Koi No Yokan

That’s when I saw him. I didn’t know who he was, where was he from and where was he going. His face was marked by this short stubby nose and a half crooked smile — there had got to be no charm whatsoever there. He was definitely far from what I considered to be handsome. I mean after all those Korean dramas I watched, I kind of expected my ‘love at first sight’ moment to be a little more grandiose — not that I had anticipated a tall handsome rich guy to fall head over heels for me (not that I would complain) but this was truly a little lacking. And yet here I am feeling some sort of weird attraction.

Koi no yokan. I read it about this morning on an article mom printed out about words that do not exist in the English language; it means a feeling that we will soon fall in love.

Heck, I didn’t even know if he was single, let alone fall in love, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that this is it even despite all my internal complaints.

So there I stood, in my fuchsia coat, awkwardly holding my left arm with my right, in a room of people in black sweaters and navy blue blazers. Dreadful colors.

Continue reading “Koi No Yokan”

Koi No Yokan


Trapped, in what seemed like eternity.

Wings of brilliant blue, royal plum, shimmering feathers, extending, as she glossed over, kissing every curve and turn, every nook and trap.

Doors opened and closed, but a prolonged gestation – a pregnant pause of indecision and she missed the opportunity. Her claws of faded orange could not find the place to push.

She was afraid, I think – of what the world was like.

She has been stuck, blind in this empty hollow place. Neither here nor there for too long; the cold wind didn’t even hurt anymore.

She has gotten used to the yellowing light on the ceiling as her sun. The buzzing of moths as her only companions. She has long forgotten if the sky is supposed to be this concrete blue, or is this even blue at all?

So no matter how she flapped or how she jumped or how she shot up so high, She could not soar.

The crashing of rocks hit the bottom of her stomach, and she could almost taste it.


for her

I slipped away quietly, as much as I could anyway. She stood leaning against the door frame, one slender leg crossed the other, red plump lips juicy like two slices of grapefruit– I must turn away.

But her long eyelashes, and those eyes! Endlessly brown like a pot of honey so sickly sweet. She looked like a 50s pinup doll, the tiny waist, the wide set of hips, and the slightly arrogant chin raised just above your eye level, and the eyelids half shut. A little Märta Torén like. Of course, Märta was probably far classier.

She was in a class all by herself.

“Hey there stranger,” smoke puff chatted it’s way up my face. I coughed. Second hand smoke was my least favorite thing about being around her.

“I think you got the wrong person,” I replied.
“You know what I think?” She stepped closer, one hand on my shoulder, ” I think you and I both know you are a lying son of a bitch.”

Ouch. To think after a night together she would say something a little nicer.

“That her?”
She flicked her cigarette towards a woman by the bar. The little lighted firework had a brief moment of brilliance and then landed on the cold hard floor.
“Who’s the suit?”

I looked over. The place where I sat had been taken over by a man in a cheap suit trying to buy the woman a drink.

“Donno, don’t care.”
“Heh,” she snickered, “that’s what they all say until they leave your bed the next morning cold and unfeeling, calling the whole thing a drunken debauchery.”

She tossed her cigarette on the ground and watched it die.

“Probably should get back to her,” she said.
“Yeah. Probably.”
“See you around?” she rose her eyebrow and leaned forward.
With my eyes trained on the cheap suit, I rested my finger on her puckered lips:
“probably not.”

The woman at the bar may never know that she is only half as pretty as Märta Torén, but she will always be good enough for me.

for her


The hollowness in her eyes was deafening. And the buzzing in my ears rang like the feedback mics blast when you get too close.

Suddenly my chest tightened as if the ribs decided to close in. Every breath felt like a struggle, like a thousand pine leaves were simultaneously rubbing on against my raw flesh. Or like a thousand fire ants were eating away at the goo and the meat, snapping their little shiny black fangs, tearing apart the tough muscles together and working their way through the juicy pulp. Oh what a feast they must be having!

I tried to draw a long breath to compensate, but my nose wasn’t cooperating and I dared not to open my mouth because I didn’t want her to think that I am about to speak.

That was when she rescued me. Just like the first time in first grade, when she extended her hand of friendship.

“Here,” she said. I drew a long breath.

“Here,” she handed me the papers.

I noticed the inflection in her voice. She trembled but she did her best to hide it. Not from me though, she could never hide it from me.

Continue reading “2nd”



some times i just want to sit quietly, pretending to be deep in thought, at a corner coffee shop, sniffing the aroma of morning dark roast brewing, dewp dewp, overfilling the cup plated on a chipped saucer – careful not to cut the u’s of your hands, the hallow spaces where another’s fingers may fit. someone may push the door open and the bronze, once golden and shiny, bell – been through the ages, seen all the wonders, all the miracles, and all the tragedies – would ring. i would still be humped over in my corner, basking as the white of the fish turned over, sizzling.

and it is then when i hear no sounds, and i disappear into a gust of wind, slipping through the cracks, sneaking my way into people’s conversations, torching the passion on their lips, and with a sweep of flight i lift up the edge of her skirt and the tip of his hat. and i melt into a puddle of water, a thousand drops of tears formed at the break of her heart, the cracks she duct taped together, the scratches she carefully covered, and the old tattoos of his name forever buried on the dark side of the moon.

and i curve and swivel, i loop around and about. i dot the i’s and cross the t’s. i dance on the pages and pages of love he writes to her. i am the words of apology that he speaks to her, softly, whispering sweet sweet songs in her ears.

and i die. i burn, in the torches i have set up, in the flames and fire i have ignited. and i whimper. i whimper and sneak my way back, slipping through the cracks and back to where the white of the fish tossed, sizzling.


Crude (209)

this is pretty crude. it’s pretty rough. i think people are like crude oil, there’s something more precious inside but it’s not always so easy to see because of all of our impurities. it’s also like life. we are all seeking something greater, but we are often so blinded by everything else that comes between us and that purity.

this is a very experimental piece. happy thanksgiving!

Damn. It’s a fucking left turn. Why can’t these cars get a move on it or stop so I can pass? Man and that blue Subaru next to me is fucking ugly. Who drives a thing like that around? Damn, move move move!

Fuck. Too late. Damn black SUV. You think you are baller with that flashing license plate? Fucking people and their goddamn slow driving. I hate making left turns.

Green light. Go go go! Damn. Fuck it! I’m about to ram into this car and bum it to the next lane if it doesn’t goddamn turn already.

Finally some action. The ground’s so wet. I can hear my fucking tires licking the rocks. At least there aren’t puddles everywhere. I’d hate that. Argh, the smell of wet soil is disgusting. It makes me sick. Imma goddamn puke.

Fuck! Another left turn? There are like fucking seven left turns in this half an hour drive. Where are all the right turns?

Fuck. I’m on a hill. I hate hills. They make me so anxious. I hate whoever decided to put a red light at the goddamn top of the hill. I feel like I can slip backwards anytime. Goddamn hills and goddamn red lights. They make me feel so anxious. I fucking hate this.

Continue reading “Crude (209)”

Crude (209)


She’s a stupid one. That Alice girl. Still waiting for her husband. Look at that damn shack of a house he left her in. No running water. Holes in the wall. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer. Stupid fan puttering in the corner, brushing up dust balls left and right, making me cough. Ain’t left her no money to fix up the place either. What’s a girl like her gonna do? Waiting for him, saying foolish things like he ain’t divorced her yet. Well I’ll be damned if he even knows what a divorce is. They weren’t even legally married. Liz didn’t care. As long as he took Alice off her hands, Liz could care less. What a mother that woman was!


Yeah well. Gone off to war. That’s what Marty said to her. Stupid girl. Believes everything he tells her. What war? I’ll be damned if he has anything to do with the war. He can’t even point out where Nebraska is on a map, doubt he knows where the war is. ‘sides, he’s a darn coward, that Marty. Was too chicken to work in the grind house. He ain’t got balls to fight in no war. He just darn right left her and he ain’t even got the manners to make a better excuse.

That stupid girl. Stupid stupid girl. Better off married a cow. At least a cow’s got a four good working legs and no complaints.

“Mama, mama!”

“Didn’t I teach you manners?”

“Miss Alice, she’s got visitors. A lot of visitors.”

“Now didn’t I tell you not to be nosing in other people’s business?”

“It’s bad news mama,” he said, “it’s the Mister — he’s dead.”


the last time for the last time

there’s an end to everything good and there’s a start for everything bad. as you wait for the red light and watch the SUVs, minivans and the occasional yellow Ferrari zoom pass, you pray they would stop so you can cross the street even though its green, and get to class because you snoozed your alarm one too many times. and as you drag your slightly wet shoes — it was raining yesterday and your shoes have been sitting near your door faraway from the window where there is ventilation, and they did not get dry in time. you climb those marble green specked stairs whirling through the doors for the last time.

for the last time you anticipate some teacher-bought munchkins but disappointed again so you wish you had that breakfast earlier. and as you sit in class listening to some last minute discussion of George Saunders and Brave New World. Randy or Jon and two mothers. and the day drags on but it will be the last time for the last time.

unless of course you come back. 🙂

the last time for the last time


it was strange writing from a girl’s perspective instead of a guy’s. i think i will stick with being a guy in stories from now on (unless if i’m the omnipresent narrator!). WEIRD. i won’t go into details about the inspiration, but it came from a song (which i don’t know the name of) that i heard yesterday at coffeehouse.  recently found out it’s called “Tragic Flaw” by Sarah Lizotte. (hope she doesn’t mind me putting her name here! yikes!)

To My Flaw,

You look tired. Your eyes half closed. You know what I mean. When your eyelashes are this long (I’m incredibly jealous of them, but you know that already), I guess you can deal with shorter eyelids.

Sleeping. You are sleeping. In my moon chair. The off-white (not dirty, just the normal color) cushion is slipping off but you don’t notice. You are beginning to snore. Lightly at first, and then it gets louder, but then like a dash of salt, it disappears.

You are wearing your blue (azure really) hoodie. You like that one, I know. But I don’t like it when you don’t share it with me because I like it too.

Continue reading “Flaw”


Set to Normal

Recently in a discussion about what normal is, a classmate mentioned that her father used to say “normal is only a setting on the laundry machine.” i thought that was super clever.


Set it to Normal for thirty minutes. Normal, for thirty minutes. Normal. Thirty minutes.


It tumbles in front of me. Tumbles and turns, and all the colors mix and melt into each other. The pinks, the blues, the shreds of yellow and green, orange too. The colors tangle and mingle, dancing, salsa in the salad bowl, parading on the floats through the crowded streets. Ah, the colors. Colors? Oh no!

Didn’t their mama tell them that colors aren’t supposed to go together?

Hey. Look. Are you going to stand there all day? I got another load I can use the machine for.

What did mama say again? Set to Normal, and how long? How long? Argh! I can’t remember. How long?

Hey kid. Look. If you want to play some stupid game, go play elsewhere. I got stuff to do here, now get!

The fat lady is looking at me and saying something. Her mouth is opening and closing, opening and closing. She seems angry. Her eyes are blue, big and round, so is her face. Not blue. Her face is not blue, but a bit burnt brown. I guess she goes to the beach a lot.

Continue reading “Set to Normal”

Set to Normal