Category Archives: Featuring

Her name is Noel, & she is AWESOME.

I made a friend from my side of the world. She’s awesome & she’s a writer (so basically she’s double awesome). Check her out, guys.

Prose piece by Noel:

When they’d first met he was curt and professional, barely allowing himself to smile. As their paths crossed over the span of several weeks, he answered her questions with a directness and brevity she equated with disinterest – annoyance, even. Resigned to interacting with him on a strict basis of necessity, she was taken aback when he suddenly called out to her playfully one day as she stood unknowingly blocking his path in the common kitchen. “Scuzzi seniorina”, he called out with a singsong quality to his voice. As she turned to see who came upon her and saw the face she’d learned to treat with quiet practicality, she instinctively replied with an apology and cleared the path; but the unusual playfulness of his words had made its impact and left a subtle smile in her eyes. “Just don’t let it happen again,” he warned, a broad smile eliminating any possibility of misinterpretation. He was finally interested in knowing her; or finally allowing himself to act on it, she hoped. She laughed broadly – out of surprise and pleasure – and followed his eyes until his efficient yet relaxed stride took him out of sight. In that exchange, they both realized how similar they were. The instantaneity of their chemistry excited and intimidated them both.

Marriage Crash pt. 1


Part 1 by Reggie:

I can’t tell you much about today, except I hate it. Sitting on a leather couch telling a complete stranger about my life kinda puts a damper on things, but what can you do when your wife thinks you have a failed marriage? So here we are, talking things over with a marriage counselor. But just how did we get here?
She says I never want to talk, which is completely true. After 5 years of marriage, what is there to talk about really? After the first couple of years you go from horny jack rabbits, to just having an understanding.

“He always wants sex and doesn’t understand that sometimes I’m just too tired.” I quickly snapped back: “Too tired? Jess, all you have to do is fuckin’ lay there. You’re too tired for me to do all the work?” Even though I’m responding, my mind is somewhere else. There’s this woman I’ve been seeing for a few months now. Never thought I’d be that guy that cheats, but I just can’t take this anymore. I met Stacey on one of my depressing nights out with the boys at the pool hall. Not only is she beautiful, but she’s smart, and funny, too. She listens to rap music, has the cutest giggle, and is always up for sex where ever we are! (Last night, she surprised me in the men’s bathroom at Olive Garden). She’s only 19, but I can mold her, you know? “Greg, babe, when are we gonna take the next step?” is what she always asks. I respond with a sly, “In due time”.

Another hiccup is she doesn’t know I’m married! The way I see it, this will be over soon, anyway, but my wife is determined to make this work. It is now lunch time, and the counselor says she is gonna get a bite to eat and resume with us in 45 minutes. Jess jumps up and runs to the bathroom crying, and I feel I’m to blame, so I get up to follow. As I did so, the counselor instead insists I take a walk with her. Greaaattt. We begin walking towards the food court and chatting a bit about my failing marriage and her concern for Jess. We sit down and talked as she takes out her packed lunch, and assures me everything will be okay if we just work at it. She dashes a smile across her face: “Over here!” she says. “Greg I want you to meet my daughter Stacey! Completely slipped my mind she was suppose to be taking me to lunch.” I just died.

Part 2 by ME:


Fucking married?

He’s standing there, looking at me with this stupid little nervous smirk on his mouth, stuttering out a “hello, good to meet you.” I can’t reply. All I can do is stare daggers at him as everything, the whole past six months, becomes a little more clear to me. Like if I’d been seeing it all through a thick haze, and the air just cleared. It takes all the self-control I can muster not to reach out and slap that stupid, (but so handsome, even with the dopey deer-in-the-headlights look it has on now) face of his.

I turn to my mother. “I can’t eat with you today.”

She frowns. “You came all the way here to cancel?”

I shrug, already breaking away from the situation. “Yep, didn’t wanna break it to you over the phone. Tomorrow, maybe?” I look at Greg and spit an acidic, “Nice meeting you, Sir,” before I rush out of the cafeteria. Behind me, I hear him stammer something to my mother about looking for “Jess”. Jess. Is that her name? Stupid name.

Before I know it, he’s next to me. For a moment, we walk but he says nothing, and I sure as hell say nothing. As a matter fact, I keep my lips pressed tightly together, afraid that if I open my mouth, fire will burst out instead of words. “Stace,” he says, finally, just as we reach my car.

“How old are you, anyway?” I suddenly lash out, spinning to face him. That’s yet another one of his secrets, along with where exactly he lives, where exactly he works… I don’t know if I’m angrier with him for being a conniving asshole or with myself for being just a plain fucking idiot for not seeing this sooner. “Are you, like, forty? Do you have five kids, too? A dog named Rex?”

He scoffs. “Rex? C’mon, give me more credit than that. I’m way too witty to ever name my dog anything like Rex-” He cuts off as I turn away from him. “No, wait! Wait! I’m not forty! Do I really look forty to you? I’m twenty-five, and I don’t have kids. And my dog’s name is Sir Georgoff Van Barken-Dugen XIV.” Again, I press my lips together, this time so my laughter won’t ruin the intensity of my glare. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you I’m married, but it’s complicated.”

“Obviously.” Sometimes my mom comes home and talks about her cases. Nothing but drama, issues, and dysfunction. It occurs to me that she may even have told me a thing or two about Greg and his Jess before.

“We’re on our way to getting a divorce! I swear, this isn’t going to last much longer, it’s over-“

“Marriage counseling isn’t the road to divorced,” I say. “And I know I may have been stupid for not seeing through you before, but don’t even think you’re gonna reel me back in with the, ‘I’m leaving her, just give me time’ bit.”

He moves closer to me, his brows furrowed, his shoulders sunk. He looks like a sad little puppy. Way different from the strong, confident, sexual devient I’m used to. Everytime I see him, a part of me is prepared to be pulled into some dark corner or the back of his car to be taken, and most of the time that’s the case. Stupid, stupid me. He’s probably just not getting any at home. Maybe she’s always too busy or too tired. Or maybe she’s just boring. One of those who prefers missionary and thinks oral is degrading. No wonder he’s grovelling. “She was my high school sweetheart,” he explains. “It’s not so easy. Listen, why don’t we meet later so we can talk about it?”


“Around eight. Please?”

I glance over his shoulder and cross my arms over my chest. “Eight? Sure, eight’s fine. Let me just make sure it’s alright with Jess.” He looks confused for a moment and then turns to see his very confused looking wife headed in our direction, questions clear on her expression. Greg turns back to me, horror and please-don’t-say-anything in his eyes. He has no time to say anything else, though, because in seconds, she’s right there, standing beside us.

“Hello,” she says, looking expectantly at me. She’s pretty. Goddamn it. Then she looks at Greg. “What’s going on?”

Dinner Guest

Part 1 by ME:

Is that him? No, it can’t be. The universe isn’t that cruel. It sure looks like him, though. Maybe even a better him then I remember, not that that says too much seeing as how I can’t remember a lot of things from that night.

It was one of those nights you have when you leave the house knowing you’ll have to apologize to your liver in the morning. I think I was a little intoxicated by the anticipation alone, before I’d even reached the bar. That’s where I’d met him: In the bar, after a few too many shots. My favorite song was playing and I was rocking out by myself to it, eyes closed, singing loudly and off key. For the two minutes the song played, I was completely oblivious to everything else. But when it was over, I opened my eyes and immediately met his, swallowing me whole. Suddenly, I was completely oblivious to everything but him.

And now here he is again, in my living room, being introduced to my whole family by my little sister. She’s been talking about him for months already, about this new, special man in her life. The one, she says. Yeah, he’s the one alright. The one who had me out of that bar and into his bed faster than my memory can comprehend. Talk about happy endings. Let’s just say, it’d been a really good night. The next morning, I’d snuck away before he could wake. As appealing as waking up in his arms and maybe having breakfast and turning it all into more than just a one night stand sounded, it wasn’t very probable. So I’d left, but I never stopped wondering about him.

That man. Apparently the one for my sister.  

I’m almost tempted to sneak out of the room before they reach me. What if he recognizes me? Will he tell her? Should I tell her first? Or maybe he won’t remember. Maybe it’s behind us, maybe no one ever has to know. I consider both possibilities as my sister’s eyes fall on me next and she pulls him excitedly in my direction. “And last but not least,” she gushes, “this is my sister.”

His eyes briefly flicker with recognition, so briefly I would have missed it if I had blinked. He outstretches his hand to take mine, smiles warmly, tells me it’s a pleasure to finally meet me, he’s heard so much. I’m trying to read him, but it seems impossible.  Does he remember? Does he recognize me? If he does, he doesn’t say so. He certainly doesn’t show it. So I relax a little, breathe, allow myself to stand and follow my family into the dining room for dinner. Maybe everything will be fine. Maybe that night will remain just another lost the haze of all other drunken mistakes.

But then, the sound of whistling catches my attention. It’s him. He’s whistling. “Hey!” my sister says, pointing at me. “That’s her favorite song.” He replies, “Oh, yeah?”, but we both know that he knows that, and as we continue to the dining room, I know it’s going to be a long evening.

Part 2 by Reggie E.

My girlfriend is everything I’ve ever wanted. She’s attractive, smart, funny, she laughs when I fart, and her favorite thing to do on fridays is catch re runs of “Family Guy” with me. Yup I’ve got a keeper, and if I wasn’t so into this girl, I wouldn’t be as nervous as I am right now to meet her family. “Don’t worry you’ll be fine just be yourself,” she says with a smirk. Before I know it, we’re at her parents’ place and I’m ready to kiss ass because these kind of get togethers are always like job interviews.

So what do you like to do? What school did you go to? Blah blah blahhh.

Her parents however, are nothing like I expected. They are welcoming and have no boring school questions. Instead, her dad opts to know what kind of liquor I like, which was pretty cool. I respond with, “Anything that puts me to sleep.” The room bursts into laughter. It is at this moment when the door opens and we have another guest.

A smiling, gorgeous– familiar– face, and I NEVER forget a face. This is the same woman from my spontaneous night a while back. We met at  Calico Jack’s, where I approached her moving her hips to a sweet tune. We shared a euphoric night together at my place and parted ways like it never happened.

Its written all over her face that she remembers who I am. Even as we are introduced, I can’t help but play back the memory of our sexual chemistry that night. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t try to reach out to her again after that night, but I never saw her again– until now at least, and obviously against her will.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” is what I say to kill the awkward situation. This is my girlfriends sister? How great is my luck?

As we make our way back to our seats, I unknowingly start to whistle the tune from that night. She looks at me in complete shock. “Is that ‘Gucci, Gucci’ you’re whistling?” inquires my lady. “That’s my sister’s FAVORITE song in the world.”

“Oh, really?” I say out loud, but looking into her eyes, I knew that all along. Long night ahead, indeed.

Drunken Thoughts, Liquor, & Women

Drunken Thoughts, Liquor, & Women

Hey, everyone! I have this awesome friend, Reggie E., who happens to also be a writer. He wrote a small piece the other night that I fell in love with and decided to write a reply to. So I’m posting our little collab for you  guys to check out. Hope you like it!!

Part 1 by Reggie:

This drink is not as strong as it should be. Either that or these lights aren’t as strong as I would want them to be. Maybe i shouldn’t be looking to be impressed by women in clubs anyway, right? I should be home watching sports center because, after all, it is the only thing that i can be sure wouldnever leave me high and dry like SHE did. Excuse me if i come off as bitter, but I just am. As I sit here alone in this nightclub, thinking about the night she left me and never came back, it just makes me wonder what did i do wrong? I have a great paying job, I cook pretty well (thanks to Google), and my sense of humor is pretty top notch. She said she couldn’t deal with my sarcasm anymore and that I’m an insensitive prick. Okay, maybe that’s true, but if she was dealing with it for the last 6 years, what’s another 60, right? You see, i invested way too much into this girl, and when i told her that, I got a slap to the face because she said i was referring to her as property. But to a certain extent, she kind of was. I’m an asshole and no one knows this better than me. But maybe it’s the liquor talking. Which reminds me; Bartender! Keep it coming. At almost the same time i slam down my empty glass, a new piece of eye candy picks a seat right next to me. Now she knows how to work the lighting in this place. Radiant beauty with the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Lips as full as could be. “Can I buy you a drink?” is what she says. To whom she’s speaking to in her soft, floetic voice is beyond me, but I’m listening to every word. “YOU sir, the depressed one. Can i buy you a drink?” I glance over to find her glaring right at me. “It depends” i said. She responds with a sexually driven “On what?” I snap back with, “It depends on if you’re a bitch or not.” The bartender looks at me like I just blew it but I could care less. Surprisingly, she seems intrigued by my rudeness and attempts to make more conversation. Typical.

Part 2 by ME:

This drink is not as strong as it should be. But hell, I reached my limit two rum and cokes back, so I suppose it’s for the best. I shouldn’t be here, anyway, in this bar, drowning my sorrows in glass after glass of cheap alcohol that tastes a little too much like acid. Yes, I’m getting drunker with every sip, but my thoughts are still on HIM. That insensitive prick. All I want from him, and from our six years together, is a little more than a witty comeback. In the beginning, it was all romance and sweet nothings. And then slowly but surely the rapture faded and the nonchalance and dry humored jokes and endless sarcasm set in. Do you know what he had the nerve to say to me when I broke it off? He invested too much in me. Like if I’m just property. Just the thought sends the familiar heat of frustration rushing through and I down the rest of my drink. The bartender has another one in front of me in a flash: Good boy. I get through half of it before someone occupies the seat beside me. I briefly steal a glance at the man, who not so briefly, and not nearly as discreetly, looks back at me. With a smirk and a head nod, he says, “Hey. Can I get you a refill?” I look down at my watered down glass, then back up at him and reply, “Well, I don’t know. It depends.” Intrigued, he leans in a little closer and asks, “On what?” I think back to the night I met him, the insensitive prick. It was much like this night, me alone in a bar, not a very happy camper. He’d approached me that night, and unlike any other man in the place, he wasn’t offering drinks, but jokes instead. By the end of the night I wasn’t drunk, but I’d laughed until my stomach hurt. Ironic, huh? “Depends on what?” the man presses. Blinking away the distant memories, I say, “It depends on if you know any jokes.” He raises an eyebrow. “Jokes? Umm, sure. If that’s what you’re into.” Actually, right now, it’s the opposite of what I’m into, but I don’t bother saying so. Instead, I sit here and listen to him give me every reason the chicken crossed the road, blissfully unaware of how much of a chance he doesn’t have with me. Ugh. Typical.