Posts Tagged ‘Coffee’

Freeway Park (Short Story Excerpt)

January 18, 2017

1.

January 17th, 2008.
Seattle, Washington.
11:23 p.m.

Here I sit in a dingy lil’ diner on Capitol Hill, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, an a cup uh steamin’ hot coffee in front uh me. The place—Cassie’s it’s called—ain’t too bad. It’s got decent coffee; not the gourmet shit ya find on every fuckin’ corner round here, but I’ve had worse. The food’s alright, ’cept the goddamn cooks bathe everythin’ on the grill in margarine. Cassie’s is one uh five restaurants in the Seattle-metro area that’re open twenty-four hours, an it’s the cheapest. I guess that’s why I go there. It sure as fuck ain’t for the service or the atmosphere.

I take a sip uh my coffee an look at my watch.

Almost time to go meet Pat.

2.

Man, last night was bad. I met up with this sweet lil’ honey round nine o’clock. Rhonda. Short, dark hair, big titties. Nice gal, for a junkie. She got hit by a car last year an fin’ly got her settlement. Been partyin’ her ass off ever since. Last night, so happens, she wanted to party. And since she had the dope, I damn sure had the time.

Now, there’s a few girls in the picture, but suffice to say that lately I ain’t too keen on junkie-pussy. I just go to work, come home, an do what I gotta do to feed my habit. But Rhonda, she likes to fuck, an she’s gotta way uh gettin’ what she wants. Dumb broad wouldn’t give me a taste ’less I got it up an kept it up. So I did what I could, thinkin’ bout those other girls to get revved up, an we was goin’ half the night.

That’s why I slept all goddamn day.

Man, I feel pretty shitty…woke up just as the sun was goin’ down an snorted the last uh my stash. I pushed off for a lil’ while, then came back to life only to find my nose was bleedin’. Got blood all over my goddamn couch, too. I came down pretty fuckin’ hard but I got through it alright. My head’s killin’ me, though. Feels like a fuckin’ jackhammer in the middle uh my brain.

Shit, least my hands aren’t shakin’ anymore.

3.

I look round an the scene’s fairly typical. Just a few people in here, most uh’m loners like me. I insisted on sittin’ in the rear corner booth, my favorite spot, even though the light above the table’s broken. Hell, I like it better that way.

Kinda like hidin’ in the shadows like some villain in a bad movie.

The waitress walks past without lookin’ over an it pisses me off a lil’. Her name’s Lisa. Skinny lil’ girl, but she’s gotta nice shape to her. I wouldn’t mind hangin’ out with her even though she’s got that freaky Capitol Hill vibe. Piercin’s all over her face, tattoos everywhere, red streak in her hair, all that shit. She’s got yin-yang symbols in red ink on the inside uh her forearms, an for some reason that turns me on. She walks by again an I stare right at her tight lil’ ass. I don’t give a shit if she catches me or not. I’ll bet she fucks better’n Rhonda, an she ain’t no junkie.

So I watch Lisa for a bit, smokin’ an dreamin’, wishin’ I was someone else. Before I know it, my watch says: 11:29.

Time to get the fuck outta here.

My coffee’s still hot so I take three quick sips, slide outta the seat, an go to the register. Great. Lisa’s there. “Hi, sweetness,” I say as I stroll over.

She doesn’t even bother looking up—just asks what I had.

I tell her all I had was coffee, but in my mind I wanna shout: Coffee! Ya stupid bitch, cantcha remember coffee? But I don’t cause I’d still like to take her home one uh these nights.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, an rings it up.

I pay an throw her a buck for a tip. A whole buck, even though she only had to refill my goddamn cup one time. And she still doesn’t look up as she pockets the buck with a sarcastic, “Thanks.”

I turn to leave, but for some reason I just can’t let this shit go tonight. I really don’t have time for this broad’s attitude, but I tell myself: Fuck it, an put my hands down on the counter. I clear my throat an lean over the register, hopin’ to get her attention.

Lisa sighs real dramatic-like an says, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Goddamn, she sounds so young an snotty. Just makes me hornier. “Look, baby,” I say, “why don’t you an me go out for a drink sometime? You’re the cutest lil’ thing on Capitol Hill.”

Then I give her a wink an a smile for good measure.

She don’t say nothin’ for at least thirty seconds, maybe more, but I don’t budge. Then she looks up, an I’ll be damned if there ain’t a tear runnin’ down her cheek. For the first time she looks me square in the eye. Then she sticks out her right arm. She’s always wearin’ a leather collar on that arm, not with spikes, but lil’ metal studs on it. But it’s too wide for her skinny lil’ arm, makes it seem like some gauntlet from the dark ages. She unbuckles it an peels it off right there. I’m confused ’til she holds her wrist up to my face. At first, all I see are the reddish lines where the collar bites into her pale skin, but then I see what she wants me to see. Lil’ slash marks, crisscrossin’ from her wrist up to the edge of the yin-yang tattoo. They aren’t deep; just enough to bleed, I’d say. But they’re very fresh.

So what the hell do I say to that?

Exactly. Nothin’.

That’s when she says, “People like you are the reason I do this,” an runs away through the swingin’ door to the kitchen.

Shit, man. That ain’t what I wanted, but I ain’t got time for it, anyhow. Have to get movin’.

Sorry, Lisa.

4.

I step into the cold winter air an immedit’ly start to shiverin’. All I have on are these ragged ol’ blue jeans, this thin tee-shirt, an my black zip-up sweater. I’m also wearin’ a black beanie and gloves, but it’s still freezin’ ass cold. That damp kinda cold that I don’t like. It seeps into your bones an makes it feel like the fuckin’ marrow’s gonna freeze.

Anyhow, I head up the side street Cassie’s is on, take a left, an walk right in the middle uh the biggest freak show on this side uh the country: Broadway Avenue. What a fuckin’ treat. Used record stores, used book stores, used clothin’ stores; anythin’ someone didn’t want no more, ya can buy. Lots uh places to eat, too. Mexican. Thai. Hell, even Ethiopian. With all that shit, ya got college kids runnin’ round with their backpacks an cell phones, ya got guys in drag, dudes holdin’ hands, broads with facial hair, an some uh these fuckers look like they’re right outta some vampire movie—all pale an dressed in black.

An the bums. Fuck, there’s an asshole with a sign on every corner beggin’ for change. Every sign has some hard luck story on it, but don’t be fooled. They’re just a bunch uh tweakers like me.

Sure, I get high, too, but at least I got me a job.

I don’t really mind all that, though. What gets me are the smells. I’ll be strollin’ along an all the sudden—BAM!—I’ll get a big whiff uh some fucker ain’t bathed in a week. Or I’ll pass some corner they been pissin’ in all day. I even seen some uh those bastards takin’ a shit ‘longside the street.

Welcome to Broadway, baby.

Make ya self right at home.

5.

So, I’m headed downtown. Freeway Park; right next to the Convention Center to meet up with Pat. Interstate Five runs right by it. I guess that’s how the place got its name. Nice lil’ park, but too many bums like to camp out. I figure they’ll be there tonight, huddled up beneath the overpass, or over in the bushes. I ain’t worried bout em gettin’ in the way, though. Most uh’m’re piss drunk, passed out, an dead to the world.

Pat. I guess ya could say he’s a friend. But lemme tell ya how it really is with us junkies. We ain’t got no friends; just people we use, an people we use with. Pat’s a guy I use to get my stuff sometimes. I never use with him, though. The guy’s a fag an I ain’t gettin’ high with no fag. He asked me once if I’d let him suck my cock an I almost belted him, but I didn’t wanna lose him as a connection. I only go to him when it’s an emergency. When my usual guy ain’t got no blow on hand.

Tonight’s a lil’ different. Pat called me in for a favor. I norm’ly don’t get involved in this type uh shit, but I need the money an the blow. Pat gets good shit from this black kid, Shelton. Shelton’s only seventeen; just an errand boy for his older brother, who happens to be an up-an-comin’ dealer on the West Coast. Straight from L.A., apparen’ly.

Anyhow, Pat gotta meetin’ set up with Shelton tonight, only Shelton don’t know I’m gonna be there, too. Me an Pat’re gonna jack him an take his stash. I’m s’posed to get half the stash—enough to keep me wired like I was hooked up to a car battery for a week—an a hundred bucks to go along with it. Pat already has a bus ticket to Denver for tomorrow mornin’ so he’s got nothin’ to worry bout. He’ll be long gone by the time Shelton’s brother finds out. The kid’ll never even see me comin’ so I ain’t got nothin’ to worry bout, either. I am a lil’ nervous, though.

Shit can always go wrong.

I still wonder why Shelton’s brother would let him make a drop all by himself at this time uh night. But then again, Pat’s a big pussy. The kid prob’ly told his brother he could kick Pat’s ass with one hand tied behind his back. And he wouldn’ta been lyin’.

Sounds like a great setup, don’t it? But even so, I gotta ask myself: Why am I doin’ this? Hell, I don’t know. I need the money an I need the stuff, but that ain’t all. Maybe it’s the thrill, too. Maybe it’s just that once ya start doin’ shit ya never thought ya would, ya just keep goin’.

What’s next? I gotta wonder. Muggin’ people? Robbin’ houses? I’ve already sold everythin’ I own to feed my habit. And that’s really the bottom line. I need to feel that kick so bad I really could kill somebody. Maybe I’ve lost it. No sane person would do the shit I’m bout to do.

But, hey, what’s the worst that could happen? Shelton’s brother shows up an blows my head off? That really wouldn’t be so bad. This life’s turnin’ out to be a bunch uh bullshit, anyhow.

Fuck it.

I reach Seneca street just as the wind starts pickin’ up, an turn right.


“A Messy Divorce” is part of the collection: Living The Nightmare.

Available for digital download @ https://books2read.com/u/4NR629

Available in paperback through Amazon.com @ https://www.amazon.com/dp/1986415325

Thank you for reading!

JLR

Lucifer In High-heels (Short Story Excerpt)

May 2, 2016

August 16th, 2017.
Hinckley, Oregon.
4:23 p.m.

Disgusted, Lance Felder held Ursula’s hips as she gripped the oak headboard. Moaning, the thin, oversexed woman ground her pubic bone into his upper mandible. Painful, but not unbearable. Ursula had wanted to make love—again—but Lance hadn’t been able to muster the strength for another mattress rodeo. So he’d begged off, claiming fatigue—not mentioning the half bottle of wine he’d polished off after lunch—and offered her what he called “his specialty” instead: a Felder Tongue Ride. With a sigh and a roll of her Botoxed eyes, Ursula had shrugged off her silk robe and shoved him onto her king-sized bed. Then she’d climbed aboard, straddling Lance’s face while he forced his tongue onto her flesh.

Not that Ursula tasted bad. Not at all. She groomed and took care of herself. She just didn’t taste young. She didn’t taste fresh.

“Oh, honey!” the enraptured woman moaned, rocking her hips to and fro. “Oh, Lance, baby! Oh, yeah! Just…uh!…oh, yeah, right…THERE!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Ursie. Just get off already.

When she had, Ursula slid to Lance’s right, collapsing in a sweaty heap. Hands pressed to her face. Lips sputtering. Legs quivering. Bleach-blonde hair a mess. Lance couldn’t help but notice the graying roots, the veins in her weathered hands.

“God, Lance! You do that so well!”

“Thanks, babe. You know I love getting you wet.”

With an inner sigh, Lance rolled over and gave Ursula an obligatory kiss. She thrust her tongue in his mouth. He winced but reciprocated.

“What a day. Think I’ll take a nap.”

“Sounds good, Ursie.” I guess fucking and lounging by the pool all day is pretty tiresome.

“Wanna join me?”

Lance sat up, hoping his desperation didn’t show. “Uh, I’d love to, babe, but I got some work to do.”

Ursula grinned. “The novel, eh?”

“Yeah…the novel.” Just another piece of my heart. Destined to be ignored.

“Is it as good as the first two, you think?”

You mean the first two that were rejected by every publisher on both coasts? “Oh, it’s even better.”

“That’s great, darling! I can’t wait to read it…”

“When it’s finished, babe. You know that.”

“I know.” Ursula yawned, exposing capped, bleached teeth. “But you know I get impatient.”

“Oh, I know,” Lance replied with no trace of sarcasm.

“Hey, would you be a doll and mix me a rum and Coke.”

“Yeah, sure.” And I’ll be sure to take it easy on the Coke.

Another yawn. “Thank you, honey.”

Lance climbed over Ursula—enduring another kiss—and strode into the hall. Barefoot. Shirtless. His upper body toned and tanned. Dark hair jouncing on his shoulders. A thick beard hiding his forlorn expression. He wore a pair of ripped designer jeans, slacker style; low on his hips, top button undone. At thirty-two, he still looked twenty, but felt much older. A Bohemian soul, no longer young at heart.

All that money, and all she does is drown her troubles in booze day after day…

 

Hands thrust in his jean pockets, Lance turned left, walking down the wide staircase.
The day had gotten off to a bad start, and promised to end even worse. Lance had awoken next to Ursula, slipped out of bed without waking her, and crept downstairs. The maid, Louisa, had wished him a good morning and started a pot of coffee. Outside, Lance had gone through his morning workout of push-ups, crunches, and twenty laps in the pool. Then, coffee in hand, he’d opened his e-mail to find two rejection notices from two different publishers:

Dear Mr. Felder,

Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately, this doesn’t meet our publishing needs at this time. Feel free to submit again. Good luck publishing your novel elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Publisher-at-large.

Two of those in one day. Talk about heartache.

Lance had sat, head in hand, for awhile, then plunged back into his current novel. The story of a man traveling cross-country by train, en route to see his dying father one last time. A good story. A worthwhile story. A story he had to finish. Lance had gotten a few strong sentences down when Louisa appeared to inform him that Ursula had awoken. Of course, he didn’t have to drop everything and rush to her side…but he did, anyway.

Gotta keep the bread buttered.

Ursula always slept in the nude; said it made her feel young. Looking at her naked form, Lance couldn’t help but notice the wrinkles and creases creeping into her flesh. She tried, though. Oh, how she tried. Personal trainers. Weird diets. Plastic surgery. But Father Time had grabbed hold, and wouldn’t let go. She had twenty years on Lance; old enough to be his mother. Still, he’d climbed back into bed as he had so many mornings and reassured Ursula as best he could. Still beautiful. Still desirable. They’d begun in the normal way, but after growing tired of her desperate kisses, Lance had flipped her over and vented his frustrations at not being published with every thrust.

And Ursula had loved it.


“Lucifer In High-heels” was published in Ramingo’s Porch Issue #1, now available @ Amazon.com:

https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue/dp/0998847658/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511617834&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Ramingo%27s+Porch

Thank you for reading!

JLR

Epicenter (Short Story Excerpt)

January 19, 2016

author-1

September 1st, 2016.
Stark City, Oregon.
7:09 a.m.
On his way to the bus stop, Martin Jericho decided to have breakfast at The Stark City Cafe. The tired old man knew he’d been under constant surveillance since the last incident—which resulted in several broken windows—but refused to live his life like a hunted animal. Besides, it had been almost two years.
Just a quick bite before I go home, damnit. In public. Like a normal person.
Of course, the P.O.P. team in the van across the street wouldn’t be too thrilled, but Martin didn’t care. They could always deduct the cost of his meal from his next isolation check.
“Miss?” Martin asked for the third time, prompting the teenage hostess to raise her finger like a disapproving schoolmarm.
“We’re full right now. It’ll be at least a ten minute wait.”
Would it be asking too much for you to look up from your phone tablet or whatever it is while we talk?
“Alright.”
“Name and number of people in your party?”
“Jericho. Party of one.”
“Jericho, okay. You can wait over by the door.”
“Thank you.”
Sighing, Martin turned and walked to the waiting area. Two wooden benches faced the restaurant, both already taken by customers. Martin smiled. No one smiled back as Martin leant against the wall. Feeling self conscious, he reached into the front pocket of his gray parka and extracted a small book of classical poetry. Soothing, comforting; just what he needed.
Good old Longfellow…
All in all, Martin had a pretty good life. Not a life he’d ever envisioned for himself, but a decent one, nonetheless. He worked for the government as a nightwatchman downtown. He had his own office in an empty building surrounded by a chain-link, barbwire-topped fence. The place didn’t need a guard, which made it ideal for Martin. He didn’t even have to patrol the floors, though he often did for the exercise. From eleven at night to seven in the morning, Monday through Friday, Martin sat in his cozy office, reading or watching T.V. The P.O.P. paid him well for this and gave him premium insurance. At first, they’d insisted on giving Martin an armed escort to and from work each night. But after eighteen disaster-free months, Martin had begged for the autonomy to ride the bus like a grown, free man. Wanting to keep Martin content, the P.O.P. acquiesced. He’d earned it, they felt, and Martin agreed.
“Jericho, party of one. Table’s ready.”
Martin looked up, smiled, and walked toward the hostess.
“Hey, wait a minute!” a young woman called. “We’ve been waiting longer than that guy!”
Finger raised, the hostess looked past Martin. “Sorry, but this guy’s by himself. You have three people in your party, and a two-seater just opened up.”
“Well, give us the table and grab another chair from somewhere! It’s not rocket science!”
The hostess gave Martin a weary look. Embarrassed, Martin looked down.
“Just hold on. I’m sure a three-seater will be ready soon.”
The angry young woman snickered. “This is bullshit!”
“You don’t like it,” the hostess replied, “go to McDonald’s.” Then, to Martin, “Come on.”
“Thank you, miss,” Martin muttered, following the hostess through a maze of tables. Behind him, the young woman cussed and argued with her friends about whether or not to leave. But Martin hadn’t meant to cause any trouble, and wished the hostess would’ve given them the table instead.
Too late now, I guess.
Before this decent yet isolated life, Martin had lived an ideal one. He’d met and married his high school sweetheart, Alma Rankin, in Eugene, then moved to Stark City after Alma got hired as a librarian for the Stark County School District. Martin also worked for the school district as a bus driver. He and Alma loved children, and had two of their own. Dennis and Dianna, who both married in their twenties and blessed them with grandchildren. They’d lived in a beautiful brick house in the Dibert District, the children and grandchildren visited often, and their golden years had indeed seemed golden. Then Alma got sick, and the luster began to fade.
“Here ya go,” the hostess said, gesturing at a table in the middle of the restaurant.
“Thank you.”
The hostess didn’t reply as she plopped a menu down and walked away. Sighing, Martin peeled off his parka, draped it over the chair, and sat facing the entrance. Waiters and waitresses bustled around him. To his left sat a married couple; she heavyset and fussing with their three children, he sullen and cowed. One of the kids had smeared grape jelly all over her face, one had begun banging a fork on the table, and the third screamed for no apparent reason. Resisting the urge to smile at the parents, Martin looked away. He knew how they felt, but they didn’t seem too agreeable at the moment. To his right sat a couple in their thirties; both slender, well dressed, and somehow detached from their surroundings. The din of rattling silverware, idle banter, and smacking lips filled the cafe.
“Good morning. What’ll it be?”
Martin looked up to see a thin young man standing beside him. Flushed. Out of sorts. Pen and notebook in hand. Picking up the menu, Martin smiled.
“Hello. How are you this morning?”
“Busy.”
Martin’s smile faded. “Oh. I see. Well, I’ll start with coffee, please.”
“And for breakfast?”
“I just sat down, sir. I’ll need a minute.”
“Right.” Rolling his eyes, the waiter left.
Guess I’ll just order the special, whatever it is.
Feeling somewhat guilty, Martin set his menu aside and moved his cup to the edge of the table. Trying to make this harried young waiter’s life a little easier, whether he appreciated it or not. Ahead of Martin sat two large bearded men wearing dirty overalls. They looked like farmhands; mean and hungry in the soft light. Martin looked down, reached into his coat pocket.
“Okay, coffee…”
Martin smiled as the waiter began to pour. “Thank you, sir. I’ll have the breakfast special.”
“Sure.” The waiter didn’t make eye contact as he walked away.
Martin frowned at the table. This was a mistake, he decided, pulling a small, framed photo from the pocket. I should’ve just went home and made my own damn breakfast. Or sent the P.O.P guys to get me something. It’s not like they’d ever say no…
Martin stood the photo against the condiment rack. In it, Alma smiled, frozen in time at age thirty-one. Her hair hung in dark blonde curls, her blue eyes sparkled with delight. Remembering, Martin’s frown became a grin. Whenever he felt stressed or anxious, Martin either read poetry or gazed at Alma. It always helped, just as his doctors had assured him.
Good old Alma. Always there for me...
Gazing at his late wife, Martin warmed his hands around the steaming cup.
The world is so cold nowadays, Alma. People are too damn busy with their gizmos to just sit and talk anymore. And they can be so rude. It’s like they’ve forgotten how to be decent to each other...


If you enjoyed this excerpt, please subscribe, like, and share.

A revised version of “Epicenter” was featured in Empty Sink Publishing, Issue #18.

Read it here: http://emptysinkpublishing.com/fiction/epicenter/


“Epicenter” was reprinted by The Rye Whiskey Review @ http://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2018/06/epicenter-by-jesse-lynn-rucilez.html


Thank you for reading!

JLR

Driftwood (Short Story)

March 13, 2015

March 4th, 2016.
Stark City, Oregon.
7:33 a.m.

Last night, Lareyn fell asleep with her hand on my back. Lareyn, of course, is my wife. My beautiful, elegant, gracious wife. I say this as if I’m just now finding out how beautiful, elegant, and gracious she is; as if I’d somehow forgotten and have only begun to remember. Well, rest assured, I have always known. Since the first time I looked into the bewitching pools of her eyes, since I first heard her sultry voice, I have known. But I must now confess to at times being a rather dense man, easily distracted, which causes this knowledge to lose its way. Like lonesome driftwood upon a frothing sea. Simply put–and much to my discredit–my appreciation often wanes for my dear, tender wife. I can, at least, honestly say that I’ve never neglected Lareyn, nor have I ever treated her badly. It’s just that I don’t always express my admiration for her as much as she deserves.

In this respect, I suppose, I’m a typical husband.

But last night…that hand. Her hand. My wife’s warm, gentle, reassuring hand upon my back. The simplest of gestures, which nonetheless brought my regard for Lareyn back to the fore–not just of my brain, but of my very being. Do you know that mental contraction you feel when something or someone you see and experience every day suddenly seems brand new? Like a picture with a new frame, an orchestra with a new conductor? Well, that’s what I felt last night. That’s what I feel right now. That’s what compels me to write these words.

Once again, my view of Lareyn has sharpened, narrowed, and I feel the same way I did the night we first met. Only now my appreciation is tinged with nostalgia; a deep layer of warmth and intimacy which spans two decades.

What can I say?

The driftwood has returned to shore, and I love my wife.

I love Lareyn as she lays on our sofa in the den of our home, still asleep, curled up on her side. Her dark hair tangled around her soft cheeks. A slight smile on her lips as if she’s in the midst of some contented dream. Sunlight streams from the window above our sofa, giving her olive skin an angelic glow. During the night, Lareyn must’ve gotten up and slipped off the thin black skirt which now lies on the carpet. One bare leg has slid from beneath the blanket, revealing her shapely and manicured foot. If only she could see herself lying there through my eyes. Then, Lareyn would understand the true meaning of beauty.

Ah, if only…

Our get together last night was nothing special. Just a few friends who’d come over for dinner, drinks, and relaxation. Lareyn had wanted to cook, but I insisted on ordering takeout. Had a craving for Indian cuisine, and felt Lareyn deserved a night off. Our friends arrived in due time, and I opened a bottle of Pinot Noir to go with the curried feast. One of our guests brought homemade cheesecake, which topped everything off nicely.

After dessert, Lareyn and I cleared the coffee table and set up the Monopoly board. The game lasted well into the night, with Lareyn going bankrupt second. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and curled up beside me as I continued to roll the dice and renovate property. Around ten o’clock, two of our friends left, leaving a merry band of five. Shortly thereafter, Lareyn leant back, closed her bewitching eyes, and drifted off. Her hand, which she’d slipped under my shirt to massage my lower back, became still…but didn’t fall away. As if some part of her, though fast asleep, still craved to be in contact with her husband. Of course, I was in the midst of a financial battle with three of our friends, and couldn’t let on how touched I felt at that moment; how I relished the warmth of her soft, unmoving hand. It was with a heavy heart that I rose an hour later to hug two more friends goodbye, then sat back down to finish the game. It had come down to me and a bright young man named Mark, whom I work with.

The spot on my back where Lareyn’s hand had been tingled and felt naked, and I craved its return. But I soldiered through the rest of the game with the proverbial stiff upper lip.

Well, Mark finally won when I had the misfortune of landing on three of his highest priced properties in a row. But he was gracious in victory, and left quietly so as not to disturb Lareyn. For that, I was grateful, and returned from seeing Mark outside with a growing sense of desire for the beautiful creature lying before me. For a moment, I pondered waking Lareyn to make love, but decided against it. That would’ve been selfish. So I just sat there for a long while, admiring her in the bright moonlight. She lay so still, so calm, so comfortable. Her earrings sparkled. Her lips glistened.

Finally, I began to nod off myself.

Now, a decision had to be made. Though I longed for the warmth and solace of our bed, I also longed for the warmth and solace of my wife. To have the best of both worlds, I would’ve had to rouse Lareyn, thereby ruining her tranquility. That, I could not do. So I slipped upstairs, peeled our comforter from our bed, and returned to the den. Lareyn hadn’t moved, and looked more gorgeous than I could ever remember.

Outside, it was cold. Inside, it was perfect. I stripped to my boxers, left my socks on, and draped the comforter over us. I confess that the couch barely contained us, but I held Lareyn close to prevent her from slipping off. Her soft flesh melted in my arms. Our breathing fell into a steady rhythm, and her scent–not her perfume, mind you, but the smell that is specifically Lareyn–left me more intoxicated that the wine ever could.

And that’s how I fell asleep last night. With my wife, Lareyn, in my loving embrace. A satisfied grin on my face. Tears pricking my eyes from the memory of her hand upon my back. I did not dream, and it was the best sleep I’ve had in years.

When I woke, Lareyn was still in my arms; exactly where I wanted her. Reluctantly, I rose and stretched in the morning light. A slight chill pervaded our home, but it felt refreshing. I don’t work today, so I took my time brewing a pot of coffee and making ready everything I’ll need to cook. When Lareyn wakes, I’ll surprise her with a long kiss, a steaming cup, and the declaration that breakfast will be served shortly. If all goes to plan, we’ll spend most of our day on the sofa, laughing, loving, and dozing.

A perfect day.

But for now…

For now, I’m content to sit here. Just sit and write and gaze upon Lareyn. My beautiful, elegant, gracious wife. Lareyn, who is also my life. My love. My heartbeat. I’ll sit and watch over her until she awakens. ’Til then, there’s no place I’d rather be.

What can I say?

The driftwood has returned to shore, and I love my wife.

–March 12th, 2015


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Thank you for reading!

JLR

Blurring The Edge (Short Story Excerpt)

January 30, 2015

October 19th, 2015.

Stark City, Oregon.

9:01 p.m.

Well, today was just like any other day. A struggle. Again. Another uphill climb with only the thought of getting it all over with to keep me going. And once the long day is finally over, I can get on home and relax the best way I know how. By playing with myself.

That’s right.

Some men like to go out after work. They like to hit the bars, hoist cheap beer, watch sports, drool over trashy women, shoot pool, and shoot the shit. I guess that gives them a reason to keep on keeping on. Know what I say? I say they might as well shoot themselves right along with the pool and the shit.

Can’t say just why, but none of that appeals to me. Bars and women. No, sir. What a waste of time. For me, from the moment my eyes snap open in the morning until the moment I sign out in the evening, my mind’s on one thing and one thing only:

Playing with myself.

Nothing else feels quite the same as playing with myself. Not that I don’t love my booze and an occasional joint, cause I most surely do. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me tell you how each day begins and ends so you’ll have a better idea of what I’m rambling about. The beginning is always shitty, of course. Goddamn alarm clock sounds like a warning buzzer at a hockey game. It sure does the job of waking my tired ass up, though. So as soon as I can muster the energy to haul the load below my shoulders, I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. After I finish my business with the commode I step into the tub and take the longest, hottest shower the water heater allows. Even in the summer. And to save time, I brush my teeth under the hot spray. Afterwards, I’m able to move like a man and not a zombie, which makes getting dressed a bit more pleasant, what with all the bending and twisting involved. Then, before I leave, I make myself a cup of instant coffee with plenty of sugar and cream.

Now, I have to admit, sometimes I wake up with a strong urge to play with myself before I hop in the shower. Especially when I was younger. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to stumble into the living room, plant my bare ass on the couch, and shoot off right there. Sometimes, I have to stand in the bathroom and tell myself over and over, “Wait ’til you get home, boy. Wait ’til you get home.”

So far, I’ve never caved in and done it before work, which is something to be proud of. I mean, after all, I’ve been playing with myself for a long time.

Anyway, let me tell you about work. I’d like to say I have a really interesting job, but I sure as hell don’t. It’s at a big old dirty factory in the Industrial District. Stark City Manufacturing. Job level two, full time with benefits. Been on that damned assembly line for thirteen years now. I put two cogs and one spring on each part that slides my way. These parts are then fitted to valves that attach to hoses in car engines. Foreign engines in slick foreign cars. The kind the kids all drive these days. The details are kind of boring, I guess, but the pay’s good and the work’s easy. Maybe too easy. That must be why my mind always drifts off to my one and only hobby.

Now, you might think a guy like me, who gets off on playing with himself so much, would keep it quiet. And you’re right. I do. For the most part. But once, a long time ago, I let my dirty little secret slip, and I’ve been paying for it ever since. Being a loner type who usually keeps to himself, the guys and gals I work with were always trying to goad me out of my shell. “Whaddya do for fun?” they’d ask. “How do ya unwind after work?”

I’ve always been a man of few words. Don’t like to talk. Don’t like goddamn comedians trying to be funny. Especially when I’m the punch line. So their questions bothered me. A lot. I dealt with it by just shrugging and saying things like, “Nothing much,” or, “You know, the usual.” But over time, it got harder and harder to hide my aggravation, and the more aggravated I got, the more they kept up their bullshit. And one day I finally lost it with this big dumb parts polisher everyone calls “Jethro” on account of him being such a moron. “Jethro” kept asking if I had a life outside of work, and what kind of “lame hobbies” filled up my free time. The bastard wouldn’t stop, and when I couldn’t take it no more I just blurted out the truth:

That I like to go home and play with myself.

Well. Big mistake. There was instant laughter all around, and the news of my confession spread like wildfire. In a matter of minutes, I became known as “the guy who spends all his time jerking off at home.”

And that’s still how it is to this day. Everyone on the crew winks and smiles at me. Sometimes they whistle or slap me on the back. “Betcha can’t wait to go home and play with yourself!” is all I hear, all day long. Sometimes they dig down deep into their vocabularies for the most vulgar expressions they can find to describe what they imagine I do with my dick every night.

According to the assholes I work with, I:

Grease it.

Polish it.

Spit-shine it.

Stroke it.

Slap it.

Spank it.

Yank it.

Tug it.

Whack it.

Beat it.

Jerk it.

Or jack it.

And, of course, to them my dick’s not a dick. It’s a hose, a monkey (my personal favorite), a pipe, a rod, a tallywhacker, a schlong, a dong, a wang, a pinky, a knob, a salami, a wiener, meat, and pud. I guess they’re too juvenile to use grownup words like dick, cock, or penis. They also have other witty little sayings, like: choking the chicken, engaging in man-to-gland combat, and, of course, taking matters into your own hands.

Anyway. None of them know shit from Shinola. They are right about one thing, though. All day long, every miserable second of every miserable hour, I can’t wait to get home and play with myself. And that’s the only way to accurately describe what I do. I “play with myself.” I absolutely do not grease, polish, spit-shine, stroke, slap, spank, yank, tug, whack, beat, jerk, or jack any part of myself.

I just play with myself.

Every evening when I get home.

Yeah. I first started playing with myself around the age of seventeen. I’ve heard that’s kind of late for most guys, but I really wouldn’t know what other people get up to. All I know for sure is that I discovered it right about the time I started my first job as a bagger at Stark Grocery World over in the Dibert District. At first, I was just messing around…figuring the whole thing out…then it got serious. Playing with myself started to feel really good. Insanely good. Like an addiction.

What can I say?

It didn’t take very long before I was hooked.

Now I do it almost every day. And when I’m not doing it, I’m sure as hell thinking about doing it. Those idiots are right about that. But what might surprise them is that I never play with myself on my days off. Don’t know why, either. Just never feel the urge.

Now, over the years I’ve built up some discipline about the whole thing. When I was younger, I’d rush through the door and start playing with myself as soon as I could. Like a man possessed. But now I never rush. I take my time and enjoy it. I savor it like a delicious meal I might never have the chance to taste again. Hell, at this point, it’s become an honest-to-goodness ritual.

So what I do, is this:

Once I get home, I walk through the door of my shit-hole apartment as calmly as possible, and set my lunchbox on the counter in my kitchen. I know what’s waiting for me in the living room but I don’t dare look at it. In fact, I do my damnedest to totally ignore it as I walk past. I go into my bedroom, strip off my dirty work uniform, and slip off my boots. And I take my time with all this, psyching myself for the big event. Thinking about it all day long builds up a shit ton of anticipation, a shit ton of excitement. I know I’ll be playing with myself very soon, and even though I’ve done it thousands of times, I still can’t wait to shoot off on my couch.

Shooting off really is the greatest feeling in the world.


“Blurring The Edge” is now available in Ramingo’s Porch Literary Magazine Issue #3:

https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue-3/dp/1948920042


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