Home > prose and poetry > good morning / the blonde and the brunette

good morning / the blonde and the brunette

Outtakes. B-sides. Demos. Whatever you want to call them.

“Good Morning”
I am woken up by the sound of a dull thud right beside my bed. I roll over and there, on the floor, is my roommate: sprawled out and cringing, groaning and cursing. I deduce, in my half-asleep state, that he fell from the top bunk which he calls his. Wouldn’t be the first time, yet he still insists on sleeping there. I never understood why.

I roll back onto my left side, facing the wall, and try to get some more sleep, ignoring the obviously pained human being lying on the hardwood floor beside me. Cold-hearted, perhaps, but I’m not in the mood to deal with him. A man needs his sleep.

It’s then, just as I begin to fall asleep again, that I notice the smell of dried-up jism somewhere on my sheets.

That unmistakable, instantly identifiable, all-too-familiar smell.

I know that I didn’t have a wet dream last night—but I check to be sure nonetheless—and I began to wonder where it came from. Perhaps my roommate masturbated during the night, but it shouldn’t have gotten onto my sheets. And, last I checked, jism did not rain down from the sky.

I roll over onto my back and happen notice a hole in my roommate’s mattress, situated perfectly above my head, in between the wooden boards supporting him and his cum-stained mattress. A hole, I assume, just the right size for his penis.

I get up out of bed and punch my roommate in the face.

“The Blonde and the Brunette”
She’s dressed in a Louise Cyphre t-shirt and tight jeans. The beret on her head covering her short black hair makes her stand out from the mass of baseball cap-wearing youths that crowd the city streets.

Sitting in front of her is a blonde, skinny, wearing a dark grey sweater and loose-fitting jeans, staring out the window at the busy sidewalk outside of the small cafe they are in.

Two steaming-hot cups of coffee are on the table, but both of them pay as much attention to their respective cups as they do to the waitress when she sets them on the table: that is, to say, none at all.

The brunette alternates between staring at the blonde and looking at the hot cup of coffee in front of her; the blonde keeps staring through the glass, watching the ceaseless hustle and bustle of the city. The aroma of coffee, thick in the air, freely mingles with a heavy black cloud of unsaid words and unrequited feelings, hanging directly over their heads.

The brunette constructs perfect sentences in her head, but when she opens her mouth she finds that those very same sentences just flow out soundlessly past her vocal chords and into the atmosphere.

She is disheartened, but the blonde pays no attention to her.

An old man begins complaining about his coffee, his raised voice booms throughout the small cafe: one would not expect such a frail old man to still possess such a commanding voice. The girls turn towards the old man and watch the scene. A young, inexperienced waitress, no doubt sent over by the manager as a cruel joke, has to face the full wrath of the old man’s tantrum.

Eventually the other patrons begin to lose interest and return to their own business.

The two girls return to what they were doing before.

And the black cloud still hangs over them.

Categories: prose and poetry
  1. marmadukes
    Jul 2, 2008 at 21:24

    hey, im malaysian and 18 too, though im a girl. also an aspiring writer. well, sortof.

    so i stumbled upon your profile while i was browsing last.fm and all i have to say is that is that i love the way you write very much. i am overcome with jealousy.

  2. azzief
    Jul 3, 2008 at 03:47

    well thanks, yeah.

    also, while some sort of jealousy is good, don’t let it get you down. and stuff.

    (speaking from experience, that.)

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