Category: ‘short story’

the prettiest girl of all

July 12, 2010 Posted by the writer

the prettiest girl of all

Claudia is one of those hip girls with the right words and the right blood. Bank account blood that buys her big shoes and pays for her expensive apartment. Blood that gives you blonde hair and a straight nose. Thin thighs and slate blue eyes. (more…)

Don’t drink today

June 29, 2010 Posted by the writer

“Don’t drink today,” says Charlie. His left hand connects with my ass in three ways. Slap. Grab. Shove. A gust of air-conditioning sails from the Lex and 43rd entrance to Grand Central Station. It cools my blush.

Charlie and I exchange “God bless” knowing we’ll never see each other again. We met ten minutes ago on the corner of 54th and 5th.

“Are you Jewish or Italian?” asked a 5’2” Puerto Rican stranger while I stood waiting for the lights to change.

“Sicilian.”

“I knew it!”

We start to walk.

“What’s your name?” queries the tanned skin man with seaweed eyes.

“Stella.”

“Stella,” he says connecting my hand to his flower petal lips. “I’m Charlie.”

Charlie is the fourth guy to try to pick me up this morning. First a pair of office cleaners hollered out the window of their van while I strut up Park, “Lookin good Mama! Alright?!”

Then a St Lucian boy cleaning windows along 47th met my smile with, “Mawning be-yootiful womun. Yer lookin fine dis fine summah day.”

“I bet you woke up with that smile,” says Charlie admiring his reflection in each lens of my red-framed Ray Bans.

“Gotta greet the day positive. Where you off to?”

“Houston. There’s a pawnshop down there, they owe me six hundred bucks. You?”

“Grand Central Station.”

“I’ll walk you.”

A group of students on a field trip are snapping shots. “That’s two dollars!” yells Charlie.

Mobs of people rushing around cause us to momentarily disconnect our hooked elbows and walk single file. I pass an orange skinned yuppie wife; a greasy haired lawyer puffing a cigar; and a Mexican delivery boy pushing a cart of edible delicacies.

Charlie makes his way to my left saying “Hold on,” and crossing back to the right where we link up again.

“This is where a man’s supposed to walk. So he can protect in here.” He presses one small hand to my flat stomach.

“I take it you’ve got a strong right hook? Otherwise you’d want to be on the left?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe I can defend myself. ”

“Serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Ha!”
In six inch heels, I’m approximately nine inches taller than Charlie. I’m concerned he’s pegged me all wrong in this the suit until I say, “I just finished another bloody interview,” and he replies, “Just go to McDonalds.”

We’re holding hands walking down Madison Avenue and he’s saying, “Italian girls don’t smile like you, ever been with a Puerto Rican? I’ll start at the bottom of your feet and work my way up.”

Charlie spots a seafood delivery man flailing his cigarette and barking into his cell phone. “Fucken! Are you serious?! You gotta be kidding me! Look… I told you!”

Charlie raises his right hand like a peace symbol, flips it toward his lips halfway up, and connects his fingers to his mouth with two quick pats. The man nods, reaches in his pocket, and hands Charlie his pack.

“One sec,” Charlie tells me with a wink. He releases his grip to retrieve a Newport. Still gabbing, the guy flicks Charlie a light and nods when he says, “Thanks man.”

“You smoke?” asks Charlie as we link arms and resume strolling.

“How so?”

“I bet you drink. You drink Vodka huh? You’re an alcoholic! Ha!”

A family of tourists looks down to pretend that the site of Charlie and I does not fascinate them. I wink at their teenage daughter who giggles and wiggles her fingers my way.

“What’s your favorite color?” asks Charlie over the blast of another impatient cab.

“Orange… I like yellow too.”

“You’re a rainbow girl,” he says flashing very white teeth for a cigarette smoker. “Did you drop something?”

I know that I haven’t but still roll my eyes and check the sidewalk. “Made me look.”

“No, you did!” he insists. “It was my heart! It fell at your feet!”

“Good one!” We high-five.

“Do you know how to Latin Mambo?” he asks serenading me. “Amor para mi, eres lo mas sublime…”

“Don’t drink today,” says Charlie. His left hand connects with my ass in three ways. Slap. Grab. Shove. A gust of air-conditioning sails from the Lex and 43rd entrance to Grand Central Station. It cools my blush.

the sort that makes your pupils dilate.

June 27, 2010 Posted by the writer

He’s the sort of character that makes your pupils dilate. My black hole gaze is tracing the shift of his shoulders and sway of his hips as his expression of nearness rapidly unveils. (more…)

unnecessary attempts to measure worship

June 2, 2010 Posted by the writer

There’s a force between them, a push that moves him outside and her within. It’s in the way she teaches him to remember – how he shows her to forget. (more…)

brisbane. you crazy.

May 7, 2010 Posted by the writer

This is a short story I submitted for the One book many Brisbanes comp that happens every year in my current city of residence. They knocked it back… suckers.

THE TENDER CALCULATION OF REGRET’S DISCOVERY

Brisbane is roughly 25,652 kilometres from New York City, give or take a few. When I left Manhattan, my shrink told me that I was approximately 14.7 years away from killing myself. This gave me a life expectancy of roughly 38.5.

Over the past two years the accent I arrived with has finally softened. I know to say ‘Bris-bin’ instead of ‘Bris-bane’ and can even get away with the occasional ‘mate’. I have a unique appreciation for blending in, keeping a low profile.

I’ve learnt a lot since moving to Brisbane. I learnt that the scent of jasmine in Roma Street Parkland on a spring afternoon is more intoxicating than anything I ever bought from the dealers up on Dyer Avenue in the Bronx. I learnt that for less than three bucks you can ride the City CAT up and down the Brisbane River all day undisturbed.

That’s where I met Matiu. (more…)


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