This is one of my darker pieces, written in college for a creative writing class. I am pleased to add it to my Kindle library, and I hope you enjoy this modern classic when it is finally released.
Cockroaches, Tea, and Powdered Snow
Cockroaches are a very intriguing insect, if I do say so myself. While they are far less sanitary than I am, those minuscule bugs have many redeeming qualities that declare them noteworthy. For Example, the way that they scatter to and fro in the newly discovered rooms, sometimes seen, sometimes not, doing whatever they please. People construct their rooms around the insects by laying traps and things, but cockroaches are typically too intelligent for them. For every one humans kill, a million more remain in their walls. Not only that, but they are virtually indestructible, their tough outer shell prevents much damage, not limited the harm from being stepped on. The only way to really get rid of a cockroach is to poison it. In a lot of ways, I am like a cockroach, but I need to train to become better than even them.
I sat in the darkest corner of the Latte Café. The black wood table in which I sat at was small, perfect for two, and when I gently felt the sides with my index fingers, I discovered it was engraved. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, and thought it would be a great way to bide my time to guess. I imagined it was an elaborate rose… in the dim candle light, that would look best, and it would match the deep maroon walls of the café perfectly.
The poet on the stage, who went by the name Miss Carla, no doubt a pen name, spoke of intercourse in such a lyrical way that the scarcely populated room cohered to every word. The audience seemed to crave each word like butter for their bread, and were utterly mesmerized by her words. I tuned in and out to the poems, some I listened ever closely, taking in each word and each syllable as it warmed my soul. Her tone changed greatly with each poem, making some, the ones I liked best, match the warmness the café possessed.
Looking at the Earl Gray in my black porcelain cup, I tried to deduce what it needed to make it perfect. The lemon wedge on the side was nearly squeezed, a droplet occasionally falling and rippling the surface of the tea, just the way I liked it. Adding a packet of the sweet-bitter I tasted it again. It became perfect as the bitter flowed through my drink.
He should have been there.