Coffee Shop

Coffee Shop

by

Brandon Dues

She sat in a dimly lit corner of the coffee shop I often frequent. I've never seen her before so I assumed she was new in town. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. Tall, tan, beautiful, and by the look of the book she was reading, incredibly intelligent. By some miracle, I was able to place my order. This may sound a bit trite but I felt there was an aura about her. I was unnaturally attracted to her. I can honestly say I’ve never felt this way about anyone, let alone a complete stranger before. She was completely and utterly captivating. I walked past her. . . Several times. I’m not sure what I was expecting. In a perfect world this woman would see me, call me over, and we’d talk for hours until the coffee shop closed. We’d swing by my place for a late night drink and she’d fall asleep in my arms. Lost in this daydream, I barely heard the barista call my name for my order. I thank the barista and retrieve my order. Normally, I’d just leave and kick myself for saying anything. Ultimately, I’d pine over for the rest of my life and always wonder what could have been with the unlawfully beautiful woman that sat in the dimly lit corner of the coffee shop. I’ve seen my share of beautiful women but this was different. I felt like I needed to know this woman. I felt like I needed to be a part of her life. I felt like she needed to be in mine.

“Hi.” I said

Nothing.

I tried again. This time a little louder.

She looked up.

I smile. In my mind I looked really smooth, however, in reality I probably looked like the creepiest man in the state of New York.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. It’s funny how a beautiful woman can turn an otherwise confident man into a socially awkward child that completely forgets the logistics of common speech.

“Hi. . . “

“Hi”

“You said that already. . . “

“I did. Sorry. I noticed you when I came in. I don’t normally do this and what I mean by ‘I don’t normally do this’ is I never do this. I think you’re absolutely beautiful. I know you probably get that a lot and I’m truly sorry if I’m bothering you but I’d hate myself for the rest of my life if I didn’t say anything to you. . . My name is Scott, by the way.”

There was an eternal moment of silence. She sat there and stared right through me.

I was completely shocked when she extended hand and said

“My name is Layla.”

“Nice to meet you, Layla. I’ve already said this but you are absolutely gorgeous.”

“Actually, you said I was beautiful. Not the same thing but I appreciate the compliment.”

She smiled. It was hard to gauge whether her smile was genuine or just polite.

“Well, listen. I would love to sit here and chat up the beautiful and tastefully sexy woman at the coffee shop but I have to be somewhere. Can I have your phone number and maybe we could talk or set up a date? I’d love to take you out to dinner.”

She sat there and stared straight through me in the exact same manner as she did during my first introduction.

“Sure. Why the hell not?”

I reached for my cell phone. Nothing there. Of all days to leave my phone at home it had to be the day I met my dream girl. THE dream girl.

“Shit. Hold on a second. I’m going to go grab a pen. Just. . . Stay here.”

“I’ll be right here waiting.”

I smiled. She smiled. At this point, I’d like to think she was charmed by my forwardness.

I ventured over towards the front counter.

“Hey, sorry to bother you. Can trouble you for a pen?” I asked the barista.

“Yeah sure.”

He handed me a black ball point pen. I took the pen and scribbled a small design on the palm of my hand to see that it worked. I was happy when it did.

As I walked over to the dimly lit corner of the coffee shop, I was surprised , and frankly shocked , to find that my dream girl had disappeared. And it wasn’t just her. All of her belongings, her books, her coffee, everything had completely disappeared as well. It was as if nobody had ever even been there. It was if she never existed. It was like she vanished.

I looked around the coffee shop thinking maybe she had just moved her stuff or I had misread her location. In hindsight, I now realize how impossible that would have been. I took my eyes off of her maybe twenty seconds at the most. No person could humanly move that fast. It was as if she was a. . . ghost.

Confused, I walked back to the front counter of the coffee shop.

“What can I do for you, boss? You can keep the pen, by the way.” the barista asked.

“Thanks. To be honest, I was going to keep the pen anyway but I don’t feel as bad now that you’ve offered it to me. That’s beside the point. Anyway, did you see where that woman went.?”

“What woman?” the barista asked.

“The beautiful woman that was sitting in that dim corner.”

“There hasn’t been a person sitting there all day.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nobody’s sat there at all today.”

“That’s impossible. There was a woman there. A beautiful woman.”

“Are you sure about that, pal?”

“Positive.”

“I’m telling you. I’ve been here all day and I haven’t seen any one sit there.”

“Are you sure? Her name was Layla. She was tall. Had a nice tan. She was well read and by the looks of it very intelligent. She sat in that corner over there. She was. . . Perfect.”

“Sounds like a real catch but I can assure you nobody was over there. Take it for me, kid. If something sounds like it’s too good to be true, chances are, it probably is.”

Shots from the Dark

Shots from the Dark

by

Brandon Dues

I dressed

all the same

Very plain

Very plain

In an alley

down the block

Not the same

Not the same

Out of frame

In the dark

There were shots

Bloody stain

Blood stains

On the pavement

There were stains

Bloody stains

The night was dark

Very stark

The smell of murder

Flies like a lark

From the dark

Booming shots

All those shots

All those shots

She fell limp

In my arms

So ashamed

So afraid

She fell limp

In my arms

What a shame

By her side

Where I stayed

She was dying

I was silent

No words to say

No words to say

Such a shame

All the same

The night was dark

Very stark

The smell of murder

Flies like a lark

From the dark

Booming shots

All those shots

All those shots

Runaway

He ran away

Getaway

I had to wait

For the sirens

Have to wait

For those sirens

He got away

Still a shame

A perfect beauty

To have died

Such a way

Too far away

When I saw her

Without a name

All the same

The night was dark

Very stark

The smell of murder

Flies like a lark

From the dark

Booming shots

All those shots

All those shots

A Cautionary Song pt. 2

A Cautionary Song part 2

by

Brandon Dues

(Inspired by 'A Cautionary Song' by The Decemberists)

There’s a place my lover goes
When it is late
And I am soundly sleeping

Through the door
With sexy hair
She closes it
So I won’t hear her scheming
She’s creeping

And she calls a cab to take her where
The other man will stay until
She come to play

And he’ll gulp down drinks with olives
When she comes
He won’t acknowledge
Or have a word to say
Not one word to say

At the bar
It’s quiet now
A drink is passed
That’s mixed with gin and bitters

She takes it fast
And winks at him
As if to send a subtle little signal
“Come hither”

So, they meet up at his caravan
And travel far so no one
Knows their escapades

A place outside the county line
The motel is dubbed
‘The dirty rotten palisades’
They’re both getting laid

In the room
The shades are drawn
And they make love
As if they just got married

He pulls her hair
She bites his neck
The sex is long and so uniquely varied
It’s scary

And when she’s done
She showers
The kind that lasts an hour
In an attempt to
Wash her sins away

And he smiles
As she lathers
A smirk that’s for the latter
“That girl’s a crazy lay”
Such a crazy lay. . .

A smash cut to the bed we share
She climbs right in
And barely makes a whisper

I’ll ask her
What’s she’s doing up
And she’ll reply
“I had to use the pisser”
Then, I’ll kiss her
I kiss her

So, beware of your lover
If she seems so easily bothered
And next time you see a stain on her denim jeans
Remember, that she cheats when you’re asleep.

Here is the song that inspired this poem/song/whatever you'd like to call it

Needles

*The following story is loosely based on actual events and a dream I had one night.*

Needles

by

Brandon Dues

It’s just one of those lonely weekend nights. The type of night you wish you had somebody but slowly realize how disastrous a relationship would be at this point in your life. There’s not much to do on night like this. Especially, if you’ve done all there is to do.

8:30 a.m Wake up

9:00 a.m Morning jog

10:30 a.m Shower

11:15 a.m Grocery shop

12:30 p.m Clean up Apartment

1:15 p.m Eat Lunch

2:30 p.m Take a nap

3:30 p.m Organize Book Shelf

4:30 p.m Re-organize Bookshelf

5:00 p.m Workout

6:15 p.m Shower. . . Again

6:45 p.m Read Book

6:50 p.m Video Games

8:45 p.m Nothing

It’s 8:45 p.m. . . . Now what? Restless. Out of options. Nothing to do. Well, nothing. . .

I’ll go see a movie. Preferably a long one. I don’t necessarily care who is in it or what it‘s about.. Just as long as it’s long and takes up most of my night. There’s nothing more depressing than coming back to work with no stories to tell. I almost admire the hedonistic tales of my peers. Something about that that lifestyle is strangely alluring. I’m not that guy, though.

I digress. A movie. I have to find a movie to watch. Perhaps I’ll go to the local multiplex. I always hate going to that place The lobby is always teaming with hormonal preteens. They dress like low-end versions of television personalities, spout off jargon that would make my late English professor’s head spin, and interrupt pivotal emotional thematic film moments with lewd lowest common denominator jokes that were ripped off a sitcom that will inevitably get canceled. I think I’ll pass on the multiplex.

There is the Bistro theater. That may be good option. That way I’ll be able to get a decent meal and enjoy a new movie. . .. Well, on second thought, maybe not. There’s a certain stigma associated with going to the theater alone. I imagine the stigma is magnified for a Bistro theater. Not only are you watching a movie alone, you’re also technically eating by yourself. That’s essentially twice the loneliness. Also, if I do visit the Bistro Theater, I run the risk of running into a co-worker. I’m not exactly sure I want to explain why I‘m eating and watching a film alone on a Saturday night. I don‘t have a problem with it. I just wouldn‘t want to subject an acquaintance to the awkwardness of this situation. I’ll save it for when I have a non-platonic date. Whenever that may be.

At this point I’ve decided I want to go out but I want minimal human interaction. I guess I can go to that art house theater downtown. There showing a film called “Needles”. I’ve never heard of it. It’s probably one of those obscure cult indie films that pretentious film buffs swear they love but secretly hate. The type of movie that people defend vehemently. The type of film that is described as cerebral and mind-bending. The type of film that if by some chance you didn’t like it, it automatically means you didn’t get it or were too stupid to analyze the subtext. Regardless, it seems interesting enough. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

After driving through several backstreet and back alleys, I finally arrive at the downtown parking garage. There is a more direct route but I like taking the back alleys. You see a different side of the city. The theater, aptly named The Fibonacci, is tucked in seediest corner of downtown. It’s a bit of a walk to The Fibonacci from the parking garage. It’s not exactly safe at this time of night but I need the excitement. On my way to the theater I pass the citizens that society has banished from everyday life. Homeless veterans, drug addicts, prostitutes, runaway teens. People that once had dreams and ambitions. People who now have to spend a Saturday night on the cold streets, begging for change. And I thought my life was bad. . .

I arrive at The Fibonacci. The box office employee is a very tall, very lanky individual. He studies me as I awkwardly walk up to the ticket counter. I can see his judgmental eyes leering at me through is thick non-prescription glasses. I guess I’m not wearing enough plaid.

“Hi. Can I have one for “Needles”, please?”

He lets out a loud sigh, boisterously pushes a few buttons on the register, and begrudgedly hands me a slip of paper. I assume this is my ticket.

“That’ll be 9 dollars.”

I hand him my money as polite as possible. I can’t help but wander what I may have done to deserve such a negative response. Did I pronounce the film wrong?

“Have you seen this movie?” I ask

“No. Horror’s not my thing. I only watch student films from NYU.” he says in a very pompous manner

“Really?”

“It’s the only cinema that’s groundbreaking.”

“Have you heard anything about it?”

“I heard it’s mind altering. Kind of of like ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ meets ‘Primer’. Have you heard of those?”

“Actually I have! I own them on DVD”

“DVD. . .figures.”

I thank him. He rolls his eyes.

I make my way into theater. Half of the appeal of a place like this is the fact that is unappealing in every sense, especially compared to today’s standards. The worn down wallpaper hangs loose to reveal the mildew ridden drywall. The air is moist and humid. The sour smell of a recently vacuumed wet rug lingers in the air. At one point, The Fibonacci was a staple of the downtown area. Now, it is an archaic landmark on the verge of being condemned.

I make my way into the theater. The floors are extremely sticky. This is disturbing considering The Fibonacci does not sell concessions. I find a seat that optimizes the acoustics of the auditorium. I sit down. The seat is slightly damp and I can feel the asbestos entering my lungs. That reminds me. My annual check up is soon.

Ironically, I’m completely alone in the theater but I’m oddly fine with this fact. Anytime I’m alone in a theater I feel like I’m at a private screening. .The projector starts abruptly and sounds like I paper clipped a baseball card to the spokes of my bike. The lights dim. Images slowly start the appear on the old blemished screen.

The movie starts almost immediately. To my surprise, the film is in a foreign language with absolutely no subtitles. I laugh at the lack of research I did about this film and just go with it. The film opens with a chair sitting in a room and stays there for a very substantial amount of time. A man enters the room and sits in the chair. He begins spouting off dialogue in a language I don’t understand. As the scene progresses, I feel my self getting tired. I try to stay awake but my eyelids become exponentially heavier. I doze off.

I wake up to the bitter taste of iron. I sit up abruptly not completely sure of my current location. The Fibonacci. I’m at The Fibonacci. I move my tongue around my mouth to investigate the source. My tongue reaches a small metallic bit imbedded in the right side of my mouth. I reach in with my fingers, locate the metallic item in question, pull it out, and place it on my thigh.

I spend the next few minutes studying the six inch needle that was lodged in my gums. A needle A needle? How did a needle get into my mouth? Was it something I ate? It couldn’t have been anybody here? I’m alone. Right?

I get up from the damp chair and make my way up the sticky floors to throw dispose of the needle. On my way, the familiar taste of iron returns. I stick a finger in my mouth. There can’t be another needle in my mouth. There just can’t be. Right? While probing my mouth, I prick my finger on something sharp. I draw my hand back and wince in pain. I look down and see blood trickling from my finger. In a panic, I run to the restroom.

The restroom looks like something out of a torture porn film. The floors are soiled and wet. The smell of urine and custodial neglect radiate throughout the room. I make my way to the mirror that sits above a very filthy sink. The mirror is grimy and very cloudy. I can barely see through the soot. I take my jacket off, dab a small amount of water on it, and clear am section of the mirror. I open my mouth and see the needle I pricked my hand on. I rip a small off of a paper towel, wrap it around two fingers, and attempt to extract the needle.

What the hell is going on? How did all of these needles get into my mouth? Where did they come from? Did someone put them there? Did I put them there?

It’s funny. Anytime something strange or peculiar happens, I always find a way to blame my self. Does that make me a narcissist or just a person with a very masochistic self image?

After several unsuccessful efforts, I finally extract the needle. I place it on the sink. This one is significantly larger than the other. It’s absolutely mind boggling. How did something that large get lodged into my mouth? I’m in such awe that I barely notice the pool of blood filling my mouth. It doesn’t occur to me until I see it splash on the porcelain sink. I spit it out and glance at the wound in the mirror. A river of blood streams from my mouth and onto the mirror. I wipe it off with my jacket. My eyes freeze in horror as I notice two more needles wedged in my mouth. The shock wears off and I start removing the next two needles. As I place the two bloodstained needles on the sink, three more needles appear in my mouth. With tears in my eyes, I pull out the next three. The pain is absolutely unbearable. The blood I’m unable to spit out, accidentally gets swallowed. After the next three are removed, five more appear. When I place those on the sink, eight more appear. Then thirteen. Then Twenty.

My hands and mouth are stained a deep and dark red. My teeth are stained that ugly brown color you find on tissues used to wipe bloody noses. I take out the last needle and wait for more to appear. Suddenly, the bleeding stops. I take a second to put everything into perspective. My mind is in complete shock. I glance at my self in the mirror. Blood covers my hands, mouth, and teeth. My eyes are red. My tear ducts sore. The front of my white oxford shirt is completely soiled with blood, sweat, and tears. I look like the killer in a slasher film. This was a new shirt. I had just bought it yesterday. I count the needles. Each one bigger than the last. Fifty-two in total. Fifty-three if you count the one I threw in the trash. I run water through my mouth to get the bloody taste out of my mouth. I check the mirror one more time to make sure all of the needles are gone. None in sight. My mouth is needle free.

I run some water in the sink and clean my face off. As I’m scrubbing my face, I notice something behind me. I turn around and see a man standing six feet in front of me. A man that looks awfully familiar. A man that appeared in the film I fell asleep on. A man that sat in the chair. A man that spouted off dialogue in a language I didn’t understand. The man creeps towards me in a manner similar to a zombie. With every step, I can feel another needle growing only this one’s different. This needle is in the back of my throat. With each step the needle grows. I try to move but I’m frozen with fear. Fear of what he might do. Fear of what may happen. I feel the needle puncture my carotid artery. I cough up blood and drop to my knees. I can feel the blood filling my lungs.

“Help me!” I gurgle as I place my hand out.

The man says nothing. He only creeps towards me. I try to take out the needle that’s lodged in my throat but my efforts are futile. There’s too much blood. I place my hands around my throat and try to cough up the needle. Nothing. It’s still there but it doesn’t grow. I look up to find the man standing over me. He starts spouting off dialogue but I still don’t understand. I can’t breathe. My vision gets blurry. I fall onto my stomach. Blood pours from my mouth like a geyser. The man places a hand on top of my head and. . . .

“Sir!”

. . . I wake up.

“Sir, you’re film is over. We’re closing up.” a custodian says as he shakes my shoulder.

I take awhile to come to. I feel my throat and probe my mouth with my fingers. I look at my jacket, my shirt, and my hands all at once. I don’t realize how insane I look until I see the look on the custodian’s face.

“Sorry.” .

“How was the show?” he asks

“It was. . . Mind-altering.”

He laughs “Did you enjoy it?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I fell asleep.”

“Well, at least you have story.”

“You know? I do. I do have a story to tell.”

The End

Sailor

Sailor

by

Brandon Dues

Night

Lonely like a lost child

I sit here and wonder if I’m any different

No direction

No purpose

Consume and be happy

Stay on path

Achieve the goal

I stumble to my room.

Collapse dressed in rags

I think about what was said

Who’s responsible for these antics?

Where did these inappropriate thoughts originate?

No purpose

No direction

Impulse

Inebriation

All just excuses

I doze off

Come to shortly after

The mirror

A phantom stares back at me

Red eyes

Slight smirk

Completely full of himself

A shadow of his former self

All in fun

But where does that lead?
How far will it go?

No future

No direction

No purpose

Where does it end?

Sleep all day

Play all night

“The wicked shall be punished”

But isn’t that all relative

Sex

More Sex

More sex with different people

Death

Past transgressions

Risk

Reward

The dark side

The illusion of confidence

The fallacy of arrogance

“Creativity is currency”

These are the thoughts that I think

This is the life I lead

And

This is how the world ends

Excerpt from "Right of Way"

This is an excerpt from a short story I'm writing. It's a home invasion thriller called "Right of Way". This is a very early and semi-rough draft of the first chapter.

“Honey, there’s someone outside.” Layla said as she emptied the dishwasher.

“What‘s that?”

“I said there’s a man outside.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, is it one of the neighbors”

“No.”

“Are you sure? You know Alan’s brother is visiting.”

“Yes, I’m sure and it‘s not Alan‘s brother. And of course I know his brother is visiting. I was the one that told you.”

“It’s probably the garbage guy or something.”

“Patrick, it’s 10:00 o’clock. When has the garbage man ever come this late?”

“Lay, no need to get snappy.”

“I’m sorry, babe. This guy is just kind of creeping me out.”

“What’s he doing?”

“That’s the thing. He isn’t doing anything. He’s just standing there. Can you come over here.”

Patrick makes his from the living room to the kitchen..

“How long has he been standing there?”

“I’m not sure. I just noticed him a minute ago. I think he‘s been watching me.”

“I’m sure he’s not. . .Wait, what do you mean he’s been watching you?”

“I mean he’s been watching me.”

“When?”

“The past few weeks. The last time was the other day at the grocery store. Remember when I called you and asked you if it was raining? I didn‘t need to know. I just wanted you on the phone in case something happened”

‘Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“Are you sure he’s been watching you, Lay? You have a tendency to get paranoid about things.”

“Yes he is, Patrick! At first I didn’t think anything of it. I just thought he was checking me out or something but then I kept seeing him. I said something to him once.“

“What did you say?”

“He was sitting in the lobby at work and I asked him if I could help with anything. He said he was fine. Then, I asked him if he had an appointment and he said no and just sat there. It was really creepy.”


“That sounds absolutely frightening.”

“I’m serious, Patrick! I called security but he left before they came down. Can you go out and say something to him?”

“What do you want me to say?”


“I don’t know? Tell him you’re going to beat his ass.”

“Or I can just ask him what he’s doing.”

“Just go out there, Pat. Please.”

Just as Pat was about to return to the living room and completely dismiss Layla‘s accusation, he looked into her eyes. There was something different. Something real. Layla genuinely feared for her life and Pat knew what he had to do.

“Alright. I’ll go say something.”

“Bring a bat or something.”

“Layla, I’m not a barbarian. I’ll just go talk to him.”

“Ok. Be careful. I have a weird feeling about this guy.”

“I will, honey.”

Patrick lightly kissed Layla on the forehead and made his way out of the kitchen. Layla watched attentively as he ventured across the street to the man she thought had been following her for the past few weeks.

Layla took out her phone, programmed ‘911’, and clutched the phone in her palms. Layla always planned ahead. This was strictly a precautionary measure. Layla knew Patrick would be fine, however, there was a sense of dread gnawing at her. She had a terrible feeling something horrible was about to happen.

Across the street, Patrick and the mystery man exchanged words. Layla’s mind raced as she speculated the dialogue of the confrontation. The mystery man walked away and Patrick jogged his way across the street.

“That was it?” Layla thought.

Layla quickly made her way to the front door to meet Patrick and inquire the details of the confrontation.

“Crisis averted.”

“What happened?”

“I went out there and asked what he was doing. He didn’t say anything, so, I told him if he didn’t leave I would call the cops and that’s when he left.”

“Did you ask him why he was following me?”

“No.”

“What the hell, Patrick! That was the whole point of you going out there!”

“I was under the impression the point of me going outside was to see what he was doing. . .”

“That’s bullshit! You’re unbelievable! Way to make your wife feel safe.”

“It never came up. What do you want me to do?”

“Just leave me alone right now.”

“Honey, if you see him again just call the c---”

Patrick and Layla’s argument is interrupted by the doorbell.

“Now who could that be?”

Patrick quickly made his way to the door. Layla followed close behind him. Patrick peered through the peep hole to see who it was.

“Who is it?”

“It’s the guy.”

“Don’t answer it! I’m going to call the cops!”

“Calm down, Layla! Maybe he wants to apologize or explain himself.”

“Patrick, I swear to god if you answer that door.”

“Everything’s going to be fine. I promise.”

The Next Several Days

The Next Several Days

by

Brandon Dues

Drag it out

You’re dead

Dragging out

It’s dead

There’s no use

Block out what she said

Tears steam down in puddles from your eyes

You lay awake at night

“Has she changed her mind”

Check the phone

There’s nothing

Check the mail

You’re nothing

Try another time

Before you go to sleep

Climb the cliff

But you know it’s much too steep

Taking back the fights

Admitting that you’re wrong

Breaking down

When you hear her favorite song

The pain is too unbearable

It won’t subside

Lay awake a night

“Will she change her mind?’

Formulate a plot

Switch up all the tactics

Make her believe the same

“Are you thinking something drastic”

Refresh the page

She’s on

Refresh the page

She’s gone

You hate the game

But you love the play along

Take a second

and

Swallow all your pride

4 a.m

“She’ll never change your mind”

Give it up

It’s done

Give her up

She’s fallen

Out of love with

The life you once promised

Take down all the pictures

And

The silly props

Hopes and Dreams inside

Place them in a box

Erase it from your mind

Lay awake

You’re fine

It’s hard to think about

“Has she changed her mind”

Feeling really bad

Spoil last nights fun

Spend the day

Giving back

All her stuff

She looks you in the eyes

You stare into her eyes

“It should come as no surprise”

Tears well up

“I’m sorry”

“But I’ve had enough!”