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blackhakumen · 5 months ago

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Mini Fanfic #1213: Coffee Chat With Geese's Henchman (King of Fighters)

6:48 p.m. at Athena's Coffee Shop..........

Billy: OI!

Shingo's body immediately starts tense up by Billy's booming voice.

Billy: Are you really that Kusanagi brat's disciple?

Shingo: (Claps his Own Face Three Times and Clears his Throat Before Turning Back and Facing Billy With a Slightly More Calmer Look on his Face) I used to be. What of it?

Billy: (Casually Shrugs as He Walks Over to Shingo) Oh nothin' on the sorts. Just heard a few things about you is all. (Forms an Evil Smirk on his Face) Specifically how YOU were one responsible for roughin' up one of my men back at the warehouse.

Shingo: (Shivering a Bit in Fear While Trying his Hardest Not to Lose his Posture) Y-Yeah, well......(Glares at Billy While Mustering Up Every Bit if Courage He Has Inside of Him) S-So what? They're the ones who lured Rock and the others there to begin with. And I'll beat 'em up again if you and your goons even THINK about harming my friends agai-

Before Shingo could finish his sentence, Billy place the tip of his red pole right onto his cheek, shutting him up instantly.

Billy: Making a direct threat to me and the boys, right in front of my face.....That takes guts. (Forms an Impressed Smirk on his Face) ('Heh') I think we're gonna get along just fine, mate.

Rock: (Angrily Yeah at Billy) You get the hell away from Shingo right now, Billy Kane, or SO HELP ME-

Geese: Enough, Billy. Quit messing around with the employee and let him make our coffee. (Sits Himself Down on One Side of the Circular Table) We're wasting enough time as it is.

Billy: (Immediately Bows Down to Geese) Yes, sir! Apologies in advance. (Turns Back to Shingo) You heard the boss, mate. (Pokes Shingo's Cheek with the Tip of his Pole) Move it already!

Shingo: Alright, alright, I'm going!

Shingo makes his behind the counter as Billy sits down at one of the seats right in front of it.

Shingo: ('Sigh') Okay. What type of coffee do you guys want for today?

Billy: The boss will have a cup of cappuccino on the house and I think I'll myself a latte on the side.

Shingo: You got it. (Begins Working on the Two Orders)

'A Bit of Silence'

Billy: Sooooo.........(Tipping his Two Fingers Lightly on the Counter While Waiting For his and Geese's Orders) You're really not Kyo's student anymore, huh?

Shingo: Yeah, kinda. I mean, I still admire him in some capacity, but nowadays, I train under his dad, Saisyuu Sensei.

Billy: Learning from the very man that shaped the champion to who he is today.....(Puts on a Impressed Smirk on his Face) Not a bad display of development there, kid.

Shingo: (Smiles a Bit) Thanks. I've actually learned a lot about the Kusanagi technique and the family's upbringings thanks to him. (Smiles Fondly of his Master) He's one of the few people that actually believes in me and I couldn't be anymore grateful than that, you know?

Billy: (Nodded in Agreement) Yeah, I get ya. You kinda reminds me of me when I started workin' for boss at your age at a matter of fact.

Shingo: Oh cool. Did Geese ever taught you how to fight?

Billy: Nah. I taught myself how to long before that, mate. But he does teach my sis and I the basics on business industries, the ins n' outs of making negotiations, and how to spot a false information on each given contracts

Shingo: Cool. (Hands Billy the Drink He Ordered) Here's your Latte.

Billy gives out another nod before trying out the drink himself. With one good sip, his eyes begins to widen up in genuine surprise by it's taste before sipping on it once more.

Billy: Holy shat.....(Turns Back to Shingo) You really made this?

Shingo: (Happily Nodded) Yep! It's been a while since I've made a cup of Latte, so it might not live up to your expectations.

Billy: You kiddin'? This is the best damn Latte I've ever tasted in a very long time!

Shingo: (Eyes Widened a Bit in Genuine Surprise) You.....really mean that?

Billy: (Gives Shingo a Single Nod and an Impressed Smirk on his Face) Meant every word. You'd be the best coffee maker in the whole town if you keep this up. How long did you worked here anyways?

Shingo: Since the day I moved here. I saw the way mom would make coffee and hot coco for my sisters and I one day, jogged down the few main ingredients and precise hand movements from memory, and the rest was history. (Chuckles Lightly While Rubbing the Back of his Head Back and Forth) Though, I highly doubt my coffee would come close to be as godly as hers.....

Billy: Give it a few years, you'll get there eventually. Speaking of which, you said you got sisters of your own?

Shingo: (Happily Nodded) Mmhmm. Three of them to be exact. (Resumes Back To Work, Making a One Hot Cup Cappuccino For Geese) There's my older sister, Tsubaki, who's way more of a know-it-all than I am believe it or not, our younger sister, Naomi, who would always brag about me every chance she gets-Probably to make herself look cooler in front of her peers, and then there's Kula, who isn't really a sister by blood per say, but we've hangout with Rock and co for so long that I've eventually started seeing her as one.

Billy: Charming. (Chuckles Fondly at a Memory of his Own to Think About) Your second sister reminds me of all the times Lily bragged about how cool her big brother truly is. (Starts Rolling his Eyes in Annoyance) Or at least she used to until all she can talk about these days is that good for nothin'- (Crumbles his Cup a Bit in Anger) Bastard Joe Higashi!- (Looks Down and Notices his Drink his Dripping Down on the Counter) .....Oops.

Shingo: Don't worry, i got it! (Takea a Short White Towel Out From his Aapron's Pouch and Uses it to Wipe The Spill Off Of the Counter) You're REALLY not a fan of Higashi-san, huh?

Billy: He tries to date my baby sister on multiple occasions. Of course I'm not a bloody fan of his dumbarse! Always act so smug and cocky to everyone he means. Lily's far too good him!

Shingo: Well, he is the Muey Thai Champion after all. There's bound to be an egotistical side to come out eventually. And get this: He got himself a student now.

Billy: ('Tch') The talkin' windbag got himself a apprentice to teach? I don't believe it.

Shingo: It's truth. Rock and I saw her at the beach once and she was able to create a pink colored Hurricane Upper at ease, it looked amazing. But anyways- (Gives Billy a Cup of Cappuccino) Here's one cappuccino for your boss.

Billy: Much obliged.

Billy got out of his seat and walks over to Geese and Rock's table with the drink he asked to order for him.

Billy: (Hands Geese His Drink) Your coffee, sir.

Geese: (Simply Nodded to his Most Loyal Right Hand Man) Thank you.

Billy bows to his boss before walking back to the counter. Once he sat back down to his seat, he turns to see Geese taking a sip of his choice of beverage.

Shingo: (Takes a Look at Geese in the Distance as Well) There it is....The very first of cup of cappuccino I've made for the crimelord of Southtown (Turns Away While Crossing Both his Fingers Together) Here's hoping he doesn't outright hat-

Billy: He likes it.

Shingo: (Turns Back to Billy With Ankther Surprised Look on his Face) He does? Are you okay?

Billy: Yeah, mate. (Tilts Shingo's Head Towards His Direction) Look.

The boys watches Geese nodding towards his drink with his face indicating a look of approval of some kind before sipping on 8t some more

Billy: That's the most I've seen him enjoying a cup of coffee in a good long time. You done good, kid.

Shingo: ('Sighs in Pure Relief') Oh thank god.....I don't think I ever wanna imagine what he's gonna do if he didn't like it......

Billy: Oh will you relax? He'd only be unimpressed by it at best. 'Sides, the only thing that's on his mind right now is havin' a private conversation with his only offspring. Makin' up for loss times if you will.

Shingo: (Smiles a Bit) That's sweet of him. Though, I kinda doubt it's gonna stop Rock from hating him anytime soon.

Billy: ('Heh') Obviously. But it's better than nothin',, you know?

Shingo: Yeah. It's the least he could do after everything he put him through in the past, that's for sure.

Billy suddenly felt something buzzing as he takes his phone out of pants pocket before groaning at the message that was given to him just recently.

Shingo: (Turns to Billy) What's up?

Billy: Got a text from one of our soon to be business partners. They want us to attend another one of their meetings in the next two hours or so. And just when I was actually enjoyin' myself here.

Shingo: (Playfully Rolls his Eyes) Would've been a lot more enjoyable if you didn't kick everyone else out.

Billy: Hey, it was the boss' orders to have them outta here, not mines. (Forms a Teasing Smirk on his Face) You're more than welcome to file a complaint to him. Can't guarantee the safety of your live though.

Shingo: ('Gulp') I-I'll pass on the offer, thanks.

Billy: Wise choice.

Geese: Billy! It's time we part from this establishment. Our next meeting will start soon.

Billy: (Bows to Geese) Coming right away, sir! (Turns to Shingo with a More Friendier Smile) And that's my cue to leave. Sorry we has to cut our chat short, mate.

Shingo: (Smiles Back at Billy) It's alright. I'm just glad we had the chance to get along in the first place. (Sticks his Hand Out in Front of Billy)

Billy: (Gives Shingo a Handshake) Likewise. You and your friend there be safe out there in the streets and have a good rest of the day. (Finally Makes his Leave as Well)

Shingo: (Happily Waves Goodbye to a Unexpectedly New Friend) You too, Billy-san! Good luck on your meeting!

Billy gives Shingo a farewell salute before following Geese out the door.

'Door Opens and Closes'

Rock: (Walks Over to Shingo) You and Billy are friends now?

Shingo: (Happily Nodded) I think so, yeah. He's pretty cool to talk to once you get to know him a little bit.

@thelexhex

@tampire

@helsic

@theweebmaster31

#king of fighters #shingo yabuki #billy kane #rock howard #geese howard #saisyu (mentioned)#shingo's sisters (mentioned)#kula (mentioned)#joe higashi (mentioned)#lilly kane (mentioned #start of an unexpected friendship #chat over coffee #coffee with geese

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jerakeenc · 3 years ago

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June-Sept Re-recs (12)

This is the best of the best of the best of what I've reread in the last couple of months. I end up downgrading a lot of the fics I reread because even my tastes change over the years. These are the ones that stay awesome, even after many rereads.

(For comparison, I put a little sparkle ✨ image next to the most perfectest (yup!) fics in my regular rec posts. The fics in this post are all sparkle.)

I included my first-read date. The calendar says 2011 was ten years ago but I have my doubts.

Now We've Learned To Kiss The Sky by torakowalski

MCU | Clint/Coulson | Explicit | 13,800 words

“I’m going to ask you something,” Phil says and then pauses and doesn’t ask Clint anything at all. “Yeah?” Clint asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “Is it kinky?” It isn’t, obviously; Phil never has a problem suggesting anything when it comes to sex. Phil shakes his head. He looks up, catching and holding Clint’s eyes. Clint doesn’t make any more smartass comments. “Marry me?” Phil asks.

First read in 2012. It's still so lovely.

Disclosures by gqgqqt

MCU | Clint/Coulson | Teen | 67,900 words

Phil Coulson is miserable, distrusted by most of SHIELD, and still doesn't remember why. It's only going to get worse before it gets better.

(2012) I didn't think I was going to like this, this time around. But nope. Still perfect.

Quriosity by dr_girlfriend

James Bond | Bond/Q | Explicit | 79,900 words

Bond finds himself increasingly curious about his enigmatic Quartermaster.

(2014) Very very good and pretty much the prototype of what I want out of the bond/q fandom.

Out of the Dead Land (orphaned on ao3)

MCU | Bucky/Steve | Mature | 62,700 words

Someone is building machines that look and act like people. Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier tries to be Bucky Barnes.

(2014) Brilliant H/C

All the Rules to Break by foxxcub

Inception | Arthur/Eames | Explicit | 27,700 words

A notorious serial killer returns after a three-year hiatus, reminding Detective Arthur Moss of the infamous case he couldn't close. But when the FBI becomes involved, Arthur is forced to work side-by-side once again with Special Agent Daniel Eames, a man who knows Arthur better than Arthur himself will ever admit. Both men must confront their past and heal old wounds in order to bring a psychopath to justice.

(2011) I love this AU. Always have, always will.

I've Got Nothing To Do Today But Smile (The Only Living Boy in New York) by gyzym

Inception | Arthur/Eames | Teen | 19,860 words

Arthur's a corporate lawyer, Eames owns the coffee shop across the street, and all good love stories start with a quadruple shot latte.

(2011) Another AU I will love forever. Still amazing.

Scattered Pieces of My Mind (orphaned on ao3)

Hockey RPF | Kane/Toews | Teen | 22,580 words

After one scandal too many, Patrick Kane gets traded. Eventually it stops being the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

(2014) And this here is the prototype for my favorite H/C scenario. I feel like this rec list may be giving a bit too much away on my state of mind these days.

we were even after all, even in enmity (orphaned on ao3)

Hockey RPF | Kane/Toews | Mature | 60,000 words

“Jonathan,” Q says solemly. Something in his tone gives Jonny pause. He sits up straighter, waiting for the end of the sentence. “I regret to inform you that you’ve been traded to the St. Louis Blues. It’s been an honor and a pleasure working with you the past few years, and you will be sorely missed. Please clean out your locker before you leave today.” “That’s what Kaner said in your meeting?” Jonny asks, feeling numb. “That’s why it took so long? He was convincing you to trade me?”

(2014) Yup, you guessed it. H/C, angst, whump. Perfection.

Shelter by harriet_vane

Social Network RPF | Jesse/Andrew | Teen | 63,500 words

From the kinkmeme prompt: Some sort of AU vaguely based on Shelter! For whatever reason, Jesse has to take care of Hallie and give up his dream of being an actor. He ends up working in a dead end job when former, now successful friend (Andrew) returns home. They fall in love, etc, only Jesse can't go away with him because he has a responsibility to his family. CUE ANGST.

(2011) I remembered the bare bones of this story and thought I probably wouldn't enjoy it as much now... but it turned out to be excellent. Really cute AU.

here comes the sun by oflights

Social Network | Mark/Eduardo | Explicit | 56,600 words

This is a story about growing up, sad 70's rock songs, too much hair gel, "Maxwell's Silver Hammer", a baby with curly hair, a Geiger counter, a dog that isn't named Max, the Chicken Dance, Cheerios, pepper-spray, drugs, sex, and a stuffed chicken named Cluckerberg, nicknamed Cluck. or: Mark raises Sean's accidental baby, and I write the fluffiest thing ever.

(2011) And then there's this one... I mean, who'd want to read about Mark Zuckerberg in 2021, right? I do apparently. This story still gets five huge stars from me, implausible setup and all. It's endearing, romantic, super cute.

All The Stars And Bleeding Hearts by torakowalski

Social Network RPF | Jesse/Andrew | Explicit | 40,470 words

Notting Hill AU. In which Jesse runs a bookstore, Andrew is a famous film star and they’re both faily dorks in love.

(2011) Beautifully done!

and how many years I've missed you by estrella30

One Direction RPF | Harry/Nick | Explicit | 17,900 words

“So my god, Nick,” Harry folds himself down into a chair, his long legs splaying out under the table. His foot knocks into Nick’s and Nick kicks him back reflexively, his body remembering how to act around Harry even after all this time. “This is bloody crazy,” Harry shakes his head. “It’s been ages, yeah? It’s got to be like, what, five years or something?” Seven, Nick thinks to himself. You were just nineteen and I was twenty eight and it was seven years ago, not five. or, the one where Harry and Nick haven't seen each other or been in touch in seven years and then they meet up and things happen

(2014) More angst. Frickin' beautiful.

#recs #rerecs

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authorlaneblevins · 6 years ago

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The Conjurer

*This is a short story I wrote a very long time ago. Warning: some bad language and sexuality throughout. Enjoy!

“I, of the savage kingdom, will guide you to glory!” The sound of a Big Easy traffic jam punctures the steady scream of her words, a few of the syllables slipping out into the never-was. “ ‘Court not death by your erring way of life, nor draw to yourselves destruction by the works of your hands! Because into a soul that plots evil, wisdom enters not, nor dwells she in a body under debt of sin!’”

The hint of Russian singsong gives her away. I know her voice better than I know my own. They say that, no matter how early one is separated from one’s mother, the mind is imprinted with the sound of her voice and conditioned to hear it again; and while decades might pass without hearing it, the lost child could still detect the mother’s voice out of a tapestry of hundreds. Because it was the first sound, the first pitch and tone and coo to ever have existed. It was the sound on which all other sounds were based.

I’m sitting on the bench across the street, watching her, the only one watching her. Ilyena Tracy, still the magician; the way she moves her hands, pushing the air away with them, drawing people inward while keeping me confounded on this frayed bench, wondering how this could’ve happened.

Some small moments are nothing, they don’t snowball into the rest of your life. But some of them, they’re gods, they own you.

I imagine that, at one point, she lured crowds on the corner with her flailing Fascist body movements, jerks of her arms and a twist of her neck that mimicked cerebral palsy or spiritual ecstasy. Whenever she bellows the word “sinners,” her face sinks downward toward her neck, and small bubbles collect at the corners of her mouth.

I can’t stomach the battery-acid taste of the coffee anymore, and I hold the cup close to my face as if I’ve paused mid-sip, just to feel the steam siphoning through the lid. I tear confetti-sized pieces from the letter that Rita slipped into my pocket the last time I saw her. I’m waiting for my shift in telemarketing purgatory to start, in which I try to ignore the chorus of ringing, chatter, staplers, scribbling, and gnashing of teeth, and push our patented stain erasing formula.

This is my ritual: sit on the bench, mesmerized, my heart a rabid dog begging for the bullet. At work, I empty the letter-confetti from my pocket and forsake the names on the list, instead calling Rita, wanting to tell her, wanting for her to tell me what to do. For the past week I’ve only gotten her machine and her husband. I hang up, playing with the idea of asking her husband what he would do: he seems like the type that would know, with his voice calm and British asking me who’s there, who is this; talking quietly as if he’s in a glass room and he doesn’t want the walls to crash down on him. At this point, I’m usually lectured by my telepathic boss, always privy to when I’m not being productive.

Yes, I know I have a job to do, sir. Yes, I know that I’m not doing it.

Then, I study my reflection in the computer screen, trying to find a feature my mother would be sure to recognize, though so many have changed. A narrow nose broken in one of several foster homes. Glasses are no longer there to hide greenish eyes that bear the constant squint of non-trust, having been replaced by contacts.

The dimpled chin is the only thing that’s stayed the same. Is that enough to remember a son? Should I buy a pair of glasses?

I start writing a letter to my mother that I plan to slip in her Bible when she’s distracted by the Rapture. I mull over trivialities, whether or not my signature will exhibit my shaking hand. After work, I stand beside the bench, pinching my thigh in hopes of triggering a muscle spasm that might force me into my first step to her. I pay the cab fare in sweat-dampened singles, always pausing, everyday choosing inertia. On the ride home, I make the resolution that I’ll approach her tomorrow. I’ll get it over with tomorrow.

I sleep, impervious to the fact that I am a liar.

˟˟˟˟˟

I should’ve had her figured when I was six years old and realized, seemingly for the first time, that she had really, truly, actually named me Balthazar. After kindergarten giggles and with no middle name to fall back on, I told everyone to call me by my last name, Tracy—a fragmented version of the original Tratzinsky, cleaved in half somewhere on the Atlantic. For ten years we lived like gypsies. We stayed with her friends, friends of her friends, occasionally having to squat in an abandoned warehouse. I knew better than to complain. I had no voice. I was her baggage, her immigrant suitcase.

She preached differently, back then, gracefully performing tricks of prestidigitation, making things disappear—wallets, mostly. Every incredulous question of “How?” was answered with “Magic!” A firm believer that the world might end in twenty-five years, she called America a “savage kingdom,” place with too many machines and too many brands of detergent, place where people too easily loosened their grip on time.

She talked to me sometimes about Omsk, her home, about how she was the statue of fear to all the other women. In her youth, she was a breathy scandal of a girl, running around with nomads, traveling sideshow acts, literary fugitives and Trotskyites who had escaped the purges and lived in paranoid old age. Her very footsteps caused neighborhood elders to gasp and cross themselves: her tracks, they swore, were hooved.

She had a laugh that unsettled concrete, a devil-may-care that made onlookers think that if the devil did care about anything on this lonely dull planet, it was her. His Persephone. His awful queen.

I craved her stories, her Omsk, her random switches between English, Yiddish, Russian, as if she had three tongues housed by one mouth. I felt that the stories I heard at school were lackluster in comparison, always about little brothers or missing puppies. Never in those skinny illustrated books were there stories of black markets, or missile crises, or gypsy circuses where the Conjurer carried the Lone Torso on his back.

When I couldn’t sleep she’d wave me over to her. “Bad dream, boytchik? Here, take mine. I’ve dreamt this one before,” she’d say, putting her hand on my forehead and describing her bargained reverie to me so well that I saw it all for myself, could’ve dreamed of nothing else. And when I had horrible fevers, she used to remove my dingy glasses and place her hands against my eyes, applying the slightest pressure, invoking cold with her tiny palms. She would whisper to me, her breath in a flustered hurry, a mother’s hysteria, her words leading me to Siberia.

She had bad spells, too. Anxious days when she’d look at me as if wishing I might disappear. She would watch me intently as I ate her pungent food. And then she’d abruptly stop me from eating and scrub the food off of my plate like dead skin.

For ten years this is how we lived. On the fourth night of that year, she ushered me to sleep, her palms over my eyes as she kissed my forehead. I woke the next morning alone, a note on my pillow. “I’m sorry. I’ve stopped paying for this mistake of mine. I have to set you down, Balthazar, I can carry you no longer on my back.”

I cannot claim uniqueness in abandonment: the history of the act stretches back to the Alpha, to the foundation. Think of the Jews sold out by former friends, sniffed out of their hiding places and ritualistically unpersoned. Think of leftovers, discarded ideals, uncompleted revolutions, the Rosenberg’s, Charles Foster Kane. Think of Abraham’s son, Isaac, who feigned dignity under the knife when all he wanted was for his father to say “You are more to me than God. Run from here and live forever.”

Or a man quietly in love with a sadist, wanting to tell her that he didn’t mind how she wounded him, just as long as she would stay.

Think of a ten year-old boy in a warehouse left suddenly, irreversibly alone; a boy discovered two days later, hungry and dirty, by one of his mother’s Bohemian cab-driver friends, who dropped him off at the nearest police station without a “goodbye” or a “good luck.” A boy who will never know why.

After that day came too many homes, and never enough time in them to get comfortable. Fourteen placements in eight years, the same life lesson from all the pseudo-fathers: go to school, get a job, get a wife, get a house. Obtain more possessions than those smudgy glasses and the clothes on your back. Possessions are reality. Possessions are identity. I was whittled to fit this new consumer’s world, where living in a warehouse is generally frowned upon, sleight-of-hand is only a profession in Caesar’s Palace, and dreams are non-transferable.

Before the day she left, we had been each other’s world, a cult of two. It sutures, that kind of companionship. Without it, you have a hard time figuring out where the wound starts and where it ends.

˟˟˟˟˟

I’m fifteen minutes late for work. The boss told me yesterday that if I continue to be late and unproductive, I’m out. Still, I can’t stand up from this bench, opting instead to stare at her. “…For touch is the most demystifying of all senses, unlike sight, which is the most magical.” I tell myself that this explains everything that I am incapable of.

She slaps her hand against her ragged leather-bound Bible to emphasize a point, closing her eyes and chanting western prayers. I try to fathom a holy man skillful enough to have converted her from unstated paganism, a believer so pure and apotheosized that wherever he walked the blind cried “Messiah” and corpses sprung from their graves, coughing up dirt.

But preachers of this faith, they’re a realm away from the things my mother used to believe in. A woman like her would’ve been impenetrable to brainwashing. My best theories on her radical change involve lobotomies and Doppelgangers, or the rootless guilt she’d passed on to me.

I want her to know about my nightmare where in a room, exquisite red, we face each other, and she laughs at me, the sound bouncing from wall to wall. “In the old days, you know what they did to spineless boys like you when they were babies? The villagers saw one weakness, one defect and you were fed to the pigs.” She places her hands over my face, and when she pulls them away my eyes are viscous spider-eggs.

When I was young, I’d never had a bad dream. I’d pretended just so that I could steal hers. So she would tell me her sole parable one more time.

“I tell you story, boytchik, just this last time; the short version because I’m too tired for more. In village not too far from Omsk, the gypsy circus came once a year bringing always the sound of drums, and people would stop from their working so they could go to see it. It was a wonderful spectacle, a lady with two heads, a man with a face that has grown on his stomach with real eyes that blinked, a man with red fists that sprout from his shoulder-blades. And of course magicians and dare-devils and cannibals and fire-breathers and people with tremendous talents. One woman, she could fit herself in a shoebox. It’s true.

“The Conjurer was called this because he could beckon the dead and make them visible to all, he could make those that have vanished reappear, but he could never go to cemeteries because with all the dead begging from him his attention, he would never leave. He was quiet man, pale and thin and dressed always in black cloak and black felt-hat like peasants used to wear. And the Lone Torso, he was named because he was born without legs, but this was not an appropriate name since he still had arms that he could walk around on. He was a very gentle person, and the two became comrades.

“During all the travels, the Lone Torso was harnessed on the back of the Conjurer so that they could talk all the way, and so that the Lone Torso didn’t hurt his hands. They walked this way so often that they became fused together by their backs, from the cold. They wanted to fix it, but the medicine man said that their spines were no longer their own, and to become separate one would have to do without. This was just not possible, so they got used to the idea, and remained comrades, walking everywhere together.

“But then one day they were stranded from the group, and the Conjurer died. The Lone Torso had to haul both of their bodies with his arms. Nobody imagined he could make it, they underestimated his strength. His hands grew blistered from the road but still he pushed onward. Doing for his friend what his friend had done for him for so long…”

At this point in the story, I usually fell asleep; she so expanded on details unexplored in the previous telling that I never got to know what happened, how it ended. That was just like her. So I made up my own endings. Back then, I liked to believe that the Lone Torso absorbed the Conjurer into his body, assuaged the pain without ever losing his comrade. As a teenager, I hoped that the Torso found a carpenter who sawed the cadaver from his back, and he was then able to move without the crippling weight of his abandoner.

Now I imagine the most realistic of endings: the Lone Torso, arms shaking, giving in and falling to embrace the windswept earth for the final time, breathing the dust until his lungs were crushed and it was done.

˟˟˟˟˟

A pack of teenagers gathers near her corner, laughing and elbowing each other. The kids are dressed all in big black clothes, fishnet gloves, spiked collars. Goth kids, convinced that they took the class on suffering, have befriended the beast in their sixteen years of existence. I was like that when I was their age.

A fat kid with blisters of acne along his jaw is the one to move toward her. I lean forward, a vigilant watchdog, one hand still pulling at the shredded corners of Rita’s letter. I swallow cigarette smoke, watching my mother crossing him with her unbendable arm.

Would she do the same if I walked up to her, baptize me, bless me?

The kid’s shirt says “I’m not prejudiced, I hate everybody!” and I picture the forty other kids wearing the same shirt all over the city, thinking that absent words alone can generate your own statement, your middle finger to a world that is indifferent to middle fingers. He’s smirking at her, getting too close. He glances back at his friends for encouragement, their black-lined eyes glittering with laughter. His breath, it must stink of pot and sugar. Gripping the edge of the bench-seat, my chewed fingernails aching, I whisper “Please” in my head over and over, but I have no idea what it is I’m asking for.

“Hail Satan!” the kid says, raising his fist in the air.

She spouts psalms about the heretics and the nonbelievers. He laughs an obscenely girlish laugh, and slaps the Bible out of her hand. I stand, a reflex, my thumb twitching. I have that post-invasive-surgery feeling that I’ve read about, the mysterious and besetting ache of the violated body.

I imagine the Goth kid shoving her, her head cracking against the curb, the garnet trickle on the pavement; all the pain I’d let her go through just to be her savior, so that I could pick her up from the ground like Simon. I would quietly tell her in a flood of syllables that I can help her, she needs help, I’m sorry and I forgive, goodbye and goodbye, that I can carry her no longer on my back, that still, I push onward.

I picture her shaking off my help, pointing her finger at me and screaming wildly, seeing past my skin straight to the muddy heart.

But the kid backs away, laughing with his friends. “Go back to Germany, you old cunt!” he shouts.

Still standing, I seem to be having trouble producing saliva. This kid, this nothing, had the guts to approach her. Having no idea who she is, that’s how he managed it: because he didn’t know that this is a woman who had somehow broken out of an inescapable country. A woman who could paint a beautiful world for you, and trick you into becoming Atlas.

˟˟˟˟˟

This is important. This is the catalyst. This is the prologue spewed by her God, who has stopped concerning Himself with linearity.

I was with Rita the night my car pulled its disappearing act. She’d called me at work, set up the usual time and place. Her name wasn’t really Rita, I just called her that because she was a meter-maid. I’d seen the grin on her face when she scribbled the violation and the cost in her little leather booklet, bearing down so hard on her pen that the indentation left sort-of words on five carbon copies. She was a parking ticket sadist.

Rita often voiced how she wished our year-long arrangement was legitimate, so she could tell the story of how we met to strangers. It was a hot August day, a brownout. Due to the jadedness I’d gained in telemarketing purgatory, I visited the Woodward, Wight, and Co. warehouse that used to be home to me. But it looked the same, the glass and concrete and slats of light. There was no magic to be found, only half-empty cans of beer and heroin spoons. I smoked a cigarette, singeing the edges of the letter my mother left on my pillow with the lighter, naively thinking this was my moment of release.

When I left the warehouse I saw Rita leaning against my car, gripping her ticket book and staring at the meter. Waiting for the time to run up. She watched so tensely, hunched forward, like one of those students in art school scrutinizing a nude model.

I saw her right then: a woman who served the great god of Time, she would never let a moment circle the drain. Her every word meaningful when so many of mine, vague and unheard, were milled under the slightest wind. Life, to her, was too short for a job you hated, regrets, procrastination, one lover. Sleep was an unnecessary diversion. The world might end in five years.

Underneath her glacial civil servant surface lay a closet-genius; a concert pianist by fifteen, enrolled at Lafayette by sixteen, where she studied everything indiscriminately. She knew two other languages, spoke them fluently. And then she suddenly dropped it all for this mediocrity, renouncing all her frightening potential. She never told me why.

Rita had been married to some insurance salesman for two years; I had the slightest feeling this career she gave him was a calumny or a metaphor of some sort, she said it like it was a private joke. She liked to fuck with her wedding ring on. She constantly smelled of lemony wood polish, her hands forever smudged with ink. She looked like Grace Kelly’s evil twin, only brunette and with dark gray eyes. Her favorite phrase was “As I do to you, so do I to me.” Her status as proud atheist was challenged nightly when she called out to Jesus during sex; I’d never heard his name sound so sweet, so full, than the way it sounded in her voice.

She became docile before sleep, self-exposing, expressing thoughts so eloquently I couldn’t tell the difference between her words and the memorized quotes of long-dead lyricists. I told her about the Conjurer, the story without an ending. She confided in me her dreams of escaping the human zoo, becoming a recluse or a migrant or both, shedding her skin, her marriage, her vices.

Yet another prone to flight. My life filled with Houdini’s.

Rita picked the worst places on Old Gentilly to meet, places with neon signs boasting color-TVs that never worked; places with heart-shaped beds in which we were the tender arrows digging ever deep, pushing toward an exit-wound. She said that, statistically speaking, men who cheat on their wives go all out in lavish hotels, expensive restaurants, maxing out credit cards on lingerie for their mistresses. Women, on the other hand, tend to do the opposite. Slumming it. Loving the fuck even more for its taste of dirt.

Afterwards, I lay on top of her, doling out puffs of cigarette, holding it just far enough so that she had to strain her neck to take a drag. Maraschino light came in from the window, it pulled all her thorns out. She strove for the cigarette, breathed it in, held it between her dry lips.

I knew that what she felt for me was amusement, at most. Our connection could best be described as a volute, an exchange of power that coiled downward until we were both left without. It was a shocking thing to discover: that she was what I’d been looking for, the romanticized destroyer.

I put my hands over her eyes, feeling the moth-like flutter of her eyelashes.

“You should leave him. Leave the city with me.” I took my hands away from her eyes, feeling the burn of her incredulous stare.

She paused, then slowly, intentionally blew smoke in my face. She so expertly recovered all her thorns, I had to smile.

“Let’s not get poetic or anything.” A typical rejection, it meant she was far from sleep. “You say it, but you’d never leave.”

“You don’t think I could leave? Why not?”

“Unfinished business, maybe; or a talent for misery. Something you’re attached to. All the same, it’s a dreadful city, Tracy. It suits you.”

“Why haven’t you left?”

“It suits me, too. Besides, Phillip’s going places with his life.”

“I’m going places.”

“Phillip’s going good places.”

I stared at her for a second, waiting for the sting to dull before I got up to leave. I couldn’t stand the stink of the room, like Pinesol and gunpowder, the grimy red neon turning everything into doomsday. And the sounds of our temporary neighbors. All the pilgrims in other rooms screaming for that brusque high, that scavenging cock, all the pilgrims curled up in bed dreaming up Mecca.

The dusty spider legs in dresser drawers clinging to Gideon’s Bible. Motels, motels, never any home.

She talked while I got dressed, gripping the complimentary motel pen tight in her fist as she smiled. “Come on, Tracy, come lay back down, don’t throw a hissy.”

“I’m not. I’ve just gotta go,” I said, pulling on one boot, then the other. She lit a cigarette and waved the match until it curled up, bent its head, a gray shamed child.

I opened the motel room door. Lo and behold. All the energy spilled out of my body at once. A man with a black coat and a satchel on his back was strolling through the white lines of the parking-space where my car once waited.

And the new concrete world established its strictest law to me: don’t get attached to anything, son, if you gained it you’ll lose it someday. Just you wait.

“What are you standing there for? Is this a pivotal moment where you make some life-changing decision?” Rita asked with a nasty little laugh.

“No. My car’s gone.” I looked back at her, numb. She furrowed her brows and waited for the “Just kidding,” but it didn’t come.

“Well. Huh.”

˟˟˟˟˟

The next day I took the streetcar to work for the first time ever, the taste of Rita a film on the roof of my mouth. Across from me a woman bounced her lemur-eyed baby on her knee. The old man beside me waved at the baby, made silly faces.

After reaching my stop in Downtown, I walked along the pavement on a stretch of O’Keefe I’d never walked before, brushing past workers and businessmen who seldom looked up. Someone was whistling. Everyone chatted on their cell phones. And somewhere in that latticework, a familiar voice. A phrase I’d only heard her use. “America, the savage kingdom…”

Realization fell down my spine, like a body crashing through water, the slow sink once the surface was breached. My brain a knot of electricity, I told myself to run, but it seemed to take whole minutes for my legs to receive the message. Then, once I was moving, there was no clarity of thought, just jumbled noise in my head, sounds without source or meaning. Animal sounds, industrial drones, the chant of “Please.” Hope and hell and motion. I drafted new endings for the parable: the Conjurer suddenly waking from a skein of beautiful dreams, the Lone Torso relieved of his bleak loneliness. Carried, defined, once more. The weight fading in the descending night.

My limbs were pushing through the crowd without any real instruction, pushing me against the current. And then the sea parted and I saw her, in a black frock, surrounded by candles, a great nuclear fallout come down on this city. Every incredulous question of “How?” now answered with “Jesus!”

She was across the street, on her knees, her hands pressed together in shouted prayer. She looked so old, nothing like how I remembered her. She had the face of a shrinking rose, dry and curled around the edges. Slender, bird-like shoulders. Eyes like a jack-o-lantern’s, scooped out and empty. Her silvery hair butchered. This was not her, this woman with her eyes blinking at the sun. My mother knelt for no one.

How little I knew her, how much of myself that had been lost in the transition, new weight that I couldn’t take. The Lone Torso, lugging the Conjurer and a cross on top of that.

Drained. My breath a ragged joke, my throat like stretched leather. Wanting nothing more than to fucking scream, I sat on a bench. I haven’t gone farther than that.

˟˟˟˟˟

I’m an hour late for work. I smoke a cigarette on the bench, not caring what time I show up. The new world has collapsed. I can’t sit through that purgatory anymore, selling a product that erases stains, all the while wishing I could take long harsh swigs of it to cleanse or to kill, if there is any difference.

I feel the corners of Rita’s note in my pocket rubbing against my leg. I pull it out of my pocket, resisting the urge to tear a piece away, and unfold the surviving paper. After my week of picking at it like a scab, all that’s left are the last few lines: “Goodbye is for funerals, yet I have thought it every time I saw you. What you fail to realize is that there is not one of us without a corpse on our backs, and only the weakest of us need some third party to remove it. The strong can be their own carpenters, they are the ones who push unremittingly and let it decompose and turn to dust, as all things do. For your sake, I hope that it does. P.S. Sorry about your car.”

Because the god of Time can be vengeful. Because I’m tired, my own weight is enough. Because the world is in a constant state of ending, I flick my cigarette out toward the street and stand on quietly shivering knees. I suck in a deep, lightheaded breath, relaxing my clenched jaw like an animal letting go. I brush past strangers. Her voice grows closer. My head feels staticky, like I’m dreaming a dream I stole from her.

My feet are warmed by the vicinity of her candles of all the futile saints. She shouts after discreet prostitutes a corner away. “‘Depart from her, my people, so as not to take part in her sins and receive a share in her plagues’—”

She glances at me for a second, her eyes squinting until they’re beady and hawkish. I half expect her to single me out as supreme Blasphemer, Beelzebub, Judas. But her eyes, the master copy of my own, stare with the faint recognition usually reserved for strangers who frequent the same grocery store, who offer that pleasant, noncommittal smile and don’t say a word, and keep pushing their carts down the aisle.

She turns away from me, shouting her verses. “‘Depart from her…For her sins are piled up to the sky and God remembers her crimes.’”

There is only one ending: the Torso does not stop crawling. He pushes onward, alone, toward some unknowable dot at the belt of the horizon. As he crawls, the Conjurer is slowly erased, picked up by the wind, disseminated like seeds. The corpse breaks down, back to the elements, to the dirt of it all, and a stain of gray atoms that will trail the Torso wherever he goes marks the long passage to Omega. This is how she would have told it. This is what she would have wanted me to know.

She pauses in the middle of a verse, some further slander against Babylon. I can see the twitch in the back of her neck as she finally realizes, as the weight settles. She is silent and stiffened. Her fingers tighten around the Bible’s throat, as she grabs at a deep and stuttered inhale with her mouth open. I see her slowly start to turn her head.

She will not turn around before I do. She will not follow as I walk away.

#my writing #short story #magical realism #writers on tumblr #writeblr #horror

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Caffeine Quotes

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• A 3K word story might well be done in some caffeine-and-nicotine-fuelled 36 hour session, and at the end of it, there’ll be a few passes of editing required, but I basically have a polished draft. – Hal Duncan • Actually caffeine is too hard on my system. I’m a delicate boy from Plano, Texas. – John Benjamin Hickey • Always drink at least 8 ounces of water or a sugar-free decaffeinated beverage with every meal or snack. If you are a heavy caffeine user, gradually reduce caffeine intake to zero whenever possible. – Barry Sears • Americans are used to being pandered to and spoon-fed everything. In a culture that needs caffeine-free cherry chocolate diet Coke, you’d best deliver information with entertainment. – Bill Maher • Anyone who doubts that caffeine is a drug should read some of the prose composed under its influence. – Anne Fadiman

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Caffeine', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_caffeine').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_caffeine img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Band of Skulls is joining Cage the Elephant as my new musical caffeine. • By now, it is probably very late at night, and you have stayed up to read this book when you should have gone to sleep. If this is the case, then I commend you for falling into my trap. It is a writer’s greatest pleasure to hear that someone was kept up until the unholy hours of the morning reading one of his books. It goes back to authors being terrible people who delight in the suffering of others. Plus, we get a kickback from the caffeine industry. – Brandon Sanderson • Caffeine dehydrates the body and speeds up the aging of the skin and kidneys. – Ann Louise Gittleman • Caffeine dehydrates the brain and body. – Daniel Amen • Caffeine gives me hope. Sometimes, when I brew my wicked strong Irish black tea just perfect, about halfway through the mug I feel a clear and overwhelming feeling of optimism. It didn’t surprise me when a study a few years ago implied that suicide was much less likely among coffee and tea drinkers. – John Vanderslice • Caffeine helps a lot. That and a certain amount of isolation. – Patrick Rothfuss • Caffeine is like a really attractive girl that has nothing to say. You get all jacked up on it and then you’re left feeling hollow and empty. – Adam Levine • Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze. It maketh me to wake in green pastures: It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses. It restoreth my buzz. – Bob Phillips • Caffeine. The gateway drug. – Eddie Vedder • Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice – Wallace Stevens • Couldn’t start the morning without caffeine. – Ginnifer Goodwin • Diet Coke does not contain nasty chemicals. It contains lovely and delicious carbonation, caffeine, and aspartame. What’s unnatural about that? – Meg Cabot • Doing something does not require discipline. It creates its own discipline – with a little help from caffeine. – Annie Dillard • Drink it,” I told her. “It’s good for what ails you. Caffeine and sugar. I don’t drink it, so I ran over to your house and stole the expensive stuff in your freezer. It shouldn’t be that bad. Samuel told me to make it strong and pour sugar into it. It should taste sort of like bitter syrup.” She gave me a smile smile, then a bigger one, and plugged her nose before she drank it down in one gulp. “Next time,” she said in a hoarse voice, “I make the coffee. – Patricia Briggs • Either the kid was naturally hyper or he was hopped up on enough caffeine to give a heart attack to a water buffalo. – Rick Riordan • Fitness has always been a big part of my life, so I train twice a day, every day, as I always have done, but also eating very healthfully. I don’t eat sugar, I don’t have caffeine, I don’t eat wheat – I look after my body outside and inside. It’s just a part of who I’ve always been. – Neil Jackson • For a successful strategy session, keep the food light, the lights bright, and drink caffeine all night. – Mike Brown • For me, if I get up and don’t meditate and don’t eat something before having caffeine, I go from 0 to 10 on the stress scale. – Gabrielle Bernstein • Heaven knows that alcohol is the worst thing in the world, but it’s debatable whether cocaine is worse than caffeine or whether it’s the same thing and they just changed the name. – Merle Haggard • I am running on fumes, so it’s time to get centered again. I start with eating healthier and cutting out caffeine – at least cutting back on caffeine. I exercise and get outside to play. I reconnect with my spiritual practice, which is daily meditation and prayer. Most importantly, I reconnect with my family and friends. If all else fails, a few deep breaths. – Amber Valletta • I can’t wake up at all without caffeine. – Andrew Rannells • I don’t have the time to devote to circles or covens. I have to fit things in when and where I can, in stolen moments and cups of coffee. Stirring clockwise to conjure. Widdershins to banish. There’s never enough time, and rarely enough caffeine, but I make do with what I have. Besides, cauldrons and pointy hats are overrated. Sometimes I see other customers practicing. Pouring their cream and sugar with studied intent. Stirring with purpose. I add an extra spoonful of sugar to my own coffee for them, to make all of our enchantments sweeter. – Erin Morgenstern • I don’t have hardly any caffeine, I don’t drink alcohol and I watch my red meat intake. My diet at the minute seems to be verging towards the vegetarian, which is surprising me because I tend to just listen to what my body is fancying. – Jayne Middlemiss • I don’t know where my ideas come from. I will admit, however, that one key ingredient is caffeine. I get a couple cups of coffee into me and weird things just start to happen. – Gary Larson • I don’t usually drink caffeine so that when I need it, it actually does something. – Anna Kendrick • I drink booze, I smoke, and I’m hooked on caffeine. I actually have been known to swear at times and belch and even raise my voice when provoked. And I’m not physically repressed! – Helena Bonham Carter • i drink caffeine” she said calmly “lot’s of it gives you pep – Ally Carter • I drink mate every day during training camp, and just in general. It’s packed full of vitamins and nutrients and a lot of B vitamins that you would normally get from meat. The caffeine in there affects me less and it’s more like a stimulant. I can drink more of it and it’s hydrating as well. It’s one of my favorite drinks, especially on a cold morning. – Chris Algieri • I love cranberry juice, but I’m not a coffee drinker – as a Mormon, I avoid caffeine. – Donny Osmond • I love Starbucks. Maybe thats a bit sad. But I definitely need my caffeine. Its what gets me out of bed in the morning. – Nikki Sixx • I ordered a soda – caffeine-free, low sodium, no artificial flavors. They brought me a glass of water. – Robert E. Murray • I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do – the actual act of writing – turns out to be the best part. It’s like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward. – Anne Lamott • I take them 8 to 80, dumb, crippled, and crazy. Crisp and clean with no caffeine, and a pair of spandex or either tight jeans. – Big Daddy Kane • I think I’ve reduced the amount of blood in my caffeine system to an acceptable level. – Alastair Reynolds • I try to stay sane and grounded by hunkering down, eating right, and exercising. I make a routine of spin class, yoga, and Pilates, places I push my body so hard I can lose my mind. Cutting out caffeine and sugar, being mindful, and getting enough rest are important. – Jaime Murray • I used to drink tons of caffeine. Now I make smoothies with frozen berries and Green Vibrance health powder. – Leighton Meester • I used to smoke cigarettes, ten a day, but gave up when I was 28. Now my vice is several cups of coffee a day, which isn’t great if you’re prone to weak bones as I am, as caffeine can leach calcium. – Britt Ekland • I want vasopressin, washed caffeine, Jumpstart, ginkgo biloba, guarana, and any intelligence enhancer introduced in the last five years. – Warren Ellis • I would drink gallons of coffee a day. Even now, off caffeine, I talk faster than anyone you’ve ever met. I finally recognized that I’m naturally amped up. But when I quit I was worried that I would never write again. It was like anyone who’s kicked a habit. I was in a blanket shivering, trying to kick the horse. – Nathan Englander • I would love to think there is a direct relationship between coffee and genius, but they’ve done studies, and if anything, caffeine probably makes you a little less creative. – Eric Weiner • I’d listen to things that felt really good in the moment and realize they were clouded by enthusiasm or caffeine. And things that I was struggling to get out ended up being really compelling. It’s an emotional roller coaster; there’s exhilaration and there’s shame. – Annie E. Clark • If they took all the drugs, nicotine, alcohol and caffeine off the market for six days, they’d have to bring out the tanks to control you. – Dick Gregory • If you want to have a nonmiraculous day, I suggest that newspaper and caffeine form the crux of your morning regimen. Listen to the morning news while you’re in the shower, read the headlines as you are walking out the door, make sure you’re keeping tabs on everything: the wars, the economy, the gossip, the natural disasters. . . But if you want the day ahead to be full of miracles, then spend some time each morning with God. – Marianne Williamson • If you want to understand a society, take a good look at the drugs it uses. And what can this tell you about American culture? Well, look at the drugs we use. Except for pharmaceutical poison, there are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in. – Bill Hicks • I’m a really skinny guy, I’m real tall, and I have a very high metabolism, so if I drink anything with caffeine in it, it makes me have an anxiety attack. So I can’t do coffee, or cola, or coffee ice cream, or any of those things. They make me feel like I’m going berserk. – Mark Hosler • I’m active even on bad days; it’s tough to pin me down. People ask me if I’m a morning or night person. I’m an all-the-time person. I like drinking coffee, but I do it with lots of milk because my energy levels are high even without caffeine. You could call me Obelix, except I don’t have a belly. – Bipasha Basu • Interesting choice,” Sullivan said. He slid his gaze over to Paul, who was drumming his fingers on the table in a manic, caffeine-inspired way and blinking a lot. Paul wasn’t out-and-out singing along with the king of the dead, but he might as well have put out a big neon sign saying “How’s My Driving? Ask Me About My Nerves: 1-800-WIG-N-OUT.” –James – Maggie Stiefvater • Is my music indicative of a caffeine-surged green liquid? Probably not. – Alan Palomo • It’s all I have left in my life, caffeine and a poodle. – Brad Garrett • It’s the fine balance of caffeine and alcohol that bookends my days – Tim Minchin • Marijuana is not not harmful, but is the least harmful psychoactive substance that we have, with the possible exception of caffeine. – Maia Szalavitz • My major vice is sarcasm with a side of caffeine addiction. – Rosemary Clement-Moore • Never drink diet soda. It shows you have no nerve. Only drink real colas, caffeine-packed energy drinks, or vitamin water. Hate champagne because that’s what everyone expects you to love. Energy drinks are the best party drinks. You never get tired, you never get a hangover, and you can make fun of all the loaded people who think they’re clever but are really acting stupid. – Paris Hilton • Never had a cup of coffee in my life. Dr Pepper is my caffeine delivery system of choice. – Steven Soderbergh • Once I had a potentially heart attack-inducing eight double espressos in one day. I think my assistant secretly swaps my coffees for decaf as she doesn’t want me to die of caffeine overdose. – Steven Soderbergh • One of the things that’s interesting to me is I find things like caffeine and stunts actually relax me. When they’re putting a bit of gel on my arm and lighting me on fire, or when I’m about to go into a high-speed car chase or rev a motorcycle up pretty fast, I find everything else around me slows down. – Nicolas Cage • People often say that writing is ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration. This is nonsense, of course. It’s pretty much one hundred percent caffeine. – Caprice Crane • Rebus was eating breakfast in the canteen and wishing there was more caffeine in the coffee, or more coffee in the coffee come to that. – Ian Rankin • Recently I quit caffeine. My doctor seems to think that 17 Diet Cokes per day is too much. In case you ever consider getting off caffeine yourself, let me explain the process. You begin by sitting motionlessly in a desk chair. Then you just keep doing that forever because life has no meaning. – Scott Adams • Rewards can deliver a short-term boost—just as a jolt of caffeine can keep you cranking for a few more hours. But the effect wears off—and, worse, can reduce a person’s longer-term motivation to continue the project. – Daniel H. Pink • Settle down, pup. I ain’t had my caffeine yet.” – Sundown – Sherrilyn Kenyon • Sleep is just a good idea. I bow to the god caffeine. – Jo-Ann Mapson • Sleep is just a symptom of caffeine lack – Herman Friele • Sleep: a poor substitute for caffeine! – Wallace Shawn • So I forcibly shove aside my prickles of pissed-off, which is easier than it sounds when millions of little sequined caffeine dancers are doing their big Broadway number on your internal stage. – Deb Caletti • Sometimes you have good days, and sometimes you have bad days. It really depends on how much caffeine you’ve had. – Chris Colfer • Starbucks says they are going to start putting religious quotes on cups. The very first one will say, ‘Jesus! This cup is expensive!’ – Conan O’Brien • Stop,” I said. “Please do not further endorken yourself to me. You have great hair and a car that is most fly, and you have just saved me with your mad ninja driving skills, so do not sully your heroic hottie image in my mind by further reciting your nerdy scholastic agenda. Don’t tell me what you’re studying, Steve, tell me what’s in your soul. What haunts you?” And he was like, “Dude, you need to cut back on the caffeine. – Christopher Moore • Sugar and caffeine. My willpower crumbled. – Rick Riordan • Tai chi is the one exercise that can universally help solve our growing health crisis. It has stood the test of thousands of years. We have a generation of baby boomers with increasing health problems; old people who are sick, in pain, fearful, and cranky; a middle class that is increasingly incapable of affording most of the drugs that are prescribed for their ailments; children that are flaccid, diabetic and asthmatic. People of all ages are addicted to drugs, alcohol, sugar, cigarettes, and caffeine. Stress follows almost everyone like a shadow. – Bruce Frantzis • There are a couple of homeopathic things that can be done, but you can’t really beat good rest and lots of water. That’s the honest truth. Making sure I’m well-rested and hydrated makes a big difference. Warm water and honey is a go-to, I don’t really drink tea unless it’s absolutely organic, because otherwise the caffeine will dry my voice out for some reason. – Miguel • There are two things that I cannot live without: music and books. Caffeine isn’t dignified enough to qualify. – Carlos Ruiz Zafon • There is no such thing as sleep deprivation, there is only caffeine deficiency. – Richard Simmons • This coffee falls into your stomach, and straightway there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move like the battalions of the Grand Army of the battlefield, and the battle takes place. Things remembered arrive at full gallop, ensuing to the wind. The light cavalry of comparisons deliver a magnificent deploying charge, the artillery of logic hurry up with their train and ammunition, the shafts of with start up like sharpshooters. Similes arise, the paper is covered with ink; for the struggle commences and is concluded with torrents of black water, just as a battle with powder. – Honore de Balzac • Those fruity drinks better have a lot of caffeine in them or I’ll never make it through World Issues. – Lisi Harrison • To develop intuition, one of the things you can do is pay attention to what you eat. Eat as clean a diet as you can. Eat fresh fruits and vegetables without preservatives, without alcohol, caffeine, dyes, and organically grown if possible. But do what is comfortable for your. Don’t try to shift into a lifestyle that doesn’t fit, but be aware that the lighter you eat the lighter you will feel. – Gary Zukav • We have too many poisons in our diets now, like sugar and caffeine. – Jasmine Guinness • We’re machines for turning caffeine into physics – Nima Arkani-Hamed • Widespread caffeine use explains a lot about the twentieth century. – Greg Egan • You can never have too much coffee”, I said He turned and smiled at me. “You think so, but the rest of us get a little OD’ed on your level of caffeine. – Laurell K. Hamilton

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equitiesstocks · 5 years ago

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Caffeine Quotes

Official Website: Caffeine Quotes

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