The old man slammed his fist down on the dainty Formica tabletop, unnerving the peaceful aura of the small coffee-shop. “Damn-it…! What do you mean? — Over use of dashes, you turd nozzle. I like writing with dashes. It’s rooted in the very essence of my own persona, you need them to know where to pause, — for emphasis!”

Jace looked at the older man and knew he was kidding. Ben may have looked angry to anyone else, but the younger man could read him, well, like a book. He smiled slightly at the mental pun. Enjoying the coffee, his companion, the books they had written, and the banter that was to come.

Ben kept his scowl and brought his coffee to his lip. Jace stared at in disgust. Probably some pansy latte heavy on the sugar and whipped cream and lacking any true substance.

Once the older man took his sip the grey of his beard gained some white, said beaten cream nestled into the thick facial hair. Ben didn’t seem to care, which was normal. This was a man that when he was in his mid-forties told people his was 50, because reasons and stuff.  He cared little of the opinion of others, save for Jace’s and few choice friends, which, he really did have any? Jace didn’t mind, he happened to be in the same shitty boat.

“Don't get pissed at me, I am just saying what they said at the writers group.” Jace stared at the wooden slab that made up their current beverage supporter. He decided to take his first swing in the coming battle of words. A flicker of thought dashed through his mind and elicited a smiled. “And stop beating the wood counter — or any wood in general for the matter. Though, this is pine and thus a soft wood. And while you may have experience trying to beat soft wood, don’t do so in public—or in my presence.” He waited, unsure as if he went too far. Did the jab cross the line? But Jace chuckled; it was something he could never resist. His mind and mouth did have a habit getting ahead of his good sense. It was something he had learned from Ben.

There he goes with the old fart jokes. Chip off the old block! Bring it. “Hey—I will have you know I have plenty of experience working soft wood,— especially with exotics. But this is fake wood,—— laced with formaldehyde. You know? Embalming fluid, just like your sex life. And if I need to pound something right NOW. Let’s go out back.”

Jace saw Ben smile ever so slightly. Barely a blip on older man’s façade of fury, but there none-the-less. Jace took this as encouragement and went on. “You-know,— you’re kind-a’ a douche bag since you stopped consuming gluten. This is what happens when you can't have a proper beer.”

“Real men drink hard-cider —wuss. You and that amber colored armadillo piss you call a beverage.” The old man barked back. “When’s the last time you caught a buzz off that shit anyway,” he smirked taking a sip of his caramel frap.

Jace shook his head. He drank cheap beer, he knew it. When one had to buy beer on a budget and had to choose between quality and getting a buzz economically, anyone with a shine of good sense drank it. Besides, Jace knew his beer tasted like crap, not piss, slight deference in his mind, not necessarily a good one, but still. He took a sip of his coffee.  “And how precisely do you know the flavor of armadillo urine? That is also an odd comparison considering how closely apple cider appears piss like. Besides, I drink Steel Reserve, 8.1 alcohol by volume, thank you very much. A buzz is easy, and the flavor, while not tainted with urine is okay once you get past the taste.”

“Yeah, I saw a documentary on the brewing of that shit; they had a room full of them armored leathery rodents pissin’ in the vats.  …That’s why it’s hard to get past the taste.—8.1—— Lightweight, probably get wasted on less than a can.”

“I would hate to see your google history. Where did you see this fabled documentary? Netflix? If so, your Netflix's suggestions for what to watch must be really weird.”

“Yeah, Your momma!”

Jace snorted mid-coffee sip. "You are absolutely NOT allowed to say yo’ momma."

“Oh,—— yeah.” Now, here comes the long winded blah, blah, blah — his mom being a virgin and all! Snicker

“Yeah. The purpose of a yo’ momma joke is to impugn the reputation of one’s mother and imply a diddling, usually in rather dirty manner, that would be otherwise unlikely.”

“My point exactly?” Now I’m going to be too white. Chuckle.

“Namely, you being way too old and way too white for yo’ momma jokes? My biggest issue with the whole you and the yo’ mommas is the fact my mother is your wife and thus a diddling, nasty or otherwise, which—eww — is a forgone conclusion therefore defeating the whole point of your — yo’ momma rebuttal.”

“I think it hammered my point quite well.”

“Certainly, five times at the very least.”

“So in forty years of marriage I’ve only yo’ momma’d five time? Right?

“Again, ewww. Insertion of thoughts that involve you and mom commingling harm my innocent little brain.”

“Hmmm, — by your logic, you’ve only been lucky three times? Must be a side effect of armadillo piss.”

“I am 35 years old, I am absolutely NOT discussing my sex life with you. Besides, it is a little late for the 'talk'.”

“When mommy’s and daddy’s love each other very very much —— they get nasty!” He burst out laughing. “The sweat, grunting, weird fart sounds…”

Jace smacked him hard enough to make spilling coffee a real concern.

Ben got serious,—— for him anyway. “Fine—— enough, — I just don't understand why they didn't seem to like what I wrote.”

“They liked it; they just had a few suggestions.”

“Well, —— Bob hated it.”

“But Bob only likes stuff that is written the way he writes. He thinks writing should all be done the same. No room for creative flair. Besides, didn‘t you hear the suggestions they have for my stuff. Apparently, I overused passive voice. Whatever the hell that means — speaking of things that harm my little brain.”

“You do use passive voice a lot.”

“So what? I care little for that, I have my reasons.”

“Look, passive voice is like beating around the bush instead of getting to the point. Your wife probably loves this about you, but in the world of most writers, they believe you need to write in active voice. Get to the point immediately: like premature ejaculation, self-gratification without concern for both reader,—— and narrator,— on the journey together. Most just lap up active voice thinking after the fact. But a blend in a good narrative can unite reader and narrator,—— build anticipation,——feeling the emotion. Knowing when to change it up and go in with active voice will peak the reader waiting for the hammer to drive the point home. Personally, I think there’s room for both. Good writing is more than just telling a story, it can be a beautiful journey that brings both reader and narrator gratification.”

“I understand that, truly. Which is why I use passive voice at times as an interjection of the narrator’s thoughts on a matter. Or, a reflective thought of a first person perspective. I sometimes use it like an 80’s action star dropping a bad pun before killing a bad guy. Just slamming short clip sentences of action is tedious and lacks flair. There is nothing wrong with changing things up mid flow. Throwing in a bit of the fluctuation on pitch, pace, and power can make the climax better.” Jace looked away from his dad and stared at his coffee. “Can we get off the sex analogies; this has traveled far beyond wired and uncomfortable.”

“What? Just talkin’ normal here —— trying to plug the whole with a filler you can package and deliver to a stiff audience. Or, maybe I need to stroke it a-little more to get that head of your’s to sink into the beauty of rhythm and balance with a dramatic dash of peaks and ——climaxes. I’m just sayin’...”

The older man was on a roll, but Jace really wanted to change the subject. I know how to change the bad puns.— “Your dashes shock people. They’re not use to them. To most people they’re an archaic form of punctuation that went the way of our forefathers.”

“They’re not archaic!” Ben was passionate about his perspective of punctuation and it came through his voice inflections. “The true value and individual writing flare that can be expressed through the correct use of punctuation, like our forefathers used it,— has been lost. The only way society can regain the power of individual expression is through the full use of the punctuation tools available. And the only way for people to see it — is by exposure.—— The tools have to be seen.

“But it’s fallen out of favor. People don‘t like it!”

“People don’t like it, because they’ve been taught you don’t need them. But the teaching is wrong! There are so many ways to express a thought in the English language, but people are being limited in they’re individual expressions. The individual expression shown through pitch, pace and power; time and emphasis. All of these things can be relayed through punctuation.”

“Well at least the bad sex analogies are over,” Jace chuckled. He could see the twinkle in his old man’s eyes through his father's stone cold façade.

“What sex analogies?” 

Written by @Andrometa and @Iseun1 (Jeremy you are a saint for doing this with me thanks so so much!)

To Be Blunt

Trudging into the cafe, Ethan wasn’t all there, but it was a Friday night, and there was nothing he wanted more after getting stoned than a double espresso shot with something sugary. He nodded at the clerk, who wished him luck for his recital today, but all Ethan wanted to do was crash and burn the same way he did when he lit his very first blunt that same morning.

***

Jeremy leaned onto the table, head on hand, and stared lazily at the scribblings on his yellow note pad. He crossed out this and that trying to make sense of his rambling. Hopeless. Sometimes the words just didn’t come together. He sometimes found that a Haiku would shift him back into the right mindset. He scratched one down quickly, hoping for some magic juice to flow.

Your poems are shit

They are not interesting

And they bore people

Jeremy sunk further down in his chair. Life just seemed to be working against him.

What is that smell? He thought. It was subtle from afar, but immediately distinct to those who knew it. He turned to see Ethan walk away from the counter, espresso in hand.

***

“Hey there dude,” Ethan smiled. Or, he remembered trying to smile. “Long time no see.” He sat down across from Jeremy and shook hands, hoping the faint smell of pot wasn’t so apparent. Jeremy smiled back.

“Yeah mate, it’s been forever,” His hand rested on his yellow notepad.

“Yo, you still carry that thing around? That’s amazing! That must mean you are gonna perform tonight, right?” Jeremy shrugged.

“We’ll see,” He sighed. Ethan nodded. They sit in silence for a time. Ethan tries to ignore the scalding his tongue is receiving, while also ignoring the violent trembling his hand is getting from the caffeine with no food. The MC goes to the mic after what seems like forever.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s poetry slam. We don’t usually do it on Friday nights, but we have two very special readers who could only make it tonight, so thank you all for coming,” Applause. Ethan’s stomach lurches.

“Now, first up. He came in from Pennsylvania to be here. A youngster, but he has potential. Let’s hear it for Ethan!” A polite applause ripples across the crowd as Ethan nods to Jeremy, then shuffles over to the mic. The lights are dim, but Ethan still squints, his voice shakes, but he holds his own.

“So, initially tonight, I was going to do a recitation of Sweetness by Stephen Dunn. But I don’t want to do that anymore.” The audience chuckled a little. “I decided, that if I was going to drive 3 and a half hours to a city to spend only an hour there, it would be on my terms. So, this poem, will exemplify said feelings and... some other themes.” He takes a step back from the mic.

If you ever want my advice:

Don’t do what you want.

Don’t allow yourself the luxury

To fall in love with whomever you please,

Because your heart will be drug along

With guys versus girls,

And one or two or five secret dates,

Or those awkward moments when

You realized you fucked someone over

Because you did what you wanted,

And nothing for them.

If you ever want my advice:

Get at most 3 hours of sleep a day,

So when people see the empty look

You carry with you all the time,

You don’t have to lie and say your cat died,

Or it was a rough night at work.

Your cat can’t keep dying every day,

And your salary is very good, so just stop.

I can’t take the lies, the avoidance, it’s sick.

If you ever want my advice:

Ignore the first two pieces of advice I gave you.

Do whatever your heart desires

Carpe fucking diem, the world is yours.

Lie about how fine you are, when we all can see

Otherwise that you are deader than Mr. Whiskers.

But at 3 am, when you meet your real self again,

Don’t say I didn’t warn you beforehand.

Ethan bows slightly, and walks back to Jeremy’s table.

* * *

The lights dimmed as Ethan recited. Jeremy was still gazing at the page but the lines grew apart and doubled and his vision grew hazy. He sat back in his chair, arms folded and heard words being spoken. Words that wriggled on a line cast into the ocean of coffee splattered pages, where wordsmiths swam and waited, hoping beyond hope to be baited.

“So when people see the empty look

You carry with you all the time

You don’t have to lie…”

Jeremy was hooked. Each line more he felt the haze lift. The clouds in his mind seemed to disperse, and a way forward became clear as if a sweet song played by the piper guided him out from his forest prison.

The thought was sudden. He was working on the wrong poem. He swiftly paged through his notepad until he found what he was looking for. The finishing touch.

Ethan finished and descended the few steps to ground floor. There was a hearty applause, one Jeremy was eager to add to, but he could only bare to give a brief clap between his vigorous scrawling.

The MC came back on stage. “That was splendid, Ethan, very fine indeed”

The MC trailed on as Ethan sat down next to Jeremy, who smiled at him. Ethan took a sip of his espresso and gave a polite nod to the MC. Jeremy was still smiling at him

“What?” said Ethan, uncomfortable with this sudden unblinking attention.

“Thank you” was all Jeremy responded.

The MC continued. “Our next reader took some time off cooking ‘shrimps on the barbie’ to be with us tonight, so a big G’day to him.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes.

“Please welcome Jeremy to the stage”

Jeremy was already up and walking to the platform. He adjusted the mic slightly.

“I’m going to follow in Ethan’s footsteps here and detour from what was originally planned. You see, I’ve been stuck. I’ve been stuck for longer than I care to say. I knew if I could only write it, let it out, it would get better. But the words have evaded me for months. Listening to Ethan just now, I was struck with inspiration and now finally, the poem’s complete. This is called, Let it End”

I don’t know how to stop caring

Every thought just comes back to that moment

And everything that lead up to it

You got what you wanted

I’m left with what remained

A broken, bleeding mess

That out of nothing still spurts sorrow

Seeps the marrow of broken pride

Leaks the forgotten memories where I struggled and tried

And sucks the meaning from what’s left behind

And these few months later

The wound is still only loosely sutured

Because for some god damn reason

I can’t bring myself to let it go

It’s like a disease on the brain

That over time spreads and deepens

Until I got to that point

Where it’s just a constant numb fucking feeling

That digs deeper, tumbling, reeling

Succumbing to rock bottom, bowing down and kneeling

I’ve been so down for so long

And anger is so loud in my head, I couldn’t hear me

The real me inside that was crying

Yelling, ear-splitting screaming “JEREMY!”

Just sit still a moment and listen, dear me

You’re so frightened to be still and hear me

Just thinking about it still makes you teary

You’re the only one who cares now,

Honey, sweetie

This road leads only to catastrophe

So give it up.

That’s enough. Let it go.

No thought or tear is being shed for you

You’re chained to and drag a mighty weight

With which you’ve always held the key

Why haul something of no value?

That piercing, rippling red dusk descends

Release all of it, including your no-longer friends

With only your best wishes, you’ll send

Let it end, Jeremy, let it end.

* * *

Ethan wiped his eyes, not sure if he was still emotionally and mentally distraught, or if Jeremy’s voice, presence and words just cut him up. Jeremy headed rather modestly to the table, only to be met by the embrace of Ethan, who held his face between his hands. Ethan’s smile was wide, and the mix of coffee-pot breath was mingled with the pure happiness escaping from his lips.

“Dude,” He said. “Just dude. That right there was my whole life coming out of your mouth.”

Jeremy sputtered, and Ethan apologized and let go of him.

“Thanks mate,” He smiled. “Since you’re in town, you should stop by my place. We got some catching up to do.” Ethan nodded, but avoided his gaze.

“I don’t know yet, man.” said Ethan. “Things are...complicated these days.”

Jeremy made a face. “Still?”

Ethan sighed. They stood quietly for a moment, just looking at each other. Another person was already up on stage.

Jeremy puts a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, squeezing a little. “Take care my friend, you know where to find me.” Jeremy leaves, and Ethan takes his seat. The poem the young woman was reciting was Epilogue, by Robert Browning, Ethan recalled.

“Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!

What had I on earth to do

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?

Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel

—Being—who?”

Being who? He thought. He didn’t know. All he could say for sure, is that the someone he has missed for so long just walked out the door, and Ethan was not mistaken.

"collaboration:  a traitorous cooperation with an enemy"- Webster's Dictionary

"Whole milk?" oh, 

This barista temptress

The enemy!

A latte with whole milk?  

Indulgence!

"No," I hang my head

Catholic shame

(Redundant?)

Vegan conviction

"Coconut milk"

--please, pleas--

Resignation

Self-admiration

No collusion

Collaboration

A collaboration with Broken-Toe.

      The old man slammed his fist down on the dainty Formica table top, unnerving the peaceful aura of the small coffee-shop. “Damn-it…! What do you mean? — ‘Over use of dashes,’ you turd nozzle. I like writing with dashes. It’s rooted in the very essence of my own persona, you need them to know where to pause, — for emphasis!”

      Jace looked at the older man and knew he was kidding. Ben may have looked angry to anyone else, but the younger man could read him, well, like a book. He smiled slightly at the mental pun. Enjoying the coffee, his companion, the books they had written, and the banter that was to come.

      Ben kept his scowl and brought his coffee to his lip. Jace stared at in disgust. ‘Probably some pansy latte heavy on the sugar and whipped cream and lacking any true substance.’

      Once the older man took his sip the grey of his beard gained some white, said beaten cream nestled into the thick facial hair. Ben didn’t seem to care, which was normal. This was a man that when he was in his mid-forties told people his was 50, ‘because reasons and stuff.’ He cared little of the opinion of others, save for Jace’s and few choice friends, ‘which he really didn’t have.’ Jace didn’t mind, he happened to be in the same shitty boat.

      “Don't get pissed at me, I am just saying what they said at the writers group.” Jace stared at the wooden slab that made up their current beverage supporter. He decided to take his first swing in the coming battle of words. A flicker of thought dashed through his mind and elicited a smiled. “And stop beating the wood counter — or any wood in general for the matter. Though, this is pine and thus a soft wood. And while you may have experience trying to beat soft wood, don’t do so in public—or in my presence.” He waited, unsure as if he went too far. 'Did the jab cross a line?' But Jace chuckled, it was something he could never resist. His mind and mouth did have a habit getting ahead of his good sense. It was something he had learned from Ben.

      ‘There he goes with the old fart jokes. Chip off the old block! Bring it.’ “Hey—I will have you know I have plenty of experience working soft wood,— especially with exotics. But this is fake wood, laced with formaldehyde. You know? Embalming fluid, just like your sex life. And if I need to pound something right NOW. Let’s go out back.”

      Jace forced shuddered. “Okay you big dork. We have a slight problem, that last little bit comes off a little creepy and weird, seeming to suggest an unwanted tryst.”

      Jace saw Ben smile ever so slightly. Barely a blip on older man’s façade of fury, but there none the less. Jace took this as encouragement and went on. “You-know,— you’re kind-a’ a douche bag since you stopped consuming gluten. This is what happens when you can't have a proper beer.”

      “Real men drink hard-cider —wuss. You and that amber colored armadillo piss you call a beverage.” The old man barked back. “When’s the last time you caught a buzz off that shit anyway,” he smirked taking a sip of his caramel frap.

      Jace shook his head. He drank cheap beer, he knew it. When one had to buy beer on a budget and had to choose between quality and getting a buzz economically, anyone with a shine of good sense drank what he did. Besides, Jace knew his beer tasted like crap, not piss, slight deference in his mind, not necessarily a good one, but still. He took a sip of his coffee. “And how precisely do you know the flavor of armadillo urine? That is also an odd comparison considering how closely apple cider appears piss like. Besides, I drink Steel Reserve, 8.1 alcohol by volume, thank you very much. A buzz is easy, and the flavor, while not tainted with urine is okay once you get past the taste.

     “Yeah, I saw a documentary on the brewing of that shit, they had a room full of them armored leathery rodents pissin’ in the vats. …That’s why it’s hard to get past the taste.—8.1—— Lightweight, probably get wasted on less than a can.”

     “I would hate to see your google history. Where did you see this fabled documentary? Netflix? If so, your Netflix's suggestions for what to watch must be really weird.”

      “Yeah, Yo’ momma!”

      Jace snorted mid-coffee sip. "You are absolutely NOT allowed to say yo’ momma."

      “Oh,—— yeah.” 'Now, here comes the long winded blah, blah, blah — his mom being a virgin and all! ' Ben did his level best to contain a rebellious snicker.

      “Yeah. The purpose of a yo’ momma joke is to impugn the reputation of one’s mother and imply a diddling, usually in rather dirty manner, that would be otherwise unlikely.”

      “My point exactly?” 'Now I’m going to be too white.'  He let loose a small chuckle.

      “Namely, you being way too old and way too white for yo’ momma jokes? My biggest issue with the whole you and the yo’ mommas is the fact my mother is your wife and thus a diddling, nasty or otherwise, which—eww — is a forgone conclusion, therefore defeating the whole point of your yo’ momma rebuttal.

      “I think it hammered my point quite well.”

      “Certainly, five times at the very least.”

      “So in forty years of marriage I’ve only yo’ momma’d five time?” Ben looked up into space like his was doing mental math. “Doesn't seem right. Had to be at least twice that.”

      “Again, ewww. Insertion of thoughts that involve you and mom commingling harm my innocent little brain.”

      “Hmmm, — by your logic, you’ve only been lucky three times? Must be a side effect of armadillo piss.”

      “I am 35 years old, I am absolutely NOT discussing my sex life with you. Besides, it is a little late for the ‘talk‘.”

      “When mommy and daddy’s love each other very very much —— they get nasty!” He burst out laughing. “The sweat, grunting, weird fart sounds…”

      Jace smacked him hard enough to make spilling coffee a real concern.

      Ben got serious,—— for him anyway. “Fine—— enough, — I just don't understand why they didn't seem to like what I wrote.”

      “They liked it; they just had a few suggestions.”

      Ben looked dejected. “Well, —— Bob hated it.”

      “But Bob only likes stuff that is written the way he writes. He thinks writing should all be done the same. No room for creative flair. Besides, didn‘t you hear the suggestions they have for my stuff. Apparently, I overused passive voice. Whatever the hell that means — speaking of things that harm my little brain.”

      Ben smiled and poked the younger man playfully. “You do use passive voice a lot.”

      Jace shrugged. “So what? I care little for that, I have my reasons.”

      “Look, passive voice is like beating around the bush instead of getting to the point. Your wife probably loves this about you, but in the world of most writers, they believe you need to write in active voice. Get to the point immediately: like premature ejaculation, self-gratification without concern for both reader,—— and narrator,— on the journey together. Most just lap up active voice thinking after the fact. But a blend in a good narrative can unite reader and narrator,—— build anticipation,——feeling the emotion. Knowing when to change it up and go in with active voice will peak the reader waiting for the hammer to drive the point home. Personally, I think there’s room for both. Good writing is more than just telling a story, it can be a beautiful journey that brings both reader and narrator gratification.”

      Jace was nodding. “I understand that, truly. Which is why I use passive voice at times as an interjection of the narrator’s thoughts on a matter. Or, a reflective thought of a first person perspective. I sometimes use it like an 80’s action star dropping a bad pun before killing a bad guy. Just slamming short clip sentences of action is tedious and lacks flair. There is nothing wrong with changing things up mid flow. Throwing in a bit of the fluctuation on pitch, pace, and power can make the climax better.” Jace looked away from his dad and stared at his coffee. “Can we get off the sex analogies; this has traveled far beyond weird and uncomfortable.”

      “What? Just talkin’ normal here —— trying to plug the whole with a filler you can package and deliver to a stiff audience. Or, maybe I need to stroke it a-little more to get that head of your’s to sink into the beauty of rhythm and balance with a dramatic dash of peaks and ——climaxes. I’m just sayin’...”

      “Perhaps you are too thick or too puffed up to get the thrust of what I am saying.” Jace sighed. ‘You know what, I refuse to continue participating.’ The older man was on a roll, but Jace really wanted to change the subject and he knew exactly how to do it. “Your dashes shock people. They’re not use to them. To most people they’re an archaic form of punctuation that went the way of our forefathers.”

       “They’re not archaic!” Ben was passionate about his perspective of punctuation and it came through his voice inflections. His voice became forceful enough that little bits of whipped cream were ejected from his beard. “The true value and individual writing flare that can be expressed through the correct use of punctuation, like our forefathers used it,— has been lost. The only way society can regain the power of individual expression is through the full use of the punctuation tools available. And the only way for people to see it — is by exposure.—— The tools have to be seen.

      “But it’s fallen out of favor. People don‘t like it, partly because they don’t understand.”

      “People don’t like it, because they’ve been taught you don’t need them. But the teaching is wrong! There are so many ways to express a thought in the English language, but people are being limited in that individual expression. The actual individual expression shown the pitch, pace and power; time and emphasis. All of these thing can be relayed through punctuation.”

       “Why are you explaining these things to me? I know them, I understand them, and most importantly, I agree with them.” Jace looked around the coffee shop intently. Appearing not finding what he searched for, he glanced at his father. “It is almost like you are trying to justify yourself to a presence that is not here.”

      Ben scowled. “What do you call your little speech about passive poopy pants?”

      The young man smiled. “I have every right to justify myself to the not present presence.” His face took on a stern quality. “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

      Jace took a sip of his coffee. “Well, at least the bad sex analogies are over.”

      Ben looked confused, as if unsure as to the meaning of the statement. “What sex analogies?”

      Jace smiled and shook his head, for he saw a twinkle creased in the old man’s eyes.

The hardest part is staring at a blank screen and trying to put down the first word you're going to write. You've got to do it. Just make a decision. How are you going to start your kick-ass book?

Well, that's where I was, Wanda Malcolm, sitting at Pete's coffee shop as I did every morning with my laptop and hoping for inspiration. And hoping. And hoping. I don’t know why I kept doing it; it wasn’t like anything new or exciting happened in this Starbucks-clone of a place, and nothing tremendously new or exciting ever came off my screen. But I knew great writers went to coffee shops, and even though I was a tea drinker, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

The door opened frequently at the 8:00 hour, as people rushed through on their way to work and school. There were a lot of regulars. I didn’t know any of their names, but I knew how they they’d order, most of them the exact same thing every time. There was the high school teacher who would always get a Café Americano, with a double shot of espresso; I guess she needed all that caffeine to keep up with the students in her classes. There were the business types – suit, tie, and slick shoes – who’d go for the dark roast, and always buy the largest size in which it would come. There were even the ’tweens (though most came after school) who’d come in with their eyes glued to their phones and go for the sweet drinks, the caramel macchiato or the mocha, counting out the crumpled bills and spare change, all the while staring at their screens or laughing at texts. I sighed like I did every morning – lots of people, not a lot of new, good ideas.

Then came the new guy. At least I think I saw him come in, it was kind of hard to tell. I blinked a lot as he came in the door, backed up through it (yeah, through the door, not the opening), and came inside through it again. It was like he was there one minute and another place the next – it was hard to focus on him. I shook my head and blinked again. I was trying the coffee today; it must not agree with me. Okay, he was definitely inside. Weird.

Like most people these days, he was also was looking down at a screen, his hands scrolling through pages. No, that wasn’t right. His hand was scrolling through the screen, his eyes pulsating forward and backward as he stared at the display. Forward and backward. Forward and backward. What the hell did they put in the coffee? No one else had ever mentioned this side effect. The man joined the queue without glancing up.

I can’t say he was remarkable in any way, except he was, in some ill-defined sense. Aloha shirt and trousers, laced-up Nikes, brown, shoulder-length hair. But the air around him seemed to shimmer and buckle, distorting his appearance as it went from concave to convex and then stayed still. His hand still kept scrolling through the screen. Didn’t anyone beside me notice? Yeah, they must have. Nobody was looking at him, but there was a large gap between him and the person in front and the person behind, as if he were exerting some force on the space around him. I abandoned any pretense at working, now staring at him, definitely intrigued.

When he reached the head of the queue, though, he seemed like just an ordinary guy getting ready to order. What was I tripping on?

“What can I get for you?” the young barista with the pink ponytail asked him.

He hesitated and quickly looked up from his screen.

“Umm, yes, I’ll have a Mocha Latte Frappuccino with extra foam,” he giggled. “And can I have it with whipped cream?” The accent sounded odd being on the second word. His voice was soft and almost child-like in its intensity.

“Uh, huh,” the barista answered. “What size?”

“Oh, the largest you have,” he gushed.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Do you have any of those delightful lemon muffin?” His eyes pulsated rapidly, and he licked his lips as he stared at the young woman. She was in full work mode; she didn’t stir from her routine.

“One muffin or two?”

“Oh, two muffin, please. I do so love them.”

“Two muffins it is,” the barista corrected him, not altogether kindly. You think she’d know better in such a culturally diverse city as this, but, hey, that was his problem, not mine. The customer didn’t seem to notice, he was now fixated on the display case.

“That’ll be $9.58.”

“Oh, yes, money,” he giggled again. He reached into his pocket and his hand did its odd dance again, moving in and out of the fabric as if it weren’t there. Then, without moving an inch, it was somehow resting on the counter, a crisp $20 bill in its long fingers.

The barista took it and rang it up without looking, but before she could hand him back the balance, he said, “No, um, how do you say it? Keep the changer?”

“Seriously?” Now the woman looked up, incredulous.

“Yes, it’s a bit tippy. Have I told you how much I like coming to your place?”

“Uh, no. I’ve never seen you before.”

“Don’t worry, you will,” he replied cryptically.

While he was waiting for his order to be prepared, he looked out over the tables scattered around the shop then stared directly at me. I quickly looked down, but it was too late. He bent and buckled his way over to my table.

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

I had to make eye contact. “Um, sure.”

I moved my stuff closer toward me so he could have his half of the table, and he sat down, an eager look crossing his face.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said eagerly.

“Excuse me?” I radiated incredulity.

“I’ve been waiting to meet you for so long, not much time at all. You’re the writer who was, will be, famous. I’ve read, will read all your books.”

I tried to keep a straight face. “Uh, yeah. Look, you’re new around here. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“You was, are Wanda Malcolm, are you not?” He looked a bit panicked.

“How did you …”

“Ah.” He smiled broadly, his eyes beginning to do their pulsating dance again. “I am in the right place.”

“Excuse me …”

“I just loved your first book, ‘The Man from Dimensions Unlimited.’ Let me introduce myself.”

And he thrust out his hand, which buckled and shimmered all the way until it met mine.

*Written in collaboration with artist and fiancee Joseph L. Silver.

#coffeeshop #collaboration

Preface: Sometimes my friends and I will collaborate on little stories using the "exquisite corpse" method; by which one person writes the first part of the story on a piece of paper then folds part of it over before passing it to the next person so that the next person must continue the story using only the last bit as a basis, then that person folds it and passes it on and the next person writes a little and folds it and so on and so forth. When my friends and I play this game, this is the kind of story that always results. I apologize in advance.

~

It was a fine morning at Barstucks, my go-to coffee shop that at night becomes a bar for Homestuck fans. As usual I was sitting, enjoying a nice cup of Joe with my friend Sinoc the Edgehog. We were drinking bile directly out of Joe's liver, which we called a cup.

"This is boring!" exclaimed Sinoc. "I want more human suffering!"

Wishing to please Sinoc, I went for a simple form of human suffering: a battle-axe to the thorax.

Joe's screams were very pleasant to listen to as I, with my battle-axe, scraped Joe's liver into bloody, bile-drenched strings. I then swung at his stomach, his gall-bladder, his pancreas, his diaphragm, anything but his heart; anything that would keep him alive and writhing in transcendent agony long enough to satisfy Sinoc. Anything to satisfy Sinoc.

Then, the screaming stopped. A stream of blood bubbled out of Joe's mouth. At last, Joe was dead.

"That's not enough!" shrieked Sinoc.

"What else could you want?" said I.

"Kill yourself," replied Sinoc, coldly.

"You know what, son?" I said. "I like the cut of your jib."

I then bent my head back and tilted the axe away from my face. A few seconds later, axe met forehead, blood and gray matter were sprayed on the walls, my carcass fell to the floor, and Sinoc was satisfied.

...

"Not again!" said Carl in his Eridan cosplay as he peered through the windows to see the two bloody, mangled corpses on the floor of the coffee shop.