SHORT STORY SAMPLE(s)
The same dream makes an appearance in your mind many times - gypsies and prophets, and a man named Pupí.
All of these supernatural visits lay heavy on your conscious, like the mystic in Thailand who predicted all the lies you made up in your head to outsmart him, you really try to forget that one, the thought of people in your head freaks you out. Or the voluptuous beach side gypsy of Budapest who took your palm and said, “You have 5 mask and you will die with 2. You will have 3 lovers, 3 true lovers, and you will die alone… you’ll always be seeking, looking for yourself”... Or Pupí, the 2-dollar Cuban mystic who told your mother you would have no child- is this man a maniac? You don’t say that to a Latin mother, c’mon Pupí, shit. And that your true love has red hair, meanwhile you’re engaged to someone with brown hair - Fuck Pupí - really!?…. So now every women with red hair must be the one, right? Oh, maybe my fiancé is planning on dying her hair? Fuck that noise-
Fuck these visions of the future. You’re alone now and you keep moving like you were told… And nothing is bright or fresh or vivid. Nothing looks the way it might once have.
The thing about prophesy is there is no stopping it - it’s gonna happen; so how do you want to get there? You wanna get there kicking and screaming, crying, in pain; it’ll happen, but it doesn’t have to sting so much. You believe that.
You believe that what is easy to understand is what is hard. You don’t need tips, you need patience. You need to allow the unfolding. You need simply to allow. The double edge sword of prophesy is that, what will be will be. No matter what. Why is there no peace in this?
God, you wish you could pretend you didn’t hear those words, but you did. You ain’t gonna come out as the person you once were- you have been pushed through…
You think you know your life, you get caught up in wanting to know your life, wanting to understand everything- You play all of it over in your head again and again and again, “3 loves, just 3 true loves”. You stare at your palm, “How many lines do I have left?”
Alone and together at the same time, breathing the same air, this is how you know her: Nah, she ain’t perfect, but she ain’t bad either, she’s good, got a whole bunch of good imperfections, things that don’t fit just right, problems you can sink your teeth into.
She taste sweet. Sweetest you’ve ever had. You’re homeboy 15 years your senior and jaded by love, keeps telling you, “They get sweeter.” We’ll see Papi, we’ll see, gotta taste it to believe it.
She turns her back to you- her long beautiful spine and pale soft skin. She puts on her clothes and leaves the room. You think, if walking away can be art, then maybe so can prayer, so can staying.
It’s moments like this you compare the most, where gratitude grabs you and shakes you so hard, shakes you out of your bad habits, and you pray, for once and for all you have been shaken clean.
Love is a habit, like putting on a seatbelt, they say do anything 21 times and it’s in there, remembered in the body. You don’t have 21 lines, you have 3... The joys and pains of it remembered in the body. The mornings of coffee and eggs over easy become a habit remembered in the body.
Love is a pilgrimage strapped in bed sheets for protection- You don’t want protection, you want freedom, you wanna know you’re safe. All you wanna do is walk outside knowing it’s worth it. Fucking worth it.
You read somewhere that you’re supposed to walk clockwise around sacred objects. So you invite yourself over and you tell her, “let me walk around you in circles”. From left to right, over and over again- like a pendulum. As you circle her, you explain, “In Nepal this is what they do around the sacred; I’m not sure why yet, I stopped reading after I had the idea to make you sacred.”
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t think it’s cute. She won’t even look at you… “Please stop.”
You escape, you run away again, you howl like Lear - “Come on! Why can’t I do it right? Come on! That was a fucking really nice gesture, who else makes you sacred? Fuck!” You howl at the winds and the storm, some might call you crazy; but what soul isn’t without a bit of Lear- vain and foolish, out on the limb, desperate, crying to the storm, needing others to restore us?
God, sometimes you fail them so thoroughly. You live in this gap of the person you want to be and your failures to live up to them.
You allowed yourself to betray the best in yourself, and that’s what’s hard to live with. You are gonna die alone… Fucking gypsies…
And then you start meditating, again. You’re sensing a theme. You’re convinced you can become a monk, an artist monk, you can learn how to be alone- you’re great at being alone.
And then you read this story about how Zen arrived in Tibet as a wedding gift, that these two princesses each brought with them an unusual dowry: a statue of the Buddha.
These two remarkable women are known as the “Matriarchs of Buddhism”.
Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck- it was women we did this for? This whole thing – women. Women brought us peace. Women brought us a model of the entire universe, a universe built on love. The women brought us enlightenment. Fuck.
You run to tell her this story about women being vital to peace, “How women, no you, you are why I sit, you get it? I don’t wanna be alone, I wanna be alone with you, at the same time… All this, all of it, will crumble like a sand castle, grain by grain, and my spine will collapse like a tower of pebbles, and what a relief, you know? … Why won’t you say something? … In India, they believe that poetry regulates the emotions and helps order society, so I wrote you this poem-“
“Fuck India! … Fuck you and your stupid poems. You worry too much about happiness- no-no-no, you worry too much, you just worry, you think too much. Nigger, your life is not a self improvement project. Get over yourself. You left me. That’s it. There is no secret other than this. Regulate that with you fucking poem.”
“Everything will be alright”, you tell yourself. “You’re already alright”, you get out in prayer. “You are completely well”…
Life, choosing to actively and sinfully live life is painful. It is a constant unmasking, a peeling off of layer after layer of masks. It involves insult after insult. Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.
“She’s right, it doesn’t really matter how happy I am”.
Someone asked you recently if you had any tips for remaining calm and adapting to change. You asked him, “How can I get fit and strong without exercising?” You don’t think he liked your answer very much.
The fear of life is the beginning of wisdom.
You have a girlfriend with a long, tender neck with prominent collarbones with enough space for you to put your hands inside them and grasp on while she rides you into a living state you weren’t sure existed; they are so strong and powerful you can almost get your whole hand in there; you hold her by the bones because you wish there wasn’t any flesh keeping you separate and really you just want her not to go to far… On top of this perfect bone structure is an ass that seems to exist in a place beyond your dreams. An ass that could drag the moon out of orbit. An ass she never liked until she met you. Ain’t a day that passes that you don’t want to press your face against that ass and nibble and squeeze the delicate perfect flesh that she has been gifted. You love how she shivers when you bite, how she grabs your face to look at you, to see you, grabs it with purpose and intention, with hands so strong and fingers so long and tender they belong on display.
She’s an 80’s baby (but swears it’s more like 81’) whose obsessed with animation, both the voice and the colors. She has never heard of a shirt with sleeves and that’s okay, because her yogic arms are so lean they belong in a constant stance of prayer. Grew up in PA, but moved to NY as soon as she could, this you hang onto, you refer to her as from NY even in public places, it just feels better out of your mouth; it reminds you why she can feel like home. She is in a painting phase she tells you, she doesn’t show you anything, but you know it’s all good, she drew a picture once in your home of jellyfish and you thought it was the most glorious thing ever, so you know they’re good.
You tell her how excited you are that a Lesbian couple you know is considering having your child, you’re MAD EXCITED! She's Latin and you’re Latin and that's cool, because, one, that baby would be crazy cute, and two, you’ve been planting this seed for a hot minute.
And she says with a shy voice, “A first child is a big deal and I don’t wanna burst your bubble, but maybe, maybe you should wait for me…” she places your hand on her powerful and firm stomach full of promise… “Wait for this to be your first.”
And you think, damn, I was trying to be like Brando, (sort of not sort of) children everywhere, that’s the Dominican in you, as many little flaco-Rubirosa-tigre’s as you can get… You also think, that’s cool… Plus maybe she’ll change her mind.
She chose you based on mercy, not performance. You’ll never earn it. You’ll never deserve it. You couldn’t work hard enough for it. You couldn’t be perfect enough. It’s only because of her grace and mercy that she, the goddess of the universe says, “I want you in my family.” If that doesn’t encourage you, you’d better check your pulse.
Even with all this, you still wonder if she feels like you do. Like it might be love. But you’ll never ask, it’s not like she’ll say anything - because in truth, she doesn’t really speak. I mean, not like you who can’t stop talking all the time. All the time, you promise, you're gonna take a break from words, and she insist, “I like your words.”
She stares at your face like she’s seeing it for the first time, every time. You close your eyes so she doesn't see what you're thinking. She has a good grasp on watching you watch thoughts that you don't let simply fly by your mind. Thoughts you let sit heavy and loaded. So you close your eyes and pretend to be relaxing; but really, you're freaking the fuck out.
She just got out of a 3 year relationships that was just okay. Why would someone be faithful to a thing that is just okay? You've done worse to way better situations.
Your boy asks’ you, "you gonna stick around?", you say, "I’m thinkin bout it.” You always thinkin about it. It is the song that doesn't leave your head - “Will I stay or will I go?”
There are two types of people in this world, those who drag their teeth along a fork, making that intense metal scraping sound every time they go for a bite, like fingernails across a chalk board, except it’s teeth on metal over and over again. Then there are those who use lips to seal it all in and quite erotically drag it off the fork - it’s way sexier.
She’s the girl who uses teeth. And bite after bite, this vicious scraping; you’re worried about her enamel. Before she’d gone down on you, you wondered if she treated penis’ like forks… She doesn’t-
Actually, she’s great, she isn't exceptional, but she's doing it... And it feels good after. You're always ashamed afterward, and there's always panic; here there is none of that. In my experience you get one of 2 things, maybe 2, someone you can talk to, someone you feel safe with, someone pretty, someone you like having sex with, someone who's good at sex, someone who meets you and challenges you- you get 2, mostly 1... Here you get all. She's a unicorn. That's what they say right? I could say she's a 150 foot whale or a giant squid, also mythical, but she's more beautiful than that, more graceful, takes up less physical space and makes you believe in something beautiful. She's a unicorn.
Sure she feeds her cat water from the running sink, you plead to her, “Shorty, there's a drought”, she don’t care, she thinks it’s cute; I repeat, cute. She says, "I get it, but I am very earth conscious - I mean I use a Diva cup for god sake, thats a cup in my vagina because I don’t want paper waste."
She's such a contradiction you think, "We could live this life, for reals.”
One day, she's the apple of your eye. You tell her, “You are the apple of my eye… You're the apple of my eye, which didn't make sense to me before, but it does now, because I wanna eat you, which sounds creepy, but it's not, you're the apple of my eye and if I consume you, you are in me, we are one, you know?” And the next, you push her away- open up invitations to her departure. You tell yourself, if she leaves you will let her. It's easier now than later; “Nigger what you had was good, people don't get it this good, don't spoil it.”
In truth, your love for her is profound, but you fight to show it. You make yourself sick- flu like, headaches you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, the light hurts as you imagine a life without her.
Your silly, or cursed, a little bit of both.
The first time she texted you, it read, “You’re a really great dude.”After your initial impulse of her use of the word “dude”, and your personal feelings towards that;you waited for the but… But it never came… It feels like a but should follow… But as you stare at the screen… Nothing… Not even those little ‘they’re typing’ bubbles. Nothing.
You ask her, “you good?”, because you’re not. It’s called protectionism, you project your shit on another person. And You’re really great at it. You say, that motherfucker ‘s in a fog, he can’t think straight, you’re talking about yourself, how you’re in a fog and can’t think straight; or you say that asshole’s in denial, he’s in total denial, and it’s you, you’re in denial, you deny everything all the time, you live in a state of denial, totally, but it’s not you, it’s that other asshole, him, who’s in denial.
You wonder if she has the wherewithal that whenever you ask that it’s the end of days? Or at least it feels that way right now, because everything with you is so fucking serious - it’s all a matter of life or death with you.
“Will you please stop asking me if I’m good, if I’m not good I’ll tell you.”
You wanna trust her, you really do, you wanna know and believe that she’s a grown ass woman who can make decisions and take care of herself, you need to trust her, you need to. You think you’re trying to warn her, save her, but it’s just you - you know that.
You’re delusional, it’s true. You can’t stay in one place long enough without wondering what’s next.
You’re a romantic, it’s true. You love imagining what’s next. You love love and all it’s stages - there is no stage you do not love. You move through them so fast and open it’s no wonder you’ve been engaged twice by 28.
You’re delusional and a romantic. It’s a lot. You fall in love with anyone who shows you their soul. You appreciate rawness so much. You appreciate the girl who will hold your gaze for more than half a second. You wanna know everything about them. You do not hold back - you are often referred to as INTENSE -
“Hello, are you there, what’s going on? You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, I’m great, I’m okay, yeah, yeah, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m good.”
“The more you times you say it the less okay you seem.”
You smile and ask, “Is this our first fight?” Which was always a cute way of saying we never got in fights.
And then you're at this party and your miserable. Your miserable at the surface nature of life. It's not the party so much as the people, people in general, you don't really like people. You're too busy worrying about whether it will all work out, whether you're wasting your time, you can't stop contemplating life or death and what thing you will fall in love with next.
What are you doing? Why do you want to ruin this? Why does your ex text you twice a week at 2 o'clock in the morning telling you about all the promises you broke, about another commitment you made that you weren't able to keep? You know all this only goes away if you let it.
She adores you. She loves you, like that mad deep infatuation and admiration type love that you will never think you deserve, so you push her-
"I just can't be your friend right now, and I can't be your lover, I just can't do anything, I'm sorry."
These are your famous words for you, “I’m sorry”…
"You’re a fucking coward, you told me you had one assignment, one job, to tell others the good news about how wonderful it is to be alive."
"I finally get it, you think your gonna let yourself down, you might, a lot, you probably will…but you don’t/you can’t let me down.”
Boy o boy- the truth shall set you free, but first it pisses you off…
“Those who control their tongue will have a long life; opening your mouth can ruin everything.” That’s in the bible - Proverbs 13:13 - it's your weakest flaw, always has been, always will be- But not today, today you thank her silently and alone and in your journal for waking you up. You can’t go back to what was but you can grow, always growing, you love the silver fucking lining.
You thought this meant no more prayer, no more scripture, no more meditating, just living. You thought you were done with God. Then she chose you, based on mercy, not performance. You have always and will always be delusional.
Today, the bottom of your heart fell out, and you finally stopped, because there was nothing left to do.