Espresso Stories of December!

At that moment he felt more uncomfortable than a Jain in a Purell factory.

‎"Someday," He told her, "I'll paint this wall." It was only now that she realized that at that time he had already known that he would be the paint.

“I’m still going strong,” She said at her final AA meeting, “Because the show goes on. And it isn’t my death scene, yet."

Jesus, Jesus, please, give me a sign!"

And thunder smashed and the clouds billowed above her head as a booming voice shouted out, "I AM A SAGITTARIUS"

Are you sure you don't want a cat?"

"No, I am absolutely horrid with animals,"

"Now come on, I'm certain you aren't that bad,"

"I had a pet rock once. It died."

‎"Look, I used to have a cactus. It died in nineteen days. I'm poisonous, and you'd better get out."

And it's true every time: I come for you but I stay for me.

Don't tell me how far I'll go until you know how far I've come.

‎"You know, you really taught me how to believe in love." "Yeah, well, you really taught me how to believe in reality."

I don't need to break in to see inside; there's only so much in that glass mind.

“You’re leaving the Brazilian summer to go to a Chicago winter?” “ Yeah, but where I’m going is so much warmer"

I’ve never really gotten over anyone, especially myself.

She had 5 hours of testing in front of her and she spent her time preparing in the back of a bar getting wasted.

every sunday they stole their parents liquor cabinets and bathed in the alcohol content, listening to spanish opera all the while

Her mouth mouth said no, and her body continued this notion by punching him in the face repeatedly until he fell to the floor unconscious.

It spent her 5 hours, and in the end all she had to show of it was, "Plants are nice. They are often green. In conclusion, plants."

She named her child Manifest because everyone deserved a destiny.

‎"Is love supposed to hurt?"

"I wouldn't know, I've never been in love. I have been hit by a car however, and that hurt."

‎"I'm leaving." His sudden announcement metaphorically bodyslammed her into the wall, right before her mixed martial-arts training literally bodyslammed him into the wall. Either way, he could've had the decency to stick around and help pick up the pieces.

‎"TANKS!"

"Don't mention it."

She was the kind of girl that walked through the zoo thinking, "We all want to be free"

She spent her life reaching for rainbows, and she died in the arms of a man dressed like a unicorn.

She stayed up till 5 in the morning watching and re-watching The Notebook, and she wondered if she had an addiction to helpless love stories.

‎"It smells like weed in here."

"Weed. Like, as in grass? Like freshly cut grass? Well then, I don't really know because we weren't cutting grass at all."

He's the type of gay who woke up one morning, said, 'Shit, let's try liking dick today!' and never looked back.

He knew he had trouble falling asleep when he tried to imagine sheep jumping over a fence, and they ran head first into the fence instead.

She was 94 and one/eights years old, and her will stated she wanted all of her items and possessions to be put into storage forever, because she was a dick that way.

She signed all her cards XIO; kisses, boners, and hugs.

---Lynn, Patti, Christie, Julie

Expresso Stories of November

"i remember" he always said but he always never knew what he was supposed to remember

every promise he made was over a bottle of beer, so it really wasn't a surprise when he died from alcohol poisoning.

When she got the phone call that her mother was dead she really didn’t know what to expect, let alone the voice over the receiver telling her that she died attempting to stop a burglary with a sack of bagels and a sharp-wit.

the smell of sharpie never fades away, though the locker has long since been cleaned and painted over.

His hugs felt exactly how love should feel, and she couldn't help but laugh at the irony as she wished her ex-jail mate well before they carted her off to the death sentence.

Peter realized his day would be off-kilter when he was complimented on what a wonderful Drag Queen he would make.

It was a cold day - a Sunday - as she promised everything in the world to him, but she never ate a morsel, and he never ended up with what he wanted.

He - she? - existed only through google searches and even then the right answer wasn't always found.

A mixed chorus of "awww"s and "ewww"s echoed behind him as he leaned over the car door to kiss his boyfriend. He couldn't care less.

With a sort of dislocated interest she realized she grew up with these girls and on her better days she couldn't even remember their names, let alone any withstanding memories before the accident.

On 11:11 of 11/11/2011, she wished that she would live to see another 11:11 11/11/11 come along. She died one century later at 11:12pm.

Her legs were shaking as she walked to the door, but her hand was steady as she flipped him the bird.

Whenever he said goodbye, he walked backwards because he knew whatever he was leaving was beautiful and he couldn't take his eyes away.

"Am I destined to die?"

"We're all destined to die, you know. Whether it be from gunshot or cancerous tumor."

"I never expected it to be both,"

"Me neither."

Her favourite flowers were the Winter Wildflowers because they bloomed at midnight and she liked the adventure.

“It’s just algebra,” He said, steadily taking off his pants.

She turned to leave, “I don’t remember learning that one plus one equals one in math class.”

He took out a condom, “At least it won’t equal three."

He was a one man circus, always on the trapeze, the audience cheering for him to fall.

She could only kiss when drunk, because nobody intoxicated her enough to do otherwise.

Once a month she could use tampons as swords; she could fight off an army of dicks just by claiming she was already stabbed.

If I said all I need in life was you, that would be a lie, cause it takes a lot of food and water to keep me alive enough to love you this much.

She knew she should stop listening to Adele when depressed because breaking down into sobs on the school bus was not only awkward to explain, but extremely embarrassing.

‎"When I said I wanted the love of my life to elbow their way into my life, this wasn't what I expected," She cried as she held her broken nose carefully in the hospital waiting room.

Their bodies were huge but their love was skinny.

"I'm an asshole with a low IQ, an addiction to drinking and cigarettes, and the largest sex drive this side of the Mississippi. I know what true love is."

The music was loud but their screams were louder as the shower head turned on.

We’re a fairytale, but I’m no princess.

Home was a cramped apartment filled with the violent sounds of dreams being shattered--so even though she was reduced to a crawling, dancing, self loathing “professional” every night around her pole, she did anything not to click together her bright red pumps.

they told him that no one should have to bury this parents alone but he wasn't sure if their presence was comforting or suffocating.

All I wanted was to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving, thought Bob, laying on the table as the Turkeys laid out their silverware.

The rope was 60 feet, the fall 45, and she wondered which would kill her first.

Her grandmother used all the oxygen in her lungs to blow out her 89th birthday candles, and she died face-planting into the cake.

Their hats had fake curls attached at the sides, but the jewish-side of his family at least appreciated the gesture

The marching band spelled out the four-word phrase as he dropped down to one knee, she knew band-geeks made the best husbands

Every argument they ever entered into was settled with a game of beer-pong, with the loser having to go out to buy aspirin the next morning.

Looking into his eyes was like staring down a shed cicada shell. He was dead, she was empty, it was over.

I love you the way the buttered side of the toast loves the ground. Maybe it's messy, but it's something I can always count on.

Her bruises took weeks to heal, but he was still the cutest source of domestic abuse.

--- Julie, Christie, Patti, Lynn

Breaking Down

Edgar's perfect face glistened in the afternoon sun, his full lips curling into a smirk as he saw me waiting by his car. "Get in, darling," he said, voice as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. I loved him. I had always loved him. 


"Wait," I said, nearly tripping over my own boots as I tried to block the door. "We need to talk." 


He smiled, sunlight sparkling on his skin and glinting off his sharp, even teeth. "What is it NOW, Barbara?"


"That girl." I frowned. "That girl I saw you walking with. Who was she?"


"Baby, she's nothing," he said as he leaned in to kiss me. I tried to push him away, my fingers brushing against his cold marble skin. 


"I don't believe you."


"You know I'd never do that."


"I've seen the way you look at her. I've heard the rumors." I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and the tears well up in my eyes. I was sure I looked hideous to him now. But I didn't care. 


"They're not true, whatever they are." He drew closer to me, and I felt his iron grip tighten on my shoulder. "And besides. We aren't exactly in a position to say anything to anyone, are we?" 


I was crying for real now. "I'll tell them. I'll tell them all your secret. I'll tell EVERYONE in the SCHOOL! I'll do it!"


He wrapped me in his cold, perfect arms. "My dearest, I don't believe you will," he whispered, as he gently drew his fangs and plunged them into my neck. 

espresso over a long time.

Richard considered running to the bathroom to vomit when, after coming out to his elder sister as gay, she offered him various types of gay porn magazines.

I know i'm in love this time."
"what makes this any different?"
"i don't have butterflies in my stomach. i have fireworks."

I wonder if the physical distance between us is inversely proportional to the togetherness of our hearts.

It didn't matter how many perfect six-packs or smokin' hot man thongs I had seen in my life-- when the boy with the hipster glasses pulled out The Grapes of Wrath and read behind his cello in rehearsal, I knew he was the HOTTEST man I had ever seen.

keep your drink just give me the money.
sorry bud. just you, your hand, and a bottle of your own self-pity tonight.

As she pushed her hips back against the body behind her, she realized with a neutral opinion that she didn't even know his name.

it doesn't matter to me how I've never met him, how i've never talked to him, how i've never even made eye contact with him. I know I love him with all of my soul, and that is what matters.

Normalcy sat in the corner sipping his tea, while insanity poured more vodka into her Coca Cola. Both of them knew that their waltz would soon become a salsa.

God, space, time, math, light, dreams, imagination. The list goes on and on. With no end and no beginning. We’re trapped in infinity, baby.

She guilt tripped her way into college, and into his life.

He gripped the grass underneath him with all his strength, willing himself not to go off flying off into the sky like a murderous Peter Pan.

Mary ignored the giggles as she walked to the front of the church. After seventeen years of the most normal name imaginable, she was proud to be confirmed as Sexburga Euclidia Hedwig.

She wondered plainly if her end of life flashbacks would come in the form of a quickly scrolled through Facebook newsfeed.

I get up at 4:45 AM every morning to run, and all day long I never stop running.

Every day she bought blank CD's, cans of oranges, and a set of coat hangers and never before has Christian been more interested.

The Christian traditionalist laid down his rifle as he watched the new generation aim their M-16s at a flamboyant hedonist demise.

‎"Sexy and I know it"? Hate to break it to you, but it's more like "sexy and you think it", sweetie.

I’ll lie to you and lie to you until I think you’re finally ready for the truth.

Until that day I got hopelessly lost in the woods, I never even thought about finding myself.

"You look like the underside of a dirty couch cushion." "Excuse me?" "I mean, I really wanna shake you out."

Zombie butterflies. Just when I think I’ve killed all those stupid bugs that make my heart beat faster when you look at me, they come back. And this time they’re after my brain.

she resigned to the fact she would spend the entire night awake, and stripped to her underwear, opened the psychology textbook, got out that small stash of weed in her underwear drawer, and prepared to go to town.

The awkward silence around the dinner table after Maria spoke left her with a sudden urge to lift her arms and declare, 'And the Lord said, Let there be silence!'.

‎"Love..." he said, squirting the Purell gel on his almost rawly clean hands, "Has never seemed very interesting to me..." he rubbed his hands together obsessively, "...or very sanitary."

‎"Here's the thing," she said, taking her first step into the pool of color, "I don't want to make art. I want to drown in it."

In that moment of pleasure he forgot that he was a homophobic christian, and the hands running down his neck belonged to a boy in his english class.

They always tell me my shirts don’t match my pants, and I always say their actions don’t match their religion.

He acted different, he talked different, he looked different. He hung out with different people. But I didn't realize my best friend had become a stranger until the day I first noticed him typing with capital letters.

--Patti, Juliana, Christie, Mark, Lynn

Hypocrite

When a man hits you, my darling

Leave.

Don’t think about the money

You’re smart enough to make some on your own.

Don’t think about the love

Because what’s dead and cold is dead and cold

And there are more charming fish in the sea, 

So don’t settle for a low-life sushi.

Don’t think about the house, your clothes, the washing and drying machines

Materials will not make a family.

But think about your children, my darling.

Think about them in the way that I so often forget to think about you

And Brother

Think about who they will grow up to be

Think about how they will view love

And relationships

Think about it

Think about what you’re teaching your daughter to bare if you stay

To let a man hit her

To control her

To make her feel like she’ll never have another

Think about it, my darling, think about how your daugter would feel

having to cover up the bruises.

Think about it

Think about what you’re teaching your son to do if you stay

To control his women by force

To allow himself to be so frustrated

So self contemptful

So scared that he would take it out on another person’s body

Think about it, my darling, think about what your son would do

to a girl who never learned to leave.

Think about their children, my darling

Can you bare to be just another branch of the tree

Who wouldn’t leave?

I am sorry, my darling,

That I could never lead by example

That I chose a man who acted like a two year old

Who threw tantrums without knowing his own strength

And always aimed for the head.

I am so sorry, my darling,

That I am just another branch on the tree,

But I hope

That you realize that you are strong enough

To be the root

Of those who know how to leave.

Negative Four Hundred and Fifty-Nine Degrees Fahrenheit.

because, y'know, nothing can really mean everything.
you say there's nothing on that desk.

perhaps a stray scrap of paper,
maybe a thin piece of pencil lead,
or even an eraser shaving.
but nothing, essentially.

nothing is always everything.

that stray scrap of paper was from a larger piece of paper,
perhaps a piece of a love letter.
and that epitomal heartache one must always feel.
a teacher with their own story.
you got your paper from the store.
and the store got it from a processing plant,
and the processing plant got it from good ol' nature.
and a single molecule of carbon dioxide being absorbed by that tree.
and 7 billion others breathing that single molecule.
and nothing comes back to everything.

that extraneous piece of lead.
maybe that mechanical pencil was clicked with vehement intensity one too many times.
struggling to put down those three oh so complex words,
'I love you'.
and the last time you saw this heartthrob they turned away snobbishly,
the first time they turned in the same fashion,
and nothing has changed but you still feel the same.
and oh how it hurts.
every twinge of pain,
every needle of suffering,
every. single. twisted. word.
carving caverns into your brain,
oversimplifying the simple,
and nothing comes back to everything.

even those eraser shavings.
puny elongated strips of rubber.
rubbing away any pain,
any harm,
any hope.
and we say bye bye to those three words,
because you're a teenager.
you don't know what love is.
you probably can't even define it.
you're ridiculous.
you know it too.
you're wrong.
and those eraser shavings just prove it.
prove how reasonable you are.
prove that you know what is best.
and nothing comes back everything.

because nothing means everything.
I know what everything is.
I know what nothing is.
and I know how to differentiate the two.

so now you know to trust me when I say I feel absolutely nothing for you.

blood and faith in two different places.

"you want to know the truth? i don't trust her."

"oh no, you can't say that about your family!"

"i'm telling you, i don't trust her. i mean, i can trust her with the important things, like secrets and feelings. but money? no. make her do errands? no. i can't trust her to do anything i want her to do, and that bothers me."

"but that's how a lot of people are."

"i know. most other people act that way, i don't care. they can do whatever. they can do whatever they want to as long as it doesn't encroach on me. but she's family. because she's family, i hold her to my own moral standards. is that too much to expect? i know i'm not morally perfect, and whatever flaws i have, i cannot hold against her. but you know what she doesn't do that i do? she doesn't keep her word. she's not outright dishonest exactly, but when you lend her money, you have to badger her about it. otherwise, she money never makes its way back to you. and every time she goes out with her girlfriends, she tells you she'll be back at a certain time and always comes home late saying 'oh, i figured i only had to have left by then,' even though she definitely knew you told her you needed her home by that time. they're just little things like that, nothing huge, but all the same, they reflect her lack of integrity. and i don't know if it's naïve of me or what, but i do hold to my word. when i say i'll do something, i'll do it, and it really bothers me when other people don't do the same. i'm not talking about the empty polite offers people make all the time to be social, like 'oh, i'll call you later,' because both parties know it's not going to happen. i'm talking about actual promises where you're counting on the other person to really follow through. and if someone can't do that, i can't be close to that person. i won't stop relations or anything drastic, but i won't like them as much."

"but you can't just shut all these people out just because they don't do what you want them to do."

"i know, business is business. i realize that. but her? i'm just saying, i don't care that she's family; if she ever comes running to me because her lack of integrity gets her into any trouble, i am not going to give her any financial favors. moral support, sure. we can talk it out, discuss ideas. but i can't trust her with any real affairs."

"are you really sure about that?"

"i told you, if she doesn't have integrity, i can't trust her."

"you have no heart."

"you're right, maybe i don't."

Waiting

September 2, 1862

The sun shone hot above the sleepy town of Naperville, slowly withering the crops in the fields and drying out the puddles from last night’s storm. Mary sat on her porch in her lightest summer gown, listening to the cicadas’ buzzing tremolo and mending a pair of her husband’s socks. The heat was so intense it made waves on the horizon reflecting off the windows of the houses; even the horses in the streets seemed to beg for relief, too hot even to flick their tails to ward off flies. Mary barely noticed the heat, nor did she register the motion of the needle in her steady hands. Her mind was preoccupied: she was waiting for a letter.

Her son Robert had been gone for six months now, drafted to fight in the war against the rebels in the South. The mail trains came infrequently and the soldiers often had no time for letters, but Robert wrote to his mother as often as he could. Mary missed him dearly; he was her youngest child and her only son, just seventeen years old when the army came through town. Her other three daughters had each married farmers from neighboring towns, and although they came to visit as often as they could, it was nearing harvest time and there was work to be done at home. Now it was just Mary and her husband living in the old home by the river, maintaining their dairy farm and waiting for news about the war.

Mary did not know that her last letter from Robert sat on a table by the fireplace. She did not know she had read that letter many times already, and replied to it in depth. She knew nothing of the battle at Bull Run earlier that week, nothing of the Confederate bullet that had wounded her son, nothing of the surgeon that could not save him. Soon an officer would arrive by train with a flag and a grave face, informing Mary that she had joined the ranks of mothers who had lost a child to the war. Soon Mary would be surrounded by grieving friends and relatives reminding her that the President had said this war would not be without its sacrifices. Now, however, Mary sat on her porch in the late summer heat blissfully unaware of the dark events to come. She sat peacefully, contentedly, mending her husband’s sock and listening to the ever-present buzz of cicadas, waiting for a letter.

rachel.

rachel was the kind of girl who wanted only to know your favorite color and when your birthday was. when you asked, she told you she was twenty-seven, but it was impossible to tell. there was a certain sweet, childlike look in her countenance as she smiled at the world. amy, the teacher who had passed her to me just before leaving for college, had told me this student had down syndrome, but i hadn't expected this, not having worked with kids like her much before. then again, i had no idea what to expect.


ostensibly, each violin lesson commenced with scales, segued into a flashcard session, and ended with playing songs from her collection of music books. somewhere in between, a review of her practice log added up her total minutes spent practicing during the last week, and sometimes we would supplement the music with a CD of accompaniment tracks, if the book included one. for me, though, the true start of each lesson was from the moment i entered her house, unfailingly amazed by her perpetual smile upon seeing me. early on, i discovered that the best way to measure the time gone by were the questions and the stories. between unpacking my violin and tuning the strings, she would ask about how school was treating me, tell me where she was going for vacation soon. scales meant get-to-know-you questions, the kind that incite groans from most high school students but felt perfect here.


"what's your favorite color?"
"i don't know. blue, i guess. what's yours?"
"i really, really love pink. and purple. those are my favorite colors."
"yeah, those are great colors. that's really awesome! you ready to try the e major scale?"


by the time we reviewed her practice log, she was ready for more personal inquiries. "do you have a boyfriend?"
"i do have a boyfriend," i replied while adding up the total minutes she had practiced. as i told her his name and how he played in the orchestra like i did, i could feel her smile even as my eyes remained trained on the paper before me. switching the focus of the conversation back to her, i asked, "rachel, you said you have a boyfriend. what's his name?" eagerly, her lips spilled over with kyle, how they met in the seventh grade, how he did so many favors for her and her family. listening to her came too easily; i wished talking was the same. every thought i shared with her was spoken with a heartbeat's hesitation. i handed her the completed practice log and her new, empty one for next week. "ready for the next part of the lesson?"


during the flashcard session, it was my turn to ask questions. "here, what's this note?" i laid down a card with a single note printed onto the staff, the fifth or sixth of many. she considered it for a moment, decided on an answer. "is it C?" she looked at me. 
"yeah, you got it! that note is C!"
she giggled, eyes brightening. "C for christie, and that's you!" 
"it is indeed! here, what's the next card?"
"it's A."
i smiled at her. "that's right!"
"that's funny, A is for amy! A is for amy, C is for christie...it's like all my teachers have a note letter for their name." she paused. "i miss amy. but now i'm happy with you."


rachel had an entire tote bag of songbooks from which we played after exhausting the theory material for the day--there was a book for wicked, another full of the beatles' tunes, one devoted to music composed by john williams, and countless more filled with songs from various other movies and musicals. her favorite songs, though, were the love songs. "because we're both in lo-ove," she would coo. and i'd just smile to compensate for not knowing what to say, because i never went around proclaiming that i was in love. i didn't even know if i could honestly say that i loved my boyfriend, only that i was deeply attracted to him. all that i knew was that i was just old enough to know that i didn't have a definition for love yet. but rachel, this childlike girl who was eleven years my senior, was young enough to know that definitions didn't matter. she trusted in her happiness, and that was enough for her.


amy had advised me not only to be a teacher to rachel, but to be her friend as well. "well, rachel, it's time for me to go."
"aw man, not already! please stay."
"oh, i really want to. but i can't. my mom's waiting for me at home."
and as i packed my violin into its case, almost ready to return to junior year homework and family plans, i caught a twinge of regret tugging beneath my stomach, because oddly enough, i truly was sorry to leave. i hadn't expected myself to feel that way--not this soon, either. this was only our second lesson together. "but i'll see you again next week, right?"
"yes, next week! bye, christie!"


until next week, rachel. until next week.

Unconventional.

oh baby the way you walk.
you bounce those hips back and forth,
you spring from one step to the next,
you work those legs like you're on a catwalk,
oh baby you're beautiful.

and your face.
oh your face.
brilliant green eyes.
that green deep dark green of an alligator's skin.
but not dull,
oh not at all,
brilliant.
that dark green has a spark.
like your soul is trying to fight it's way out of you.
a thin, elegant, christian nose.
small ears trapped under a mass of thick blonde locks,
pursed lips wrapped in blood red lipstick,
nobody cares if you smudged a little on your teeth,
cause baby you're beautiful.

oh baby that fine figure.
your greatness reflected in every inch of that 6'2 frame.
large firm breasts portruding from your chest,
and wider
wider
and your hips.
long smooth and perfectly aligned.
a great flawless sumptuous rump,
and narrower
narrower
those lightning legs,
striking the ground with every step,
cushioned only by those small feet with the painted toes.
oh baby you're beautiful.

and they don't see you the way I do.
they don't get it.
they don't understand.
they're they and I'm me.
you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen.

but I don't know why.

New Home

November 1, 1886
“That’s her! It’s her!”
“Kannst du sie sehen?”
“I’ve never seen anything like her.”
“Sehr schön, sie ist sehr schön...”
“Bitte, Papa, I want a look!”
Henry pushed his way to the front of the crowds on the deck of the ship. After weeks on the overcrowded boat, he had finally arrived in New York Harbor, and Henry was impatient to see what all the fuss was about. He had waited for this day for eight long years, ever since he had sent his wife and children to live with his brother in America after the family’s Westphalian farm had been swept away in a flood. For eight long years he had worked odd jobs, roaming every corner of Germany to find employment where he could, writing to his family every week hoping they would finally be able to send for him. They had settled out west in a town called Naperville, a little farming village where they could live by the same ways as they had in Westphalia.

Henry knew his journey was nowhere near over: immigration officers awaited him at the mouth of the harbor, bringing days of paperwork and inspections, and after that a long journey by train to reunite with his family. But Henry did not mind. He knew he would never be a new American again, and more than anything he wanted to view his country for the first time. He shuffled to the railing on the deck of the boat to catch his first glimpse of the country, and as he gazed upon the harbor sparkling in the crisp fall day, what he saw astonished him.

It was a statue of a woman facing outwards from the harbor, hundreds of feet tall and gleaming in the faint November sun. Her enormous copper arm held a torch high above the city, as if lighting the immigrants’ way through the harbor. Some on the boat called her “Lady Liberty”; some wept at the sight of her, while some merely stood in awe. Henry felt a sudden pride for his new country and his new life; after eight long years of waiting and wishing and hoping, Lady Liberty, the sparkling queen of America, was finally welcoming him to a new home.

Eternity

The moon casts a shadow over the tallest tree in Maine
Two figures walk underneath the shadow and pause, feeling the darkness wrap around them

Safe
They think

And their held hands become held souls and the wrap themselves around each other

Gone
They think

They lose the notion of individual self and love just a little bit harder

Again
They think

It isn't the first time this shadow has cast insomniac circles under her eyes
Or the first time it's brought out the insanity of his smile

Tomorrow
They think

As twilight breaks he takes out his Swiss Army knife

Forever
He carves
In letters so skinny and fickle that she knows it can't be true

"Forever doesn't exist"
"Then let's imagine it"

The shadow is gone
The sun is there
And they run away from it
Two shadows in broad daylight.

obliviate.

edjo has always been good at matching names with faces. whenever he plays those get-to-know-you games at the beginning of every school year, he is always the first to be able to point at every single person in the room and rattle off the names correctly. people like him because he always remembers them, even if they've only met him once before. faces simply come naturally to him, the way numbers make sense to some people and the way words flow easily to others.

this explains his perplexion when, after turning the TV off one afternoon, he notices an old family photo in the living room and realizes that he cannot recall the name of the boy standing next to him. the ghost of a familiar ache tugs slightly at his gut. it tells him he should know this. two years ago, he would have known this face by heart, as if they had known each other forever. as if their connection had been as deep as blood, perhaps deeper in an indescribable way. as if the two had shared thoughts and instincts implicitly, without needing to say them aloud.

was he a brother? but his face, so similar to his own, registers nothing but grey fuzz in edjo's memory. the muted pain blankets over the old recollections so that the once-vivid images of the years past are lost in the muffling static of the white noise. the longer he looks, the more this stranger seems like nothing but a boy who looks almost exactly like himself, only that the eyes and nose are not quite right.

who was he? how did his voice sound like? how did he know him? why doesn't he remember him anymore?

what was his name? what was his name? what was his name?

when he cannot bear to gaze at the photograph any longer, he sets it back down to its place on the coffee table and goes the bathroom. as he washes his hands, he stares at the mirror, trying to remember the face of the boy he once knew better than himself. a faint, nameless frustration pounds at the white walls in his subconsciousness, but they are unyielding, silently crushing the pain and the memories until nothing remains but his own face in the reflection. by now, he has forgotten. he has completely forgotten.

he dries his hands and walks out, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Sally Sells Sea Shells

Sally's sitting on the swing set on Sunday

Just swinging back and forth and back and forth

She's only six years old, but she knows she knows everything

Because she knows that, contrary to popular belief, Santa Claus does exist

And contrary to what her sister Susan believes she knows that Mommy and Daddy are always right

And she knows that if she swings hard enough she can fly

Up

into the sky

Away from all the screaming

She's alone now

Just swinging

Susan's off in the bushes with her boyfriend

Looking for the rabbits

So she's swinging and swinging

So that she can fly up into the sky

Away from the screaming

And Daddy hitting Mommy

Because she knows that he's always right, but he's not always kind

And that's how she knows that, contrary to popular belief, her dad can't be Santa Claus

Now she's swinging and her feet are melting into the sunset and the earth is spinning sideways

And she knows that if she swings hard enough she can fly

All the way to the North Pole

She can feel her body lifting and she knows that she's gonna have to let go

So she closes her eyes and sees the world with Santa Claus

Where Mommy and Daddy are friends and Susan doesn't leave her for the rabbits in the bushes

She lets go

And she's flying

And the North Pole is only a couple of minutes away

And she just has to think about it hard enough.

But she opens her eyes

And as the sunset melts into the earth

She feels herself

Falling

And as she feels herself start to melt into the playground cement she hears Sally's scream

And for a moment she smiles, because she knows she'll never have to hear it again.

slam.

slam

this is poetry and it's about everything and anything

and you're just watching the words dribble from my mouth

slam

damn right, this isn't poetry, this is basketball

and you just got slam dunked

slam

somebody just shut the door

maybe it's our doctor bob in a stuffed wildcat suit

because willie mad

slam

it's probably a daddy

who doesn't love mommy anymore

slam

his palm, her face

his fists, her body

her body, the wall

slam

how does it feel like to be raped?

i bet it sounds like this

when all the breath is being crushed from your lungs

i bet it sounds like this

slam

i need to close the book

i cannot look anymore

slam

watch the walls come falling down.

Espresso Stories, 14 August 2011

Just keep telling yourself that you're crazy...that's the only way you'll know you're not.

She didn't think she was fat; she just wanted more than anything for there to be less of her.

Sometimes I feel like indigo: part of the rainbow, but always left out.

he was the greatest tease there ever was. the invisible dancer.

standing over his newborn child, he'd never felt more pregnant in his entire life.

"I could never marry a man who didn't give me a diamond," She said nonchalantly over their anniversary dinner. So he kept the plastic gum ball machine ring in his pocket, sadly realizing that she wasn't the girl for him.

She tied a scarf around her neck; it was a hot summer day, but she figured better a scarf that a noose.

I don't care what anyone else thinks, my momma says I'm pretty enough to be a prostitute.

The problem with living a lie is that often times, it becomes true.

never again will I trust someone who lists their occupation as a fudge packer.

a hole in the heart is easier to fix than a hole in the head.

dreams are born from pain: fluorescent colorful bombs waiting to explode with all of our hopes of escape.

People think that I don't take advantage of the sunny days, but they just don't understand that rainy is my favorite kind of weather.

I don't know whether to love or hate the fact that I will always be in love with you.

When my boyfriend calls you "faggit" and "homo", I will have him know that even though although he gropes these breasts he will never touch the heart within my chest because that will always be yours.

I'm writing you love letters with every word I say, and every look you give me back says "RETURN TO SENDER-- ADDRESS NOT FOUND".

You are not a dog, so when the world asks you to play dead while they strip away your morals and laugh at your humiliation you better well refuse.

The next time I wrap my arms around you I'll expect you to turn blue.

It's easy to fall to hell; good luck climbing back to heaven.

It had come to the point where the only warmth she ever got was the laundry, fresh out of the dryer.

--Julie, Patti, Mark, and Christie

Instructions for Greatness

Everything you do,
do it to the utmost.
Do it to the very reaches of your ability--
do it covered in cuts and bruises,
gasping for breath,
muscles screaming for release as you forge ahead.

Do it as you would a battle with a mortal enemy--
do it leaving every obstacle bleeding on the ground from a hundred places,
beaten into a quivering Jell-O salad from the force of your effort.

Do it with sweat pouring from your brow,
heart pounding in your ears,
all neurons firing full blast as you race across the finish line,
screaming "Yes! I have done it! I have done it--

Or it is not worth doing.

--Patti

Clocks

I don't have time
I don't have time
I don't have time

I'm like the White Rabbit
Running running
Cause I'm late, I'm late
For a very important date

And that date is my future
That date is college and education and the very foundation of who I am
But I'm late I'm late

I'm always late and I can't keep up with these
tests
and home work
and MUN
and Religion
and TOK
and basketball

What am I dribbling?
And what team am I dribbling for, again?
I'm so lost
so confused
I don't know where I'm going
but I know I'm late getting there.

yeah
I'm like the White Rabbit
but I haven't found my Wonderland.

Bubbles.

hot water flushed into the plastic tub.
ricocheting off of the bottom and splurting against the sides.
whilst the tub filled, a male of around 17 years gathered his necessities.

Razor
Cell Phone
Towel
Bubble Bath

he put them all on the sill beside the bathtub.

he took a pair of scissors from the drawer beneath the sink and cut away a long 1-inch strip from the towel,
putting the strip on the sill and leaving the rest on the floor.
he stripped slowly,
pulling off each garment carefully before throwing it into the corner of the room opposite the bathtub.

once completely naked, he checked the water.
steam was billowing from the bathtub,
hot water filling up three quarters of the tub.
he turned off the hot faucet.

he dipped his big toe in and recoiled instantly, finding the water far too hot.
he turned on the cold faucet.
after about 30 seconds or so, he dipped his toe into the water again.
still too hot.
another 30 seconds.
another dip.
and perfect.

he poured in a sizable amount of bubble bath and watched bubbles pop up all over the water's surface.

his body seemed to slip into the water.

he submerged himself beneath the surface,
letting the water curl into every crevice of his cracked being.
1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9...10
upon rising, a mound of bubbles swarmed into his mouth.
he spluttered.

he never took baths without bubbles.
they were pretty white pearls in the water.
the bubbles covered him up.
shielding the world, and himself, from what he hated.

he lifted the strip of towel from the sill and wrapped it around his mouth,
tying it at the back of his head.
gagging him.

next he eyed his razor.
a fine metal blade.
he eyed it curiously, as if it were capable of actually causing pain.

he let his arm, razor in hand, fall into the water.

he sank deeper below the water, until water trickled up his nostrils.
he closed his eyes and bit the rag in his mouth tightly.
he drew the blade across his wrist.

he arched his head, his eyes clasped tightly together,
a muffled grunt broke from his mouth.
he dared only open his eye a fraction.
the bubbles were turning crimson.
he groaned.

the second cut wasn't as bad.
the third even better.
they all blended together after a while.
before long he was sinking deeper in to the carmine ocean.
unaware of time, emotion, pain, anything.
and why should he have been.
he was alone in life and he deserved loneliness in death.

he sank beneath the surface for the last time,
his body invisible and immovable.
laid to rest.

he was normal, they would say.
he was a good kid, they would say.

nevertheless,
he was in that bathtub until the last bubble popped.

Alone

"It's not that you're dreaming, you know...it's just that you were never really awake..."

"If I'm not awake, then I have to be dreaming...what you're saying is a just a paradox."

"Well, you were  born into a coma, babe. Maybe in the real world right now you're parents are silently hoping that you'll wake up in a sterile, white hospital bed."

"That's impossible. You can't be born into a coma."

"Well, you'll never know, will you? You'll never know anything about the real world. Not if you don't wake up."

"I am awake!  Jesus, can't you just be normal for once. I wouldn't be able to make this up in my head. Make you up, make me up, make up this meadow, that rainbow, those horses."

"Maybe you're parents read to you everyday. They read stories about meadows and horses and girlfriends. If you're brain is stimulated, it'll respond, you know."

"What, are they reading science journals to you."

"Oh no, I'm just a part of a book. They're reading science journals to you. They are your parents, after all."

"You're being ridiculous, let's just enjoy this day. It's freaking perfect, you know...and days like these are rare, here, in the real world, where we live...the real world. Not the one I made up."

"That's just the problem, see, it's always been today."

the 30-year old mexican farmer man.

Chico, I have always been a farmer, si, a wheat farmer—wheat and sometimes soybeans. Ever since I was a little boy, I would plant the grain at seeding time and collect the grain at harvest time in the spring and the fall with Mama and Papa and all my brothers and sisters. Oh, those were the good times, back when the government paid us good money for our wheat here in our corner of the Yaqui Valley in Mexico. Papa says they gave us thirty percent subsidy, but I do not remember—I was hardly ten back then. As I grew into a man, I spent my youth years doing what all youths do when not working at the fields, si. I learned cards, I drank with the other men, I set my eye on the prettiest girl of all of las chicas on the next farm…ay, her smile was as golden as the wheat fields at harvest time! But work was harder, and everybody felt it. One year, when I was ten or twelve, the price of fertilizer went up, and it did not go back down—the fertilizer subsidy eliminated, they said. That was in the 1990’s. Before I was twenty, the fertilizer price was over fifty percent more expensive than what we were paying before. But it didn’t end there, no señor. The government also wanted the ejidos to own more of the land—small plots were inefficient, they said. My family, we were lucky enough to buy out some more land to survive, but some of the neighboring farms didn’t make it; they got bought out within a few years. What’s more, the price of water for irrigating the fields went up by more than half, too. Fortunately, the price of our wheat rose too, and that helped pay for some of the growing costs. The girl that I had eyed for so long eventually married another boy, but soon I found a nice girl from another nearby farm, and we married. Meanwhile, though, droughts drained the supply of irrigation water, and we spent more and more money on fertilizer as per government instruction to modernize our farming techniques. Today, I am thirty years of age. The farm makes more wheat than ever, yet growing it has become so expensive that my wife, my children, and myself are barely getting by.

This free trade that the Mexican government has embraced may be good for them, but it is not good for me. First, they make our necessities more expensive by eliminating subsidies so that the prices of fertilizer and water increase by more than half, then they fix up the ownership of the land so that all of our old neighbors are gone now and the ejidos rule the Yaqui Valley, the landscape changed. They make us do all of this in the name of modernized agriculture; they say it is for the good of the country, but frankly, I find it hard to see the good when I produce more wheat than I ever have before, only to get less money per bushel in return every year since the increase of wheat on the market drives the prices lower and lower. It is unfair that we must compete with America’s low grain prices since American farms get so much money in subsidy for their production. They absolutely flood the market with their cheap wheat. But in the end, are we better off than before free trade changed the way the government wanted us to farm? No señor. Overall, the family is making more money than before thanks to the increase wheat exports, but the work is hard and the pay is still not enough, especially with all the children to support. My wife and I wish we could send them to university, but ay, that is a daydream. We are living from season to season, and there are still harvests that cause us to lose money. The fertilizer and the water for irrigation are as expensive as ever. The price for irrigating the fields will most likely increase in the future, too, because droughts render the water supply inconsistent. Even when it rains, weather that is too warm also produces smaller crops, reducing my income for the season. The vast amounts of nitrogen fertilizer might also be unhealthy for the fields—my family never used this much before—but the government wants more wheat to export, and I do not have time to worry about how these farming techniques will affect me in the long-term. My main concern is producing enough wheat for the next season.

I hear that perhaps, America will have to eliminate their farm grain subsidies, or at least make them lower. If that happens, then grain prices will be higher, the way they should be. Then we will be making the profit that we deserve so that our farm may prosper on the global market without any unfair advantages on any country’s part. Our dream would be to save enough money to send one of our children to a college to get a degree and a better job. Our eldest one, Esperanza, is studying hard. She hopes to get a scholarship, and it puts a smile on my face when she tells me that, but when we are pinching pesos here and there in a struggle to gather the money for application fees, it is hard to hope. Perhaps college is still too far-fetched of a dream. Right now, while the government’s agricultural and export policies still hurt us because of free trade, I have few choices. If fortune smiles upon my farm, I may be able to obtain more land and produce more wheat to trade. If not, perhaps my family will move to the city or move to America, wherever we might be able to succeed the most. I hear that America is not such a good place to live in because of the recession.

But hey, chico, I figure that what goes, goes.