Tagged: coffee

The Spy Spoke at Length

  • by jenthat medicine cannot cure
  • wrasslin’ around with a wet individual
  • meticulously mapped out
  • by all means, fuck who you want to fuck
  • laser danger!

Tune in next time part 381      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The spy spoke at length in his outrageous accent about how he and his mysterious female contact shared the kind of love that medicine cannot cure. After half an hour I was tired of hearing about it, so I left him alone with Fleur and went up one floor to the basement. I had seen a coffee machine there on the way down.

My brother Jim was there, still in his blue panda costume. He’d been following behind us on the stairs, but having six infants strapped to his torso really slowed him down. At the moment he was changing the diaper of one of my quadruplet sons.

“How’s it going, Jim?” I asked.

In a surprisingly upbeat voice he said, “At the moment, brother, I’m wrasslin’ around with a wet individual. Things could be better. But all things considered,” he shrugged his shoulders to indicate the other five babies, “they could also be much worse.”

“Coffee?” I asked, hefting the pot.

He nodded, his big blue panda head wobbling. “You know, I always thought that you had your future meticulously mapped out, you and Jason both. I expected him to end up with Kelly and you to end up with Tessa. But now, you’ve got so damn many kids by so many women. And more on the way!”

“Hey, that Isolde thing wasn’t my idea,” I said.

“I’m not judging,” Jim drawled. “By all means, fuck who you want to fuck. That’s between you and your wife, and she seems to be cool with it. At least so far. But man, I wouldn’t want to cross her if I were you.” He strapped the newly diapered baby into its harness and sat down beside me to cradle a mug of coffee between his panda paws. “Those blue eyes of hers pose a real laser danger!”

“Fleur and I have an understanding,” I said. I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, and hoped that that continued to be true.

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The Good News Was

  • by Kentgirls who danced in this cafe
  • grandfather placed everything in the trash can barrel
  • “That could be anybody.”
  • the fervency of a small child when he really, really wants something
  • a metal chain, gold colored

Tune in next time part 182                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The good news was that I was finally leaving Valentine Village. Also, I would at last get to change out of my itchy, restrictive lace jumpsuit and borrowed underwear.

The rest of the news was bad. Mother had me trapped in the back of a windowless van, headed for the airport and a destination she wouldn’t reveal. Her comment about photographers felt like a hint, the kind of game she liked to play.

My new clothing was, dammit, another jumpsuit. But it was the proper size and made of black corduroy, and infinitely more comfortable than the previous one. Mother insisted I also wear a metal chain, gold colored, and saddle shoes. I protested with the fervency of a small child when he really, really wants something, or in this case really, really doesn’t want it, but she was implacable.

The van slowed as I tied my shoes. I heard a plane taking off. Mother’s flunky shut off the engine and came back to open the cargo doors, and I saw that we weren’t technically at the airport. We were at one of the seedy strip malls across the highway from it. Most of the storefronts were gentlemen’s clubs. Strip mall, indeed.

Mother tucked her hair up under a backwards ball cap, and put on dark glasses even though it was after sunset.

“Hey, ain’t that the president’s mom?” called a loud voice across the parking lot.

His companion shook his head, teetering drunkenly. “That could be anybody.”

I was ushered into the nearest club, a surprisingly wholesome establishment. It was what you’d get if you started with a regular strip club, but then your grandfather placed everything in the trash can barrel unless it was somehow breakfast-themed, and he kept doing that through seven renovations of your club. Even the girls who danced in this cafe were clean and bright as dawn’s first rays.

“Coffee?” asked a dancing waitress in a Gingham thong.

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I Have to Admit

k-avatar

  • “Bingo.”
  • in the days of my youth
  • rather enjoyed my liaison with Francis
  • at a local coffee shop
  • shot him in the mouth

“I have to admit that I rather enjoyed my liaison with Francis at a local coffee shop.”

“If you didn’t admit it, I’d drag it out of you. I haven’t seen a smile like that on your face since we went on that robbery spree in the days of my youth.”

“That was fun, too. Francis needn’t know about any of that, of course.”

“Bingo.”

“Especially the jewelry store. That one wasn’t as much fun.”

“The security guard ruined the whole thing. That’s why you shot him in the mouth.”

“With a squirt gun! You always leave that part out.”

“And you always leave out that it wasn’t filled with water.”

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One Is The Loneliest Number

r-avatarHow do solo writers do it?

Our evenings lately have been spent sprawled on the big leather sofa with the laptop and a small mountain of meaningfully marked-up copies of our manuscript. One of us (usually Jen) wades through all of the critiques while the other (usually Kent) mans the laptop, adding comments and making edits to our master copy. Jen interprets all the line-edits and deciphers everyone’s handwritten comments, directing Kent to the proper parts of the manuscript so that together we can discuss the proposed changes.

It’s slow going, and we generally only manage one or two chapters per night. Each of those chapters is gone over with a fine tooth comb (hey baby, that is one fine tooth-comb you’ve got there!) four or five times as we consider the feedback from all of our beta-readers. Working with a partner makes something like this bearable, oftentimes even enjoyable. It’s hard for us to imagine this part of the process as a solo author. Who do you talk to about whether a suggestion or complaint is valid? Who do you high-five when a passage works exactly as you planned? Whose shoulder do you cry on when a passage doesn’t work at all? And most important: who do you send for snacks and refills of fortifying beverages?

The writer’s life can be a very solitary one, but with a writing partner it doesn’t have to be.

Hector and Amelia

  • k-avataran unenviable chore
  • sagging out from under her hand
  • “Coffee?”
  • the youngest of the preschool children
  • it thumped ponderously east
  • an interminable bawl

Hector and Amelia sat atop the youngest of the preschool children as it thumped ponderously east.

“Coffee?” Amelia suggested, the sopping brown towel sagging out from under her hand. Hector shook his head and stared at the moon just risen ahead of them. Wringing the stuff out into a mug was an unenviable chore given the uneven motion of the mammoth toddler’s head. And if any of the hot liquid touched his scalp, he’d set the mountains a-tremble with an interminable bawl.

 

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Together Time

Some couples spend their weekends antiquing together, others golf, go to clubs, attend concerts, garden, go to the movies, or watch TV. We write. Together. All the time.

For the solo author, writing is a solitary activity, and can be very lonely. Of course, some writers enjoy the solitude, but for others it can become tiresome. That’s why so many people write in coffee shops. We save a ton of money on frothy coffee drinks by writing at home, together.

A member of our critique group was recently talking about how hard it is for him to find time to write. His family obligations and job take up a lot of his time, which is the case for many writers. Our situation is a bit different though. Since we write together, couple time is one less thing to take away from writing time, because writing time is couple time. Every evening we sequester ourselves in a cozy room and tune out the rest of the world. Over hot beverages, or the occasional alcoholic concoction, we engage in deep and far-ranging conversation. While enjoying our favorite music, we engage in the primal act of creation.

This intense together time would not suit all couples, but it suits us very well. We both are introverts and homebodies. We honestly would not rather be at a party. Working toward a common goal is the perfect way for us to feel connected.

What do you think? Could you and your spouse write together?

Cecelia Opened the Door

  • by jensomething else inside that boy’s head
  • the Upright Man’s precious cargo
  • the reality of Paul’s shoes
  • the fir tree smelled
  • felt indecently robust
  • I thought you were in Africa
  • a large number of plastic crates

Cecelia opened the door and saw Paul standing on her front porch amid a large number of plastic crates.

“I thought you were in Africa!” she cried and gave him a hug.

“I was.” He gestured to the crates. “The Upright Man’s precious cargo proved easy to retrieve.”

Cecelia invited her brother inside and waited for him to remove his shoes. The reality of Paul’s shoes is that they were of a highly complicated design and it took a long time for him to unfasten them. She gave up waiting and went to make them some coffee. By the time Paul joined her in the kitchen, the coffee felt indecently robust on the tongue.

They carried their mugs into the living room and sat by the Christmas tree, watching the lights blink on and off. The fir tree smelled like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It was one of the new genetic hybrids. But Paul didn’t even seem to notice.

There must be something else inside that boy’s head besides the holidays, Cecelia thought. I wonder where the Upright Man is.

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