this post is going to be a short story that i wrote last year in my creative writing class. i didn't like that class. i was stuck with a bunch of people who hated to write (except for a few) and a teacher who was less passionate than them. anyway, at one point in the class, we had to write short stories and they were to be read aloud to the class. i wrote this story, called "black coffee." it's a dark comedy, i guess. i had my friend doug read it because i was too chicken. it offended my teacher, she thinks i hate fat people now. i don't hate fat people. everybody else, i think, really liked it. it got some laughs. i'm proud of it. tell me what you think!

"Black Coffee"

My boss asks me for some staples. So, like my job entails, I give him what he wants. Staples. Two in the temple, and three in the cheek. Hard and fast, like a tennis racquet. He screams "What the hell" and "What are you doing" before I have his lips stapled shut and gushing-and that's when I wake up.

My computer screen is rippling. My coffee is still. A hurricane is bouncing off windows and swirling icons around my desktop. My pages of work are being scrambled around in a screen saver, staring at me. Unfinished. In progress. Always, in progress.

Always, in overtime.

A couple of cubicles down, Dan is humming. Always working, and humming. Humming little tunes to remind me how happy he is, and how far along with his papers he is, and how far behind I'll always be. Always, behind. In progress, unfinished, asleep. Always.

I can hear the copier copying. Copy after copy. Heavy duty. And I can imagine Cindy standing by. Fat. Tacky. Heavy. Duty. Doing her job, copy after copy.

"We're almost out of toner."

Her voice is fat too. Big and fat.

The intercom lets Mr. Becker know who's on line one.

I can see him with staples dangling loosely from his flesh. Like a hooked fish. Big helpless eyes and all. Flopping around for the phone.

A fish out of water.

Shit out of luck.

I can pretend he's bleeding out from holes I might've punched through his face. Blood pooling in his office. In his lap. His Dockers.

I can pretend whoever it is for him on line three is just going to have to wait, and eventually hang up. Maybe his wife. His all-American trophy wife. Or his mistress.

Whoever the case, I can pretend like they won't be speaking to Becker.

Your hubby is dead. Your affair is dead. My work is dead. Gone.

I can see my papers in front of me. Incomplete. My coffee, a little less.

My boss's designer tie a little more... red.

That's what I pretend, with my work imperfect on my desktop.

I hear the copier. I see Cindy. Fat.

The intercom chirps: her voice as pretty as I remember her legs are slender. She says something about line two. Becker must be still flopping. I pretend.

Dan hums and types away.

The copier stops.

"Yeah, we're out." Cindy's fat voice is yelling. "No more toner."

I hear her holler my name in a slur of obesity.

I'm closest to fresh toner cartridges. A whole box of them just a cubicle down. The copy room is on the next floor, and Cindy's fat voice is booming through the stairwell.

I leave my work and my coffee and figure my papers will be done by the time I'm through with Cindy.

With her toner, I mean.

So I grab a cartridge, and I leave my coffee. I promise it I'll be back.

And there she is. Her body pouring from the low-cut neck of the fabric groping her torso. An abyss of spongy cleavage. Words like "cottage cheese" and "swamp ass" flash in my head, and I say:

"Here's the toner."

And whatever she yells, I don't understand.

I take it as a thank you. A big fat thank you.

She waddles to the copier, and, with a brutish groan, strains over the piece of machinery to try and jam the cartridge into place.

And I smash it shut.

I smash it shut over her fat head, her fat voice wailing, every ounce of cellulite undulating to her little squashed feet.

And I slam it again and again, opening and closing, faster, and faster.

And the lights start flashing, and the scanner begins scanning, and, before the glass breaks through and her head is smashed, stabbed, and fried altogether, I have myself an infinite collection of ghastly portraits with Cindy's fat smashed face spitting out on paper from the other side of the copier.

Copy after copy.

And I wake up. And my coffee is a little less. And my work laughs in my face.

And the pretty voice on the intercom lets Becker know he's got three calls on hold now.

His skin must be flaking. Scales and staples falling to the floor. His flopping must be slowing.

That's what I keep pretending.

Dan hums. And types.

And I hear the copier copying, and I wish Cindy's face was coming out the other end of it.

So I drink some more coffee. And I pretend Becker is dead. I imagine Cindy is no longer with us.

And the intercom calls for Becker. A calming tone.

Then for Dan. Says Becker wanted to see him before, but she forgot. Says she's sorry, and Dan calls and says he'll be right up.

Then she calls for Becker again. A sweet voice.

Line two is clear. They hung up, she says.

She says line three is getting impatient. I figure that one must be his wife.

Your husband is dead, I pretend. And I need more coffee.

I walk into the lounge to pour a new cup. Black.

I can see the front desk and the voice behind the intercom. Tracy. Pretty Tracy.

I wave and she smiles. And calls for Dan again. And then Becker.

I walk over and blow on my coffee and ask her what the deal is with Dan.

She asks me what it is I'm talking about, and I tell her I want to know why Becker wanted to see him so badly.

Tracy says something but I don't hear her. Her skin is smooth and white. Pretty and frail. Black hair, red lips.

Her nails are done and her voice is charming. Pleasant. Delightful.

She says the word: "promotion." Dan's name is in the same sentence.

And I wake up in my cubicle. My coffee cup is full. Hot. Somewhere, Dan is screaming.

Dan comes running, panting. Throwing up.

"She's blue, dude!"

That's what Dan screams. "She's blue!" And he pukes. I ask him what the hell it is he's freaking about.

And then I can just see pretty Tracy with her pretty face, strangled. In my head I see this. I hear her telling me Becker's going to promote Dan. And I can see her twitching, blue. Purple. Green. Her white face flashing colors. The front desk's phone cord cutting off blood, air, whatever from her pretty head. I can hear her wonderful voice, yelping.

And then I can see Dan taking off, screaming, slipping in vomit.

"Shit, dude! Shit! She's bl-" I can hear his skull thud and his ass splash in chunks of yellow.

I bring a paper cutter down on his chest when he looks up. Lumberjack style. It feels more like a bat than a machete. More bone-crushing than splitting. A loud crack. He shoots blood and gasps.

I hear the copier copying. Copy after copy.

I imagine Becker flopping around. Hooks dangling.

I see Dan below me. I can smell him.

I want to wake up.

i decided for this post i would post something that seems to have more of an effect on me than anybody else. as a writer, i think you have to know that most if not all of your writing is going to have a different effect on the reader than it does you. how you wrote it has a lot to do with this. the heat of the moment, the aggression, it's not there for the reader. it's backstory isn't there. i think that's why some of my poems that i really enjoy don't stick with other people. the same goes for the poems that i write that i don't like and that other people do. here's an example. i wrote this a while ago, and i still love it as much as i did when i wrote it. nobody has ever really given it much praise, it's always overlooked. i'm not whining, i'm really okay with that, i like the idea of a poem being mine entirely. i noticed i dated it, but i didn't put a year. nice one.

4/26 2:32 A.M.

"quiet, violently"

from the cavity of a vacant conch shell, I can hear it. who was here with me? oceans bellowing behind nothingness, remind me of something I have yet to know. to my ear, it calls to me. to my chest—nothing. how I yearn to fill this empty space. I want to hold my head underwater and breathe in. a sullen rush cascading through breakaway compartments of hot air. surging, violently… inhaling the sea. torrents of salt lick the wound, and the walls of my lungs cry out. my chest rises and falls—I am not breathing. since you've gone, this is not breathing. it is 2:32 in the A.M. I've stepped out of my house and onto my home in the cool, dark sand. palm trees quiet and offer me to the moonlight—I don't mind. this is the third time this week that I thought I heard you calling my name.

for a change of pace, this post is going to be three very old haiku's i wrote. they kind of go together. i don't really like them, except one. i guess i'm posting things that i know are bad because i don't want to look like a snobby jackass that thinks all his shit is good. i'm well aware i'm a growing writing and i want everybody to know that that's what i'm trying to do: grow. these are old, bad, and nothing to be proud of, but something to look back on. for those of you who don't know, a haiku is a small structural poem consisting of three lines, the first being 5 syllables, the second 7, and the last 5 again. here you go:

I. "flatter"

you once told me you
don't prize flattery; baby,
don't flatter yourself

II. "flattery"

was going to write
a(nother) poem for you, but
here's some half-assed hai-

III. "body language"

I would kiss you just
to shut us both up, let our
bodies have a talk

i thought this week i would share something very old. i don't know if i mentioned it in my "so much for initiative" post, the play, but i adapted that play from a short story i wrote a long time ago. the reason i'm sharing it with you is to show you how my writing has changed. personally, i think it's for the better. i think, in the following story, there is a lot of unnecessary blabbering, me trying to get something profound across. i think in the script version, the effect is a lot more simple and punchy, without all the excess crap i tacked on when i was younger. so, before you read this, you have to know that i know that it is bad. i'm posting it to show progress (or regression). without further adieu, "so much for initiative," the old version:

"So much for initiative."

I just want you to know, I'm restless, but there isn't any rush. That's a promise for whatever a promise is worth to someone like you. You're the epitome of everything I haven't heard about. And, hell, I mean it when I say that. I could write a book about you, but there's no way I'd read it. I'm telling you, there's no way I could read it.

And like I said, I'm restless. If there's anything I want right now, it's to see you—it's for you to know, I want to see you.

A friend parks their car outside of my house. They beep and shout so I check the digital clock on the kitchen stove: 8:53 P.M.; I remember we were supposed to grab some food tonight, because, hey, it's a Friday. I'm jittery, restless, so I spring to my feet and grab my jacket and check my pockets for some cash. There's a paperclip, a dime, a couple nickels, and a dollar—she'll spot for me. She's good like that. I shake out my hair and slip on my shoes. I grab some gum and leaf through some old CD's to find some real loud shit because she just got her car and wants to break in the bass buffer in the back seat.

Like I said, she just got the car so we're pretty stoked. I jet out the front door and into her passenger seat. She tells me right off the bat she's feeling pizza and I'm not going to argue because I'm restless and nervy and, well, hungry. She grabs a CD, pops it in, and turns the volume dial until it can't turn anymore. The bass buffer checks out great, and we're ready to eat.

We laugh the whole way there and my mind is off of everything and everything is great. We get here within 10 minutes or so and by now I can't tell if whatever going on in my stomach is hunger or not, but I figure stuffing my face is the way to go. We get seated and laugh some more.

I've already got a problem when it comes to ordering food and hysterical laughter, so when our waitress gives us her "How're you's tonight?" with only three teeth intact, I can't control myself. I want to die right then and there.

I die right then and there.

I don't feel like an ass because the only thing I feel right now is an ecstatic, restless high and all I want is to see you. I'm not hungry. I'm starving. I'm starving for your smile and that's the only thing I can't have right now.

I'm in a pizza parlor.

My friend knows I'm bugging out so she asks me "What's up?" and I tell her the only thing you can really say in those instances: "Nothing." Of course, she knows something's up, so I go on to spill my discontented guts right there at table.

She's good with these kinds of things so after I'm done bitching I let her do most of the talking. She goes on and rambles about something she likes to call "initiative." I'm listening half heartedly because the other half of me wants to do back flips all the way to your house.

She tells me that I've got to stop waiting around expecting things to happen for themselves. She tells me I've got to stop screwing around dreading things to happen on their own. She tells me to suck it up and to take aim and to take charge and uses that word "initiative" fives times over again. My mind's still wandering off with whatever's going on in my stomach so I'm still not all there, but I get the point. I get it.

I get that we're losing touch, but the fact remains, we haven't even made contact. I get that if anybody's at fault here for letting something die that hasn't even lived yet, it's me. And according to her, it all boils down to "initiative."

"A girl likes a guy with initiative," she says, over and over.

I get that you've got options, but I'm just bouncing back. I can bullshit my way through love and back again but I've only made it here, to you, and I get that I'm letting something (or nothing) fall apart before I can even get my hands on it. I can break shit but you haven't given me the chance. I haven't given myself the chance.

I get all that. You're the epitome of everything I haven't heard about, and I'm sitting here in a goddamn pizza parlor doing nothing about it. I'm sitting here at a table with my best friend doing nothing about it.

A girl likes a guy with initiative, but I'm doing nothing about it.

And then you walk in.

And my pizza is done.

And you get seated.

And my waitress smiles (how she manages to do so with three teeth is beyond me).

And I consider initiative.

And you consider pepperoni or plain.

And I get up and tell my good friend I'll be right back.

I make my way to your table for two and disregard the macho meathead sitting opposite of you. You see me and smile and I swear my heart stops but I remember: initiative. You say "Hi" in the sweetest voice and I say "Hey" with a sarcastic ploy. You throw your arms open as if to suggest you wanted a hug but I know you want more, you just don't know how to show it.

You bat your eyes and I figure my chances.

And I kiss you on the lips.

And you smile, and I smile. And my heart starts back up again.

And the jock-jacketed, hair-slicked prick at your table for two gets up, pushes his chair in, and decks me right in the fucking teeth.

So much for initiative.