …. a mixture of unique and ordinary.  A little bit mad, but sometimes very sane.  Life has brought moments of overwhelming joy and dark despair …. I travel through this journey that is life, with one eye open and the other closed to unnecessary reality.

“We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde

Take my hand and join me in this journey that is life.

Yolanda has aways had a flair for the dramatic.

Yolanda has aways had a flair for the dramatic.

Okay, lets start the Q & A…

1) If you win the lottery what would be the first thing you would do with the money? (no mushy answer, haha!)
Really, no mush damn … lol It would depend on how much money I won. If I won an outrageous amount I would definitely leave work and dedicate my time to my writing and other things that I enjoy doing. I’m sorry, I have to get a little mushy … Please don’t stop the interview!! I would help my daughters out financially and as I have intentions of doing some work with charities once I retire, I would start that a little earlier. I have always wanted to contribute to and work with ill and/or abused children.

 Okay, that’s it! I’m writing a long letter to pope Francis requesting you be canonized as a saint.

2) Do you speak Spanish?
Yes, I do. I read and write in Spanish as well. My father in particular was adamant that my brothers and I would learn the language. He would make us sit down in front of a small blackboard every day after school and give us lessons. He was not quite as diligent with my younger brothers. Of course, I hated it at the time, but I am now very grateful that he took the time to teach us. I also went to Spanish lessons when I got older and speaking Spanish at home obviously helped. Although I speak Spanish well, my English vocabulary is more extensive and I would consider English to be my first language.

I believe it’s great to have a second language.

3) What is the most demeaning thing said about you as a writer?
I have been very lucky, I have not had too much criticism of my writing and the little that I have had has been constructive and I have learnt from it. The only incident I can recall happened about two months ago, when I was told that my writing was ‘dribble’, that my poems were ‘a pandering bunch of crap’ and that I ‘had only published one technically good poem’. It hit me in the gut and it hurt at the time, but everyone is entitled to their opinion and you cannot please or cater to everyone.

     I, like you, believe that everyone’s entitled to their opinion and I understand that not everyone is going to like every piece you write, but there’s a right and wrong way to give a critique. There’s no reason for someone to be rude or mean. Of course it hurts.

4) What are you passionate about? (in addition to writing)
My two daughters, they are my greatest achievement and my greatest love. Ooops, sorry I forgot about the ‘no mush’ rule ☺

I’ll let it go this time. ;D

I am passionate about the theatre, both attending and performing. It takes me away from reality and transposes me to another place and sometimes another time. Come on, who wouldn’t love it? You get to dress up and pretend to be someone else just like most of us did when we were kids. I will let you in on a secret, I have never really grown u, ha ha. On a more serious note, it has taught me discipline, expression and articulation when speaking.

Love of the Theatre

Yolanda with her niece in a performance of Jayne Eyre

I also love to travel … Another great teacher from which I have learnt about different cultures, traditions and experienced the beauty of different landscapes and architecture. Hand in hand with travelling is my love for photography which allows me to capture the experience, the moment, the place and share these with others.

5) Where do you get inspiration for your blog posts? Do your experiences, songs, other writers, or dreams inspire you?
All of the above. Inspiration can be found everywhere if you leave yourself open to it. In Life, Love, Death, Nature and so much more … a newborn’s cry, a lover’s touch, a sound, a memory, an experience. I will leave it there, I am rambling. ☺

6) Have you ever hated (or regretted) something you wrote on your blog?
No, I don’t think so. Those of you who have read my blog know that it is personal. I am very honest and open when I write. I write from the heart and gut. My blog may not be for everyone, it was started for me and along the way, I have been told, it has touched other’s lives. There is no greater compliment than this. So no, there are no regrets. Whatever I have written was ‘right’ at the time.

I hear you. Well, actually I read you. You know what I mean. :/

7) Do you consider yourself a writer, blogger or both? Why?
This is the most difficult question because of what my definition of a writer has always been. I have always considered a writer to be someone who writes for a living, however meagre that living may be. What I have learnt from the writing communities that I am involved in, who are full of talented writers and some who are passionate about writing, is that if you write regularly you are a writer. If you have had your work published, you are an author. It makes sense, don’t you think? I am a poet and a blogger. A writer? I am still trying to get my head around being a writer. I have been called a writer by others and I have started delving into writing flash fiction and short stories. Maybe, I am a writer, I will leave that to the readers ☺

You are a writer, poet and blogger.

8) What is your favorite theme/genre to write about? Why?
I enjoy writing about life, the good, the bad and the ugly, and romance. The same three descriptions apply to romance too, lol. Whilst I have a vivid imagination the words flow more easily when I have lived it or have had exposure to something. Upon saying this, any form of writing irrespective of what theme/genre you write in, this would apply to. When writing, you have to dig deep and draw from inside. The more we get out there, live, experience and feel, the more we have to draw from.

     I absolutely agree. You do have to get out there and LIVE life. Experiment, take risks (calculated, don’t go nuts) and have fun.

9) If you got an offer to be a travel writer for a popular magazine making lots of money, would you leave your current job and go for it? Why/why not?
Is this a serious question? I am typing my resignation as we speak , lol … To combine my love of travel, with my love of writing and throw in some photography would be the ultimate career. To then be able to share these experiences with others, how exciting and satisfying. So, if there are any travel publishers out there … Hell, any publishers I’m your gal!! ☺

 You go girrrl! Ha,ha!

10) What do your loved ones think about your blogging/writing? Do they read it?
My family have always been aware that I write poetry, but some were surprised when they found out I had started writing a blog. Mainly because of how personal it is and how much of me it exposes. When I have written particularly raw pieces, my daughter used to ring and asked if I was ok. She is better now as I have explained to her that it is not always about me. They are all very supportive and all follow my blog. They have told me that they enjoy it and many posts have touched them. If they really hated it, I would hear it … We are very open in my family, lol.

That’s awesome Yolanda! 

11) What makes you laugh?
Myself, I can laugh at myself very easily, lol See, he he. Children, a good comedy, life … I laugh a lot and it has gotten me through some tough times. Laughing is the key to wellbeing and so much more fun than giving in to sadness.

So true! Sometimes I’m asked why I’m always smiling and laughing. Well, it keeps you young. It is the best medicine.

12) What makes you so sad you could cry?
Ok, here we go … mush again. The plight of so many people in war torn countries, living in extreme conditions. The poverty, famine … With so much wealth in the world, why does it still exist? Especially the children that never get a chance to reach their full potential. Abused and terminally ill children. When I feel like crying about my pain, I try to think about how great my life is, compared to others. This does not invalidate my own pain, we all experience sadness in our lives. I have gone off on a bit of a tangent, he he. I am pretty emotional, a sad movie or book will have me sobbing.

     I’m writing the letter to pope Francis as we speak. Ha,ha. But seriously, the things you mentioned are heart-wrenching and the       answer to your first question is GREED.

13) What character from a novel (protagonist/antagonist or other) do you see yourself in? Why?
Can I say two? Elizabeth Bennett in ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and Scarlett O’Hara in ‘Gone with the Wind’. They have always stood out for me. Elizabeth Bennett because she is independent and outspoken for her time, but still feminine and caring of the people she loves. Scarlett O’Hara because whilst she comes from a life of privilege and some would say is spoilt, once thrown into chaos … She is passionate, strong and a survivor. She does what needs to be done for herself and her family. I admire strong women.

     I could see you in both these characters. Great choices.

14) What is your guilty pleasure?
Not too guilty, I don’t believe you should feel guilty about pleasure. Every morning I have a cup of coffee in bed. I get up a little earlier to be able to start the morning with this little bit of pampering and relaxation.

 Hmmm. This makes me wonder…who prepares this cup of coffee? (Re-thinking the letter to pope Francis)

15) Do you think your life would make an interesting memoir? If so, who would play you in a film of your life?
My life has been pretty average with all the usual ups and downs. There are some parts that others may consider interesting, but at this point I don’t feel I have led an extraordinary life. Maybe that is still to come ☺ If a film were made I would want Cate Blanchett to play me. She is such a talented and versatile actress and could even make my life seem interesting, ha ha.

     Why did I know Cate Blanchett would be your choice? Ha,ha! By the way, your life is very interesting, which brings me to my next question.

16) Tell us briefly about your recent vacation in Hawaii.
Aaaah Hawaii … back at work two weeks and it already feels like a dream ☺ It was a fun vacation. I did a 7 day cruise of the Hawaiian Islands, which was great and allowed me to see Maui, Hawaii – The Big Island and Kauai. The landscape of these islands is breathtaking and though I took many photographs it was difficult to capture the grandeur of Haleakala Crater or Waimea Canyon. I met some lovely people on the cruise and had a few party nights, he he. Waikiki was vibrant and busy with lots to do. In Waikiki, Pearl Harbour was the highlight. It was interesting, emotional and a must if you’re visiting. Hanauma Bay is great for snorkelling. Last, but certainly not least, I did some major retail therapy, lol.

 So much for not having an interesting life. 

Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin in Hawaii

Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin in Hawaii

Okay, officially tore up the letter to pope Francis! Ha,ha!

Okay, officially tore up the letter to pope Francis! Ha,ha!

Check out the links below to contact this very interesting lady.





Yolanda I. Regueira Marin

Yolanda I. Regueira Marin
performing in Murdered To Death


What’s Happening In Syria?

18 Sep

What's Happening In Syria?

Hello! Welcome to my blog.

We’re living in tough times, what with impending war and the economy being what it is. I’m sure most of you are aware that the United States and its allies are preparing for a possible strike against Syria. I understand that what’s happening there is important and affects all of us. I also know that this subject is complex and may be confusing for some people.

I’m not a journalist or even a very political person for that matter, but I’ve been following this story. In today’s blog post, I am going to share my thoughts and opinions on this subject. The entire issue is confusing, and my hope is that in the process of sharing my thoughts, I will help at least one person to better understand what’s going on. However, I encourage you to do your own reading and research and develop your own views on the matter.

Syria is a country in the Middle East. It’s about the size of Washington State. The country is currently in the middle of an intense and bloody civil war. So far, the fighting between government and rebel forces has resulted in the death of over one hundred thousand people, as well as two million refugees, half of them children.

Syria Refugees

The question of why the people of Syria are killing each other is quite complicated and confusing, especially for citizens of the United States, since we are used to being able to speak our minds freely.

The killing started in April of 2011, when peaceful protestors emerged to confront Syria’s monstrous dictator, Bashar al-Assad, who first responded by secretly ordering the deaths of certain activists. When the protests continued, government forces began kidnapping, raping, torturing and killing anyone suspected of being an activist, along with their family members, including many children. Mutilated bodies were dumped on roadsides as a warning to those who would oppose the government, presumably with the intention of instilling fear in any future protestors. Soon troops began to open fire on protestors, killing people at random. Eventually, civilians began to retaliate, and the fighting escalated into a civil war.

Syria's Dictator Assad

Syria’s Dictator Assad

So you’re probably asking yourself why are we butting our nose into the affairs of another country? Syria’s dictator Assad used chemical warfare against civilians in his own country. This is a no-no when it comes to the laws that govern the world, and this is where our involvement began. If President Obama and the USA were to allow Assad to get away with using chemical warfare in his own country, what’s to say he or some other dictator would not use chemical warfare on one of our allies—or against us, for that matter?

Chemical Weapon Mask

Chemical Weapon Mask

Then there’s the issue of Russia.

Russia is Syria’s greatest ally. Moscow impedes the United Nations Security Council from imposing any sanctions that might go against the Assad regime. The United States might have to bypass the United Nations in order to take any action against Syria and the Assad regime. Meanwhile, Russia sends many weapons to Syria, which facilitates more killing of civilians.

Middle East Syria

Why would Russia want to protect a fiend like Assad? According to the Washington Post, there are a couple of substantial reasons. Russia has a naval installation in Syria, and any “international intervention” against countries like Syria is seen as a threat to Russia. In addition, Syria buys many Russian military exports, and Russia needs the money.

Although the United States wants to help the rebels, our country is in a complicated position. For instance, if we offer assistance by shipping arms, the weapons could fall into the hands of jihadists and lead to major chaos.

What if we were to send in Navy Seals to take out Assad? Again, that would only empower jihadists and possibly cause a second civil war. How about air strikes? Yeah, that worked real well in Iraq (hint of sarcasm). A ground invasion would only cost more lives—both American soldiers and Syrian civilians—and our list of enemies would increase significantly around the world.

Navy Seals - Badass

Navy Seals – Badass

The solution advocated by the Obama administration is for the Assad regime and the rebels to develop a peace treaty. However, there has been too much rancor between the dictator and the rebels, and there hasn’t been any indication that either party wants to resolve this peacefully. I believe this will not happen, and I think the US government also knows it will not happen, but they have to at least try for a peaceful political solution before they use a military one.

Syria's dictator Assad

However, and this is where it gets perplexing for me, the Obama administration has not sugar-coated the fact they want to launch cruise missiles at Syria to teach Assad a lesson for using chemical warfare against the rebels and civilians in his country. Maybe someone can clarify this for me, but wouldn’t firing missiles at Syria cause more harm to civilians? I mean, Assad would probably be well-protected in some bunker along with his minions. Civilians would be the ones getting killed and maimed out in the open. Now, if you were to tell me that those missiles would be directed at Assad’s house when he was least expecting them, then I would agree that it’s a great idea, but otherwise what’s the point?

I understand that something needs to be done about this ruthless dictator, but I truly hope the Obama administration thinks of something that doesn’t involve sidestepping the United Nations, making enemies with Russia, increasing anti-Americanism around the world, and killing civilians in Syria.

I wouldn’t want to be in President Obama’s shoes at this time.

President Barack Obama

President Barack Obama



13 Sep


Hello and welcome to my blog! Today is Friday the 13th. Burrr. What was that chill? Must have been a draft. Anyway, like I was saying, it is Friday the 13th and for some people this is an unlucky day. For me it’s a day like any other. I’m one of those people who claim not to have any superstitions. Of course I avoid scheduling anything significant on this day, not for my sake, but simply because I know there are others who may not attend a social event planned on this day. For instance, my first book signing event was scheduled by my publisher’s publicist for today, but I promptly changed it to tomorrow.

Oh! Who am I kidding? I purposely changed the date of my book signing, not because I thought a Saturday would be better, and not because I thought less people would show, but because I was afraid. There I said it! The number 13 is unlucky enough, but add Friday and it spells disaster. However, I want to make it clear that I’m not a superstitious person, I simply respect the unknown (clearing throat).

So what is the origin of Friday the 13th?

There are different theories, but according to folklorists, there is no written evidence for a “Friday the 13th” superstition before the 19th century. One theory states that it is simply the putting together of two older superstitions: that 13 is an unlucky number and that Friday is an unlucky day.

Why is the number 13 considered unlucky?

In numerology the number twelve is considered the number of completeness, as indicated in the twelve months of the year, twelve hours of the clock, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve apostles of Jesus, twelve signs of the Zodiac, etc., in contrast the number thirteen was considered odd and uneven, infringing on this completeness.

Why is Friday considered an unlucky day?

Friday was the day Jesus Christ was crucified.  According to some, Friday the 13th of October 1307, hundreds of Knights Templar were arrested and killed in France, an action apparently motivated financially. On August 13th, 1821, the Aztec Empire comes to an end. On July 13, 1821 notorious Confederate general and Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard Nathan Bedford Forrest is born in Tennessee. On October 13, 1989, the Dow Jones experienced the second largest drop that it had ever experienced. Need I say more?

Do you know what the fear of Friday the 13th is called?

Friggatriskaidekaphobia  (try using this word in a game of “Hang man”)


So, are you a superstitious person? Before you say no, answer the following questions:

Do you wish upon a star?

Do you hesitate to open an umbrella indoors?

Do you carry a “Lucky” rabbit’s foot?

Do you say, “God bless you” when someone sneezes?

Do you knock on wood?

Do you feel a sudden chill when you break a mirror?

What are some of your superstitions?


Missed Opportunities

16 Aug
Do You Remember?

Photographed by Marcin Laskarzewski (losesprit – deviantART)

Hello! Welcome to my blog. I’ve been asked many times why I write. I’m going to take a moment to answer this question. Firstly, I write because I love it. I have a very active imagination; my mind is bursting with stories, characters and worlds waiting to spill out onto paper. Finally, I write to entertain…myself as well as others, and if along the way I can inspire or teach: it would be icing on the cake. I love icing. ;D

Now on to today’s post. I ran across this piece of writing on twitter, and it moved me to tears. It doesn’t have a title, or a writer’s name attached to it, but I thought it worth sharing. I hope you enjoy it.


Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and dented it?
I thought you’d kill me, but you didn’t.

And remember the time I dragged you to the beach, and you said it would rain, and it did?
I thought you’d say, “I told you so.” But you didn’t.

Do you remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you were?
I thought you’d leave, but you didn’t.

Do you recall the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your car rug?
I thought you’d hit me, but you didn’t.

And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans?
I thought you’d drop me, but you didn’t.

Yes, there were lots of things you didn’t do.
But you put up with me, and loved me, and protected me.

There are lots of things I wanted to make up to you
when you returned from Iraq.

But you didn’t.




aptopix mideast iraq --71605116_v2.grid-6x2

My Love

I wrote this for you, my love

For your gentle, verdant eyes

For your dulcet lips

For your sparkling, sincere smile

I wrote this for you

Because you loved me so tenderly

You forgave me so easily

You understood me so well

I love the way you

Gladly gave me what’s yours

Showed compassion to all living things

Always put my needs first

I wish I would have

Been more appreciative

never exploited your generosity

Told you how much I really needed you

It is too late now because you’re gone.

I’ll never have the chance to love you the way you deserved to be loved.

~ Vashti Quiroz-Vega


Don’t Wake Me

I saw your smile in my dreams

I didn’t want to wake

I reminisced gazing into your eyes

I saw the soul of an angel

Your kindness astounded

even the most skeptical side of me.

You taught me to love, to feel

when I was but an empty shell.

I assumed you’d always be here,

but one morning I woke to find

your arm was not draped over me.

~ Vashti Quiroz-Vega


Don’t put off telling someone you love exactly how you feel. You may not get the chance later.


When A Stranger Leaves An Imprint

31 Jul

Pretty face Blake Lively

Illustrated by Amro (deviantART)



Hello everyone! Thank you for stopping by. A couple of weeks ago I posted a story written by me called It Happened In An Elevator. My post today is a continuation of that story. If you have not read “It Happened In An Elevator” perhaps you should do so prior to reading this one. (Just click on the linked title above)



I saw her today. I was descending subway steps when I noticed a blonde standing on the platform, waiting for a train. Something about her stance and profile was familiar. I stumbled and nearly knocked over a silver-haired lady as I hurried past her. I couldn’t yell out her name because I didn’t know it.



When A Stranger Leaves An Imprint

by Vashti Quiroz-Vega

Three feet away from her, I came to a sudden standstill. I stared at her, my brows knit so tight my head began to throb. My heart beat loudly in my ears, drowning out all sounds except the screeching halt of the train. I tried to reach out and touch her on the shoulder to make her aware of my existence. What if she doesn’t remember me? My arms felt like lead. I couldn’t lift them. It was the hotel elevator all over again.

The train doors opened. She walked in. I could follow her in and get off at the next stop if things didn’t work out. She’s not going to remember me. Uncertain, I stepped back. The train doors closed. My eyes followed her as she made her way to the large train window before me. As she reached for the handle overhead, her gaze met mine, and her eyes opened wide with recognition. She smiled and waved hello! As the train began to move, she poked out her lower lip in disappointment and waved goodbye. She remembered me! I let her slip out of my life for a second time. I had two opportunities to meet her, and I hindered both chances. Would I ever get another chance?

The trip back to my apartment was a haze of depression, regret and self-loathing. I had a million questions running through my mind. What was she doing in New York City? Did she live here? I got home and sulked for a while, and then decided to go to bed. I lay there thinking of her face, her smile… She remembered me! I fell asleep.

Maybe an hour later, raps on the door jolted me awake.

“Who is it?” I called out, half-asleep.

There was no answer. I peered through the peephole, and my heart seized up. This couldn’t be! Open the door, idiot! I inhaled sharply and obeyed my inner voice. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The fetching stranger I had met a year ago in the elevator of a fancy hotel, the same beauty I had glimpsed in the train station, now stood before me.

“Are you going to invite me in?” she asked in a sultry voice.

I opened the door wider and gestured for her to enter.

“H-h-how did you find me?” I asked, feeling foolish.

“We can talk, or we can do. What is your pleasure?” She took my breath away with her words. “Come, we’ve both been yearning for this moment for so long. Lets not waste time. We can talk later.”

I rushed to her. My chest heaved with excitement. I grabbed her, trying to control my enthusiasm. I pushed her against the wall and began to kiss her. Her lips were so soft and warm, and as our lips joined, they seem to fuse together. All the nerves in my body were firing at once. Her hands caressed my bare chest and then slid around to my back. She pulled me closer. My hands worked their way around her body, caressing every curve. She gasped and tossed her head back. I nuzzled my face against her neck and kissed her repeatedly.I could hear her soft moans of pleasure as I continued to explore her body.



She reached for my boxer-briefs and began to lower them. My male organ sprang loose as my shorts slid to the floor. She lowered her eyes and then gave me a look of approval. She removed her tank top, revealing her magnificent breasts. Without hesitation, I reached for them. I held them, caressed them, kissed them. I could have made love to them. She held my face in her hands and pushed me away gently. She looked at my manhood and licked her lips. My body tensed, feeling the pressure build up in my most manly parts. She slinked down to a squatting position. She passed her hand over it and stared with the curiosity of a child.

“You’re so vigorous,” she said and slipped my head into her mouth.

My body went slack, and my eyelids became heavy. There are no words to describe the sensations that coursed through my body at that moment. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. Noises escaped my lips I did not recognize. I lowered my eyes to watch her in action. She looked up and smiled. She gripped my rear and took me in deeper, all the while gazing into my eyes. I was mesmerized.

Ring. Ring. Ring. I sat upright in bed. The irritating alarm clock woke me up at the best part of my dream. I tossed my blanket aside. “Ah, damn!” I was a mess. When was the last time I had a wet dream? I couldn’t remember. It was that long ago. I showered and got ready for work, still feeling the regret of the night before.

At work, I was not myself. I was quiet, serious and pensive, a pestering “What if?” hanging over my head.

“Hey, Gallo, ready to go to lunch?” said Antonio.

He was quickly becoming one of the best friends I’d ever had. We met when we were both promoted a few months ago and transferred to the NYC office—me from Boston, and he from Miami. There was only one position open at the NYC branch, and we both wanted it. We fought hard at that board meeting on the 5th floor of the Madison Avenue Hotel, and we both dazzled the sharks. They couldn’t bear to part with either of us, so they hired us both. We’ve been inseparable at work ever since.

“Yeah, I could use something to eat,” I muttered.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Come on. You’ve been moping around all day.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

Antonio looked at me sideways. We had lunch at Marea on Central Park South. Great seafood. I began to feel better.

“I think it’s time,” said Antonio.

“Time for what?”

“I think it’s time I take you home for dinner.”

“Dude!” I laughed. “You’re not going to tell me you’re gay now, right?”

“No, jackass!” he laughed. “Besides, you wouldn’t be my type.”

“That hurts, dude.” We both laughed at my feigned disappointment.

“Seriously, how long have we known each other?” Antonio asked.

I shrugged. “About a year.”

“We’ve known each other for almost a year, and you’ve never even been to my place.”

“Well, we spend most of our time at work anyway.”

“True, my wife bitches about that all the time.”

“What did you call your wife?”

“Shut up!”

“I’ve never even met your wife,” I told him.

“That’s pathetic.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Alright, that’s it. This Friday, you’re going to have dinner at my house,” Antonio insisted.

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

With that, we paid for our lunch and returned to work.

The rest of the day went by quickly. Work kept me busy, and I had very little time to think of anything else. I was grateful. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. When I got home, I showered, had dinner and tried to do some work on my laptop, but I couldn’t concentrate. Maybe I was just too tired.

Her face appeared in my mind’s eye. I don’t even know her name. It’s funny how some people come into our lives and without saying a word, leave an imprint on our hearts. Moments like these always force me to think about my life. Where is it headed? I’m very successful now. That board meeting a year ago went just as I had planned, but what of my love life? Did I miss the opportunity to meet my soul mate? There’s a reason I can’t get her out of my mind. I believe we were meant to be together. I believe I will see her again, and this time nothing will stand in my way. Not my insecurities, not my fears— nothing!

I have so much—everything I’ve ever wanted. What good are all my possessions, this great life, if I can’t share them with someone I love? Of course, I have met other women and dated a great deal, but even with a night of physical activity, I have failed to achieve the level of passion I experienced with the lovely angel on that elevator. I must find her.

I’m lonely. Can I say that, living in a city of millions? I will find her.

The next day I was at the train station where I had seen her. I was there at the same time and in the same location. I waited for hours, but the angel never showed. I went back again, and she was a no-show once more.

Thursday, Antonio decided to work through lunch. It wasn’t like him to do that, but he said he was running behind. It was a gorgeous day—bright and sunny with a pleasant, cool breeze. Central park was very crowded. There was a band playing, which explained the multitudes. I tried to make my way through the crowd to my favorite restaurant. I scanned my surroundings, and my eyes stopped on a dream. There she was, her shiny blonde hair playing in the gentle breeze, and only a massive crowd between us.

I pushed and shoved my way among the masses, determined not to allow anyone or anything to get in the way of me talking to this woman. When I was but a short distance away, she noticed me in the crowd.

I waved and yelled, “Wait right there, please! Don’t move!”

I sensed the heat rising in my face. I finally stood before her, panting, and no doubt red-faced.

“Please tell me your name,” I implored.

She tilted her head to the side, scrunching her brows slightly, observing me for a moment, and then she finally smiled.


“My name is Charlise.” Her voice was soothing and mellifluous.

“My name is Ethan, Ethan Taylor” I blurted. “I know we’ve only had a brief encounter in an elevator, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that day. When I saw you at the train station a few days ago, I felt it was a sign. You remembered me. We should explore this. I want to get to know you.”

I finally stopped babbling. Charlise stared wide-eyed at me, her eyebrows arched high, her mouth hanging open. I realized I had frightened her. I took a step toward her, and she backed away with her arms in front of her.

“Please, don’t fear me. I mean you no harm. I simply don’t want to miss another opportunity to get to know you,” I told her as gently as I could in my loud surroundings. I watched her shoulders relax, and her eyes gazed sweetly at me once again.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked.

“I do now,” I responded. She smiled, and it was like receiving oxygen after nearly suffocating in a sea of fear.

A short burst of wind blew her hair to mask her face. I reached out and gently straightened the strands of hair. We looked into each other’s eyes the entire time. After removing the last strands, I caressed her face. I noticed an eyelash on her cheek. I removed it with my finger and showed it to her.

“Make a wish,” I told her. She moved closer and shut her eyes. I recognized her perfume. When she opened her eyes again, she puckered her lips to blow the lash from my finger. Her lower lip touched my finger as she blew. I felt the warmth of her breath, and I swear the tip of my finger was connected to every nerve fiber of my being. My body quivered. She grinned, and I wanted to lose control. I craved to take her home. I longed to worship the art of her bare form. I had an overwhelming desire to touch her, taste her, melt into her very soul until the two of us became one.
“Charli, we have to leave. I can’t take this place anymore. My head is killing me,” a young brunette insisted as she tugged at my angel. “Who is this?” She looked at me with reproachful eyes.

“He’s an old friend,” responded Charlise. The brunette’s mouth tightened as she looked me up and down.

“We have to leave now. I’m serious! My head’s going to blow.”

“Alright, alright,” said Charlise, and then she looked at me. “It was nice running into you again. I have to go now.” Her voice was soft, sweet and sad. She wants to stay with me.

“Lets go! God!” shouted the brunette as she pulled her away.

Charlise waved good-bye and disappeared into the crowd. At least now I know her name, and she knows mine. Charlise. What a beautiful name. It was like a melody. We are meant to be together, and I will see her again soon.
I looked at my watch. It was time for me to head back to work. I served no purpose in my office that afternoon. Erotic thoughts of my angel plagued me. I took hold of my manhood and stroked it with thoughts of her until all that was left in my wake was a load of discarded frenzy.

Friday came around. Antonio had been reminding me about our dinner date twenty times a day for the past few days. Needless to say, I was glad the day had finally arrived. At the end of the day, I told him I would make a pit stop at home to shower and dress, and then meet him at his house for dinner.

I arrived at Antonio’s house at seven o’clock. He greeted me at the door.

“Ethan, my brother, welcome to my humble abode,” he said dramatically.

We grinned at each other, and then he took me by surprise when he embraced me. In a very manly manner, of course—crushing me like a boa constrictor and patting me on the back so hard, I thought I would cough up blood.

“Dude! Take it easy!” I laughed.

“I’m sorry, Gallo, I’m just happy to see you in my house.”

“Alright, alright, let’s not get emotional.” I shook my head disapprovingly while Antonio laughed.

I sat on his couch, and he got me a drink. I was relaxed and happy to be there.

“My wife will be out in a moment. You know how women are. It doesn’t matter how much time they have to get ready. It’s like they’re allergic to being on time.”

“I’m right here,” said a female voice. I stood to greet her.  “Hello it’s nice to…” her words were strangled by the look of agony on my face.

I could hardly stand. My hands were shaking. There was an awkward silence while we stared at each other. Her face wore a perturbed grimace. Finally, my eyes fell to the ground. Inside, my chest blazed a firestorm. I was lightheaded. I slumped and held on to my knees.

“What’s going on?” asked Antonio.

I looked up at his puzzled face, and then glanced at hers. Her eyes were wide imploring me to keep my silence. I regained control of myself. I took a deep breath, and stood upright.

“I’ve been feeling poorly all day,” I lied. “I believe I’m coming down with something.”

“Why didn’t you say something at work?” asked Antonio.

“I knew how much you’ve been looking forward to having me over for dinner and to meet your wife. I didn’t want to disappoint.”

Antonio shook his head. “I would have simply made a change of plans, my friend.”

“I can’t stay, Antonio. I’m sorry. I thought I could visit for a couple of hours, but I can’t. I hope I didn’t ruin dinner for you.”

“Of course not. We’ll do this again another night.”



I looked at his wife, gripped in pain. I swallowed hard. “It was nice meeting you, and I’m sorry.” It took everything I had to say those words.

“Please don’t be sorry,” said she tenderly her eyes glittering.

“You have an angel for a wife, Antonio,” I said as I watched him smile and nod.

He put his arm around her, twisting the knife already lodged deep in my heart. Inside, I winced in pain. On the outside, I mustered a weak smile and walked away, certain that my best friend would be holding my true love, my angel, in his arms tonight.

Copyright © 2013 by Vashti Quiroz-Vega. All rights reserved.