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Saturday, December 31, 2011
Espresso Stories of December!
Expresso Stories of November
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Breaking Down
"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.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
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
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Hypocrite
Friday, September 9, 2011
Negative Four Hundred and Fifty-Nine Degrees Fahrenheit.
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.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
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."
Friday, September 2, 2011
Waiting
Thursday, September 1, 2011
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.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Unconventional.
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.
Friday, August 26, 2011
New Home
“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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Eternity
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.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Sally Sells Sea Shells
Monday, August 15, 2011
slam.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Espresso Stories, 14 August 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Instructions for Greatness
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
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Clocks
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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Bubbles.
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.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Alone
"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."
Saturday, August 6, 2011
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.