Don't Drink the Coffee

David Haddock woke up for work at precisely six o'clock, because the secretary, John Parkinson, also set his alarm for that time--David had overheard it just the other day.

Then he took the same route home as ever, at precisely six o'clock, which was the same time everyone else went home.

David Haddock woke up at six o'clock.

David went to get his coffee--Starbucks.  He didn't like coffee.  He only drank it because everyone else did.

Coffee tasted bitter.

David organized some paperwork exactly the way his boss asked.

Then he took the same route home as ever, at precisely six o'clock, which was the same time everyone else went home.

David Haddock woke up at six o'clock.

David tried to drink his coffee, but coffee hurt.

His boss fired him.

And David starved.

The coffee

was

too

strong,

And David drowned in it.

-O.S.

I Meant to Write a Love Story, But That Went to Hell

She had been hiding for six hours.

He figured things were going pretty well.

In the cold.

He'd picked her up at six.

With no jacket.

And it was midnight.

On a very cold and cliché December night.

On a very cold and cliché walk through the mall.

She looked great--on the surface.

She was invisible--stealth came naturally to her.

He had no idea what was beneath her cold hand.

The only thing she ever wanted from him was his coat.  His hand wasn't part of the plan.

Was it dorky to giver her his coat?

But he couldn't feel her.

Probably. But he could never be sure what she thought of it.

He didn't know she was there.

She had been quiet the whole time.

No one had seen her except the girl in the Apple store because they made the the kind of eye contact that isn't just between eyes.

Every shadow of every stranger seemed to fall on her.

Christmas lights weren't bright enough to illuminate the real her.  No light was.

The cold had numbed his hand.

She was numb.

And he couldn't find her.

And the world was numb.

So he

So she

LET GO.

And it was the one thing they ever agreed to do.

-O.S.

No, This Is Not a Letter About Geography, This Is In Fact a Demonstration of the Short and Sweet Process of Booking Tickets

11.30.15

Dear Paris,

       I talk too much.  The title is always too many words and the letter itself is too short.  Too much of this, too little of that--my parents always wonder why I'm so tired and I've yet to explain that I'm on the run from inadequacy.  But I've always dreamed of living on the road.
       Paris, I get attached a bit too easily.  I hear one sentence about the location and I've already packed my bags.  Doesn't take long.  I extend my stay as long equally to my titles, as seen above, and yes, this is becoming a run-on sentence, and I'm only proving my point, okay, we're going to stop now.
       I have a habit of getting off topic.  A symptom of the chaotic condition called human existence.  Back to the point, I guess.
       I've seen so many walk your streets and see themselves in the reflections of your shop windows.  I've read so much and seen so much and heard so much inspired by your beautiful architecture and your complicated sewers.  So often I've walked the heart of another and seen each street the way they've seen it.
       What a beautiful city art creates, and what is born of the citizens.
       Tourism--no matter how frowned upon by some--is a gathering of the diverse for common interest, and inspiration is diverse, and art is diverse, Paris, it's my favorite thing about you--no matter what kind of story I'm searching for, the crowds speak and shout the words I need to find it, and the noise is music to me.
       Paris, I'm on my way.  Save a room for me.

Comme d'habitude,
-Oliver Shores