Police sirens boomed through the night. The lights coming from the cop cars painted the night in red and blue silhouettes as the police in uniform canvassed the area around the door of the Cafeteria near the University Chem Lab.
(more) "What's up?" A female detective gave her colleague a raised eyebrow behind her sunglasses. He was drinking coffee and he was offering her one.
"Coffee at night?" She took it and smelt the caffeine aroma. She licked her lips and sipped. "Bitter."
"That's how they do their coffee here." He put his hands through his pocket. "Hey it's free, it'd be rude to reject it."
She hook her head, her sunglasses staying in place, as she flipped open her small notepad. "Looks like a suicide. Female. Single. White. Around 20s."
The male detected watched as the students kept trying to reach over the wire. "Single?"
"Got a problem with that?" she said.
"Nah, it's just." He said. A female student was looking at them and he whistled back. She furrowed her eyebrows and glared at him. "Prints?"
"Quit it, Romeo." She laughed. She flipped a page and started reading. "Just hers. No boyfriend, nor lover or anything."
He was pouting at the at the retreating female student and a male student glared at him in her place. He shot out a tongue at him and the student jerked in place. "Girlfriend?"
"Be serious." She gritted her teeth. The notepad showed details of her last locations, contact with other people, and known relations. "Bad coffee going to your head?"
He shrugged his shoulders and stretched his arms. "Hey, it's 2016. Anything can happen."
"Pills?." He took his notepad and skimmed it rapidly. "Blades? Bad piece of chicken?"
She narrowed her eyes. "How'd you know about the chicken?"
a mindfulness book suggests closing the eyes and focusing on the senses (mainly sight, smell, and touch) when the pangs of mania begin to seep through. "you've gotta nip it in the bud," the author says emphatically. her photograph on the back cover screams granola, cashmere, and the rotary(more) club.
just as the deadness of winter is replaced by a life of rain, so is my body. sitting cross-legged in my cell of personal space, i receive a string of epiphanies from a cruel deity: water in a glass is called a drink, water in the ground is a lake or a river; fire in the woods is a wildfire, fire in the kitchen is for baking bread. these childish images come to me one after another as a string of nonsensical bebop.
i think of a certain feminine face and want to tell it, “the fire in my eyes is for you!” but something stops me. i scrawl on the back of coffee-stained tax papers what is essentially nothing but ridiculous metaphors and disjointed poetry. reading it makes me want to piss out of my third-story window and onto the neighbors' hydrangeas. i listen to the rain knocking at my door and my pen drops at a new epiphany. i say to myself, "no, none of that imitation shakespearian rubbish. no more sweet nothings. there really isn’t time for that."
i listen to the birds chirp.
spring, the selfish bastard, hardly waited a second before he began his tricks. he took winter by her ears and threw her out onto the street without the slightest of warnings. i sit by my window with waning patience for the farce of going out and becoming. i'd like to leave the house, but i seem to have misplaced my umbrella.
As I sat on the side porch, inhaling an American Spirit cigarette I couldn't afford in a short sighted effort to feel less terrible about smoking, you gazed at me sheepishly. You reminded me of an Indian Jason Schwartzman.
(more) "Hi, my name is Neil. I just moved here a couple days ago, I'm looking for some new friends. You look cool, how long have you been here?"
I didn't realize it then, but you found me attractive. I naively narrowed it down to a friendly disposition. I was relieved to make a new friend I could relate to. It helped ease my lonely nature and you had a penchant for compliments.
"You're so kind, Alisha. I wish more people were as caring as you. You are such a good hearted person. I can't believe how emotionally intuitive you are. Thanks for always listening about my depression. You have the coolest taste in music and literature! You are so insightful. Thanks for all the emotional support. You are an angel!"
"Your novel excerpt isn't that good. Please hide my gun, so I'm not tempted to kill myself. Who is number one, me or your boyfriend? Why do you spend so much time with your friends and not me? You are suppose to be my best friend. You are a terrible girlfriend! Let's run away to Iceland! You don't really know me at all! You owe me so much! You deserved to get beer poured all over you. I'm just using you as my therapist."
It's as if a homing beacon guides all the sad, lush men to my one person infirmary. Never thought 'daughter of an alcoholic' would become synonymous for hunting season. (less)