Breakfast

Dad left the jeep running in the morning for us. We had problems with the car before, but I don't think he ever knew how much mom stressed over it. Antifreeze frequently leaked, leaving behind liquid lime-green puddles on the pavement; the sweet-burning smell was overwhelming. The hood didn't trap the odor. Mom warned dad about it, but he didn't really care; it wasn't his car. She already had a headache.
“Your jeans are dragging,” she said, tossing her tote up and around her shoulder.
“It's not a big deal. I'll just pick em' up.”
“You're gonna drag them all over in the subway. There's shit and piss on the floor. Look at that. You're stepping on them too.”
I looked down. I was stepping on them. The frayed edges were snagged. I pulled the jeans up a bit, and mom measured the length with her eyes.
“It's fine.”
“Go put on a belt. I'll wait for you,” she said, jingling her keys.
“No, I'm already late.”
“What, did I buy you a belt for nothing?”
“It's fine. I'll just pick em' up.”
“Yeah, it's fine when it's not your money. Those jeans were expensive,” Mom said.
“You didn't even buy them.”
“Que jodes, get in the car.” Mom pointed to the jeep with her coffee mug.
She clenched her teeth, jerked her head and squinted. I pulled my backpack in front of me. The sweet-burning smell of antifreeze surrounded us.
I forgot that it was Friday. It was her Friday, the last day she would work at First Rehab Life Insurance before leaving for Zurich. She spent twelve years in an office with Pattie, a harlot, Cathleen, the woman who wore brown everyday, and Carom, a not-so-charming wife who painted her nails at work and made disturbing phone calls to an agency about her husband's greencard. Mom came home everyday at four o'clock and washed dishes in front of a kitchen window that framed a green bird-feeder and our neighbor's house. The feeder was always empty. The birds never came. She watched our neighbors drink mojitos.
“Last day at work, huh?” I said, facing the glaring windshield.
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel?” I wished that I had never asked the question, remembering that I asked her the same thing the night before. Mom didn't look at me. She rubbed her forehead with her left hand and closed her eyes briefly.
“Indifferent,” she replied. It was the same answer. She drove past Cunningham Park. The trees, on both sides of the road, outlined the asphalt border; they formed Corinthian columns. Leaves became natural pediments, branches made lintels and bark created an artistic frieze. I wanted her to see it. I wanted the car to stop. But before we could halt, Mom floored it, escaping a flashing yellow light. Cunningham was behind us, and the seat belt kneaded the skin around my collarbone.
“Have any regrets?” I said.
“No.”
“Really?”
“No,” she answered, slurping drops of coffee on the edge of the mug.
We heard everything in the car. Rubber wheels slapped the asphalt, noisy vents whistled and metal rattled. My brother's graduation tassel swayed listlessly, hanging from the rear-view mirror, between us. Thin strands of orange and blue blew in the opposite direction; I tugged on the tassel. She looked at me. I let go. And when I watched her painfully clench her teeth again, she focused on the cars in front of us and gripped the steering wheel with both hands; the sleeves of her blazer pulled back, exposing her bare-white wrists. Mom exhaled. I rested my face against the window and exhaled too. I watched her glass reflection, and I waited for her to say something. She kneaded the tough leather wrapped around the wheel. We felt that invisible momentum die down around the car; we halted. The car rested.
“I'm sorry about the jeans,” I said.
“Not now.”“Mom.”
“What?” she asked.
“Forget it.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Really, it's nothing.”
“What?! What is it? Something wrong with David?”
“Nothing Mom. No es importante,” I said, tugging the seat belt.
Whenever we fought, she brought up David. My brother lived his life in a fantasy world, filled with first shooters, aliens and dead space mysteries. At one time he thought his name was Gordon Freeman, a science fiction character who reminded me of Stephen King, only Freeman was better looking than King. He was designed that way. Everything close to fiction resembled David's life, and he loved it. I wouldn't blame him. The vicarious David was the brother I always knew—not the chubby kid I grew up with, playing basketball at St. Luke's and sharing buggy punches with in the car.
We passed all the colonials, capes and Obama-Biden signs down Midland Avenue. She stopped the car.
“Did you eat? Did you have breakfast?” she questioned, without looking at me. She curled her back and faced the rubber floor mats.
“I'll get something in school.”
She exhaled.
“What?” What's the matter? I'll get something in school. It's not a big deal.”
“It's never a big deal. It's the last day, and it's never a big deal.”
I faced the window, watching her glass reflection, hoping it would do something different. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a granola bar. She held it out, and I reached for it. The plastic casing crinkled; her fingers barely touched mine.
“Adios,” Mom said.
“Yeah.”
I stepped out and slid my saddle bag behind me, pulling the strap around my shoulder. The car turned the corner. The blue jeans sank below my waist. I forgot it was a Friday. It was her last day, and it smelled of antifreeze.

Spring 2009

Hi everyone, please keep posting more of your stories and poems onto the main blog and your own blogs as well. We hope that your next semester will be successful, and, if you can, spread the word about the The Quill in your classes and amongst your friends. We need as much support as we can get. Depending on the amount of submissions we will receive and the budget, the journal should be released in May or June. If you would like to help out with the administrative work for the club at John Jay, please contact Sifat or Rachel. Our first meeting at the college will be arranged soon. Keep posting your fiction.

Best,
FWA

set in stone .

this is an old story that i wrote a year ago. i'm contemplating on whether or not i should finish it or not. idk. it's just a thought and i just wanted to post something for you guys. enjoy.


Kayla stood before her husband's lowering body. She held her six year old son's hand as he cried feverishly for his father. Silent tears streamed down her face as promises of forever ran through her mind. She held her son's hand tighter as she felt him shift into her, allowing him not to see his father's coffin.

Everyone was here. Friends, family, co-workers and even neighbors. Everyone came out to watch as another great man lost a battle with life. Everyone came to pay their respects to a man that they were grateful enough to call their friend.

Kayla was ignorant to the graceful words the preacher expressed. Even he too shed a few tears as vast memories of marrying the happy couple danced in his mind. No one would expect this from a hardworking, honest man. No one.

Kayla closed her eyes and kissed her husband's imaginary lips as she whispered her final goodbye. With a swift movement of her left hand, she wiped away her sorrowful tears and made way for new ones. She was now crying for him. She knew he was happy now. Cancer would no longer take a hold of his incredible lungs and take away his last breath that was meant for their farewell. He was no longer suffering. Cancer may have won the battle, but he has won the war.




Summer of 2001

Kayla shifted in her seat as she sat outside her building on the red chipped wood-painted seats. it was summertime and extremely hot as Kayla tried to sit patiently on the uncomfortable bench. She was accompanying her elder sister as she awaited for her date to arrive. Along with him would be company for Kayla, who she has only spoken to on the phone occasionally.

"When are they coming?" Kayla asked as her patience ran low.

"Any minuted from now. They should be some where around the block," Kim, Kayla's sister, answered. Kayla slouched into the bench as boredom and frustration began to fuse together. "There they are." Kim beamed.

"Thank God." she remarked.

Kim stood to her feet, smiling, with welcoming arms as her boyfriend of three months walked inside the tall black gates. Kayla stood as well, fixing her jean shorts and running her fingers through her coarse medium length hair. She wasn't expecting to see what walked behind her sister's 'other half'. Astounded by his big brown eyes, smooth brown skin and tall fit figure, she felt like a fool in only walking out in a pair of jean shorts and a measly forgotten top. She touched her hair again out of nervousness.

Kim kissed her boyfriend sweetly on the lips and waved at his friend. "Matt, this is my sister, Kayla. Kayla, this is Matt." Kayla smiled at the young man and seemed nonchalant towards his friend. "And this here is Deion. Deion, this is my sister Kayla." Deion outstretched his hand to shake. Kayla glanced at him and soon redirected her attention to her sister. Feeling rejected, he retrieved his hand.

The four sat outside of the building for awhile and soon stepped into their building for reasoning of the increasing heat.


In the stairwell, Kim and Matt sat on the fifth floor, carrying on a conversation, leaving Kayla and Deion alone. Kayla shifted on the cold marble steps as she felt Deion's eyes on her.

"What?" Deion grinned at her.

"You have really nice legs." Kayla ran her hands up and down her long limbs and thanked him for the compliment. "I mean, they are nothing like mine." He pulled up his pants leg and revealed his hairy legs. Kayla busted into laughter. "I haven't trimmed them in awhile. I guess it's about that time." He laughed.

Kayla laughed a little more as she slowly began to get comfortable. "See, that's what I like. you have such a pretty smile." Blushing slightly, she looked away as he admired her high cheekbones and flawless skin.

"So what about you?" Deion scrunched up his brow. "Like, we all know Mat is the college football star. What about you? Do you hold any title?"

"Nope, none at all. You?" Kayla shook her head. "Are you in school?"

"High school senior."

"Senior? Congrats, I'm a sophomore in college." Kayla tallied up the years, Two years apart. She saw no room for this relationship.

"Deion, you ready?" Matt's deep voice interrupted. Deion watched Kayla sensually as she picked at the invisible dirt underneath her nails.

"Yeah." He stood to his feet and dusted off the back of his jeans. He soon held out his hand for Kayla to hold as she stood. She accepted.



"So, is that how the two of you met?" Kayla, now 25, nodded her head. It's been a little over a year since Deion's death and it is still taking a toll on her. She can no longer concentrate on her huge loss, but now on the upbringing of her son. Seeing Deion suffer destroyed her. She now sits in front of a therapist in hopes that she can help her move on. "How long was it until the two of you began dating?"

"It began the same night. I remember because my favorite show was on and it just so happened to be Deion's favorite as well. Kim gave me Deion's number in hopes that I would ask him to help me pick an appropriate college, but we all know that wasn't the case." Those priceless memories caused Kayla to smile. She was smiling, she never felt that good. Ever.

Kayla looked at the miniature grandfather clock that sat on Dr. Lyles' desk. "I have to get going. Kyle is getting out of school soon." She stood and retrieved her bag from the empty seat adjacent to her. Dr, Lyles stood up, bidding her a goodbye and scheduling her another appointment.

Old Sister

The leather strap of my Home-Line's knapsack, stitched in yellow thread, cut off the circulation in my left wrist, rubbing the skin when the train jolted along the freestanding tracks. I wanted to go home, but the Seven halted by Rawson; the metal cars cooled down. A women fell asleep on my shoulder; she smelled of garlic potatoes. The train pushed forward. That rough momentum kicked the subway cars, and someone coughed.

I wished for Citi Field to appear, showing me empty seats and a plain brick surface that only opened in one corner for a green diamond field and future loose home runs. The cars shook, and a white guy tripped; his crotch slapped a woman's face. She looked disgruntled, but he looked pleased. The train moved passed 74th street Broadway.

A corner of Shea was visible in the window framed car door near 111th street. When I was a kid, I sat in the bleeder seats next to my dad, chubby ball park lovers, and happy cracker- jack-kids who couldn't afford to sit any closer to the field, but who would want to sit any closer when the Mets lost to the Phillies? I was worried about birds dropping bombs from above. I folded my arms around the cotton candy, looking every which way in the sky when line drives were hit, bases stolen, and the crowd roared--I missed those eventful moments with dad.

Citi Field sat next to its dismantled sister, an old sister. The seven pulled away, heading into main street, closer to him. I could smell the cotton candy.

"Yes We Can"

Just like Barack Obama, even though we haven't changed the world yet, we can finally say that the Fiction Writers Association can chant "Yes we did" create the journal's first blog, and it will, a few months from now, change John Jay College. This has been prolonged for too long, but at least we're one step closer to our first publication. Congrats to JJay's writers, and many thanks to the professors who supported us when we were just an "idea" in 2007.

FWA