Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Going For Coffee

She moves in light, floral flourishes. I imagine that her words drift gently, like fall leaves. She speaks like someone who never wants words to harm - because she knows they can. I listen when she speaks to people. Her order, or a soft hello. I can see her right now, in a dark corner, her hand clasping a warm mug - the steam and the small, reluctant smile. She is the soft, warm center of everything. Tender longing - she is love.

Many hours have passed like this, my eyes flitting like skitter-bugs, trying to take it all in - I want to remember every second. The way she turns the page on a notebook or novel, with grace and reverence. She sees me watching sometimes, smiles; I'm sure my face reddens.

I burn for days.

She is almost always, but not always, alone. The cafe is the same for both of us. A solitary place to sort thoughts and enjoy the smell of coffee, shake the cold and damp or the cold and crisp - hell, shake the world off for a bit. She teases the corners of her hair - one of those absent-minded comforts.

Her smile in these moments ... my heart clutches. I have absurd thoughts. A man will break into the cafe, hell-bent on destruction. Despite the overwhelming evidence of my past, I will vanquish this man. For her. For myself. For the cafe.

I imagine her eyes, anxious, watching a storm build - delicious fantasies. Here, take my umbrella, I insist. Let me call you a cab, we can split the fare. Terrible storm coming...

What I will actually do is nothing. I will continue to sip my coffee slowly, refill it, and watch and run my hands through my hair, gray, though still thick as a child's. I will take my glasses off, wipe the lenses, put them back. Comfort. Little comforts. I will think about when no one had cell phones, and it will make me sad. No reason. Just old, I guess.

I will watch her write. I will watch her read. Sometimes, the exquisite reflection of prose is blinding. She is engrossed, and I stare. God, I stare. Her face shades grave concern, then a chuckle, then she is serious - worried - like the words are orphaned children and she must save them all. And I think, to be made of words! Oh, anything. I would give anything to be made of words and to light her heart, twist the ends of her hair. 

There are times I look at her and think: She is a lion. There are times when I look at her and think: She is a Killdeer, the broken wing a ruse. She is leading me. There are times - most of the time - when I think: She is human like me and we could sit at the same table if not for...

It's easy to say. My brother has no problem saying it. Never did. My whole life, I heard the refrain. Just fucking talk to her, what is she ... poisonous? Good-humored, still, it sliced me like a rusty blade, jagged. He didn't understand.

I could talk to her, and she would invite me to sit, and we would talk. I know this. She would even be kind. I know this as well. And - maybe - things would go well. I might be witty. She could tell me of her words and bathe me in the gentle smiles that bloom beneath the soft warmth of her eyes. Or maybe it would be awkward. God, that word. Soul crushing. Every joke would fall flat. I would end up staring, mumbling. I would no longer be able to find solace in the cafe. It would be back to the bar and the brandy and the boredom of that long, black space. No one to look at. No bright spot in the darkness, delighting in the twisting of words.

Something I used to think I could do.

I'll sit here and drink my coffee and be glad I have this. Appreciate it. And I will hope, as always, that some part of her knows that I don't even like coffee. But I won't ask for a thing; she has given me so much, already.

Friday, December 26, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

The lights are suddenly too bright and you think: shit. SHIT. Lightheaded, not enough oxygen slipping through the carnage that used to be your nose. The mouthguard feels like an inflatable raft, choking you. You listen to the rattle and crunch of each punch - you don't feel them anymore - you just want to breathe. The blood drips like an old faucet.

This was going to be your comeback. Big fight, big venue. Boxing Day - forget fucking Christmas!, the return of the Iron Left. The kid from Cali. The Brick Trick. So many nicknames and so many fights and this one won't stop and you think: just let me die. 

Your eyes are bleary and you spin, looking at the saliva fangs of spectators cheering for blood. You wonder, briefly, at the strangeness of it. Wonder why they don't step in the ring if they're so bent on blood and sweat and pain. 

Happy fucking Boxing Day! Stupid play on words anyway. Stupid idea from the start. You could be at home sharing homemade gifts that rival anything Christmas brought. But you're not. Hubris, they call it. Right?

That may not be the last thought before your face hits the canvass, but it's close.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, December 19, 2014

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

The backs of her thighs are glued to a stippled, blue plastic chair. Around her, the grind of classic rock accosts the bleeping machine monotony she has gotten used to. Shift must have changed. Deb takes a sip of her vending machine coffee and swallows without tasting. Not that there's much to taste.

She stares at the window and watches streaks of rain smear the bright raincoats, umbrellas, and headlights into fantastic mosaics, beautiful glimpses of the world she now lives in - a world where nothing is in focus and everything seems to be running in fast forward ... between pauses.

When the nurse steps out, bearing her clipboard like a shield, Deb stands and nods. She picks up her purse and, feeling the sweat dry on her dimpled legs, she adjusts her coat and opens the door. 

"Miss ... Ma'am?"

The words fall like dead cartoon ducks. Deb keeps walking.



Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, December 12, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

She walks through the department stores, auburn hair tossed over one shoulder, tips tickling the soft skin of her ribcage beneath softer silk. She has a route for every store. Every time it's the same, especially near Christmas. She can get everything she needs from every store in the mall without passing the toys. She is not prepared for the elf that jumps out at her as she skirts 'sporting goods'.

"Picture with Santa? Not just for kids, Ma'am!"

She stops, and she can feel her heart thump, her hand open - feels the bag full of knick knacks and office presents fall to the ground. The elf drops to his knees, apologizing.

"It's OK ... I ... I don't need any of this ..."

She turns, but feels a hand squeezing the top of her arm.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. How about a free picture? Front of the line."

She looks into his glowing eyes, hovering above a desperate smile. Stephen would have been about the same age.

"Get the fuck away from me. Don't you ever fucking touch me again."

"Ma'am?"

The elf is scared, but he will soon forget. She won't. She won't hang the small stocking when she gets home. She won't try to brace herself. She won't look at old pictures and cry. She will get drunk. For weeks. Maybe until the new year.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, December 5, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

We're cooking with gas now, baby. Ain't no getting off the train between stops, folks will grab you like you're crazy: you can't get off the train here, man! The hell? Maaaaan, I can get off this train anytime I want, grab a passing tree, swing like a hopped-up orangutan.

The memory is parasitic, it steals from you. You wander through dark streets, clutching at snatches of neon and moon splash, alone, bereft. You're drowning in all these people and no one will even notice. Bounce down the aisles of a late night convenience store, drink the bright colors deep inside you where they'll add weight to the skinny nightmares which shroud your face.

I am memory, and I am the truest lie you've ever heard.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.