An addict, for sure, who between his lucid moments recalls coins and even dollars dropping into his cup from his vantage point on some corner or against the side of some large marble building. All charity he pays for with disgusted, judgmental looks from locals and tourists alike. His recollections by this time are snapshots with no regular frequency or accord, and upon entering his thoughts dissipate, like drops of water hitting a sizzling hot pan. Nights pass, or rather sleep passes, with the darkness of an exhausted consciousness. In rare moments of dreams, he is young again or strings together flashes of impressions gathered throughout the day, a passing foot or a stroller pushed by a young mother, or he simply flies.

One late night, or is it early morning, cold and stiff, he sits at his accustomed corner, kneeling on charity's hearth; his slow fluid desperation punctuated by the trill of coins in his dirty styrofoam cup. Surveying his surroundings he sees the foot traffic that moves so far around him, the faces full of scorn, some holding their breath as they pass him. He sees the derision. Their eyes pass dark and hard, granting him less humanity than when passing dogs.

"A few cents," he says. "Anything." Desperation. The sea of nonchalance surges and recedes.

Until one woman, plain and ordinary, slows before passing. She does not acknowledge his requests, but instead turns her head enough to give him a clear look, unclouded with judgment, and a warm, sincere smile. [ read more ]

I walk beside the water and throw in a piece of crust from my sandwich. I watch the seagulls dive in and fight over scraps.

I find a less dirty bench and sit down, pull out my ear buds from my pocket and put in my Audiobooks. I listen to one of the Bronte sisters as the clouds swim across the sky. I eat a bite of my sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as ghosts from a writer's mind perform fated plays of ghosts of the past. I swallow and pausing, exhale.

  [ read more ]

touch and go

give and take

right and wrong

rice and beans

  [ read more ]

Mad Libs Flash Fic

Topic: Zombies
Name: Harold
Wields a(n): old bottle of whiskey

Provided by: CT

 

Harold is a zombie.

And an alcoholic.

Like his zombie friends, Harold has an insatiable appetite for brains. But, Harold also has an insatiable craving for something else, whiskey. Fine, old single-malt just like his daddy used to drink. Just the thought of the clink of the ice and the liquid pouring into a glass makes his mouth water. And the smell. Oh, the smell. Like caramel and leather.

As a human, not a day would go by without a taste of his favorite drink. They always tell him, "Harold, you have a problem. You need to stop." He never does. He never really has the heart. In fact, after realizing he turned into a zombie, he is cheered at the prospect of spending eternity with his alcoholic manna. But in a tragic, pathetic and ironic turn of events, it becomes all too clear to him that zombies can't taste or smell. They can't even get drunk. Believe me, he's tried.

So day after day, in his personal hell, he sits there with his old bottle of whiskey, chewing on brains and cursing the day he died.

 

  [ read more ]

Today I feel like this =( [ read more ]

The 38 express wasn't too crowded this afternoon. I had room to move my form one side to another, but I chose to stand facing the left row of seated suits busy with their iPhones and iPads. Every one of them doing their best to stay focused on their little electronic screens. Only one girl in a gray jacket and pewter skirt sat without nothing more than an old outdated yet Apple influenced iPod.  I had one hand on the standing bar running top to bottom, while my other hand shamefully put away my iPhone. I slipped my free hand in the nylon ring hanging from the top and peered out the front.

I saw a person in the middle of the road some three blocks ahead. Traffic was moving uphill and I sighed. Another crazy person was about to cause traffic on Pine. I squinted to make out any details. No, he or she wasn't homeless, neither crazy or running around. The person was on top of the hill where the sun baked the road. All I could make out was a dark silhouette, standing on something. It wasn't a statue because it moved. And within seconds it went over the hill and was gone.

The bus eventually got to the point and through the hot gaze of the sun. The road opened up below into its usual gray under the shadows of the building. Nothing but cars. The figure was gone. Only ones were people on the side walk.

Wondering if [ read more ]

Dry days of boredom under the unforgiving Texan sun.

Tips of grass torn from lush green lawns.

Racing down streams along the bright stone curb.

Fueled by the neighbor's car wash run off.

Their Mustang sat slower than my two green speedboats.

I squatted for a close ariel view of the race.

My toes curled down on the smooth edges.

My hands gripped my bare knees in anticipation.

My eyes fixed on my pick, the longer one.

My mind unaware of the strange stares.

Growing up poor never meant I wasn't happy. The sad thing though was to think my fondest innocent times could spark such negativity. I was just a kid who snuck out of the house. [ read more ]

Another shot, another round... the night seemed endless. The DJ in the next room mixed awful tracks that somehow translated to single girls on the dance floor to my friend. I watched him meander over to the sparse dance floor. Couples floated away as he bobbed into the room. Not much was going on in there as far as  finding someone to go home with. But it didn't matter. He loved the old school hip hop that pulsated through his swaying body. It reminded him of the days he heard the harsh lyrics and did his best to understand the strife that would make anyone "bust out a gat." And on that cue, he made a gun sign with his hand and rocked it above his head.

We all sat back at the table enjoying the show. Made fun of the pseudo grinding attempts while the boyfriends sympathetically moved the girls away. It didn't bother him, he was in his zone.

My girl and I decided to dance, but more importantly, to keep an eye on him. He was teetering at the DJ booth by the time we got up there.

We like electronic music - the fast move out of my way while I flash mob solo the hell out of this song kinda music. So we were also in foreign territory. We're the non-sense lyrics promoting nothing but partying it up? What's with this low drone base that's not moving my feet. We did our best to blend in. Look like [ read more ]

The soft shininess in long hair. The slow molasses warmth down the back of the head and tingles on shoulders after meeting another’s gaze. The hard smiles and gasps of air pulling outside and an in mid laughter. Red and orange rose petals along finger tips. The peace I feel at the Pacific Ocean at Sunset over the Sutro Baths in red, purple, and orange against the green water.
[ read more ]

This Easter was the most memorable one I had in years. Actually, all the other ones weren't too memorable except for when I was younger, it signaled my ability to eat meat guilt free. And that too me was what Easter meant. But for this one, it wasn't about that or even about all the festivities that revolve around the holiday. It was about the dream I had the next morning. Yeah, not the Sunday night one, the Bejeweled induced sleep one. It was the early Monday morning one, with that not-a-good-night-sleep buzz in my head that another 30 more minutes could rid. That half hour sleep immortalized Easter.

I had left a card along along with the envelope from my previous dream on a cherry wood end table. It was a delicate card. Its edges were meticulously crafted with impressions and cut outs that reminded me of lace. The card itself was made of a dry wood pulp that dissolved in water. Inside were words confessing some adamant form of love to me. Words I couldn't remember as I stared at it from across the room. All I knew was that it was an unwanted letter from someone I met on the internet.

My mom started wiping the table down with a wet sponge before I could say anything. I felt nothing though. She was saving me the effort of throwing it away. Not like that was her intention. She was clearing the small table for her large bluish gray construction [ read more ]