September 5, 2012
Quick Fiction

“You’re like a god damn machete!” she screamed.

On a small table, next to a wooden chair was a tumbler filled with whiskey, sitting on a doily.

“A dirty knife, Eddie. You’re a dirty, rotten machete! You cut me!” she said.

The small table was mahogany and it matched the chair where this woman’s words were being directed. There sat Eddie, counting the lines in the wood that the furniture was made of, wondering how old the tree was when they cut it, considering what the natural color of the wood might have been before it was stained and reshaped for the function it now served.

“And when you cut me Eddie, it burns. It gets infected. You see what I’m saying. It gets all fucken infected in my brain and it doesn’t fucken heal. Evertime you fuck me over. I can’t take it. I can’t continue to get cut and infected inside my freaking head Eddie,” she said. “Are you list-en-ing?”

If Eddie tilted his weight a little, the right leg of the chair would creek. He did it a few times to figure out if it was the floor creaking or the chair.

He lifted the whiskey to take a sip and stared at his hands noticing the tiny strands of hair escaping from his fingers. They were delicate hairs for an old man.  He liked the fact that his hands still displayed youth.

“You’re a piece of shit, Eddie,” she said.

She went on to verbally batter him a few more minutes that, to him, seemed like hours, while he sat and witnessed precipitation occur on his glass. He watched it drip. Then there was sixty seconds of silence.

“I’m dying inside, Eddie. I love you. Let’s go see a movie?”

August 31, 2012

If a piano is being played in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? (more…)

Big Fish – August 29, 2012

David Lynch said, “Ideas are like fish. If you want to catch little fish you can stay in the shallow water. But if you want to catch the big fish you have to go deeper.”

I like to believe that I can dive deep, and I have. But I feel that lately I’ve just been surface dwelling, kicking around the superficial contents of my brain, messing around with a few guppie ideas. No blue whales here.

I should probably follow the Lynchian approach and finally take the time to practice Transcendental Meditation. Will I find the big fish with 10 to 30 minutes of introspection a day? Quien sabe? (more…)

From his apartment window he can see them every Saturday, at least ten aztec dancers in full feathered array. Their tropical colors extending from their headdresses, slicing the air.  They step and jump with hundreds of tiny shells wrapped around their ankles and wrists, shaking in unison to the rhythm of a beating heart. He likes to open his window to let the smell of their incense enter his home. The smoke carries through his window screen and permeates his pores as it makes contact with his skin. He doesn’t understand why it reminds him of sitting in a church.

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Photo: Nacho Libre, Paramount Pictures

The new year is so close that I can almost put my arms around it. I’m gonna put it in a headlock and call it my bitch! I’m gonna shake the shit out of it till it spills all of its delicious content like a busted piñata and when it bursts I hope that you’ll all jump in and grab as many goodies as you can for yourselves. I don’t mind sharing.

Or maybe, since this is my 40th year rolling underneath my feet and I’m a little to old for headlocks and the inappropriate use of the “B” word. And I don’t think I’ll be swinging at any piñatas since you have to line up by height. At 6’2″ someone has to bust it before I do.

What I think I’ll do is invite next year out for a cup of Mate. I’ll sit with the new year and we’ll plan out how we can make things work for everyone involved. Then maybe we’ll grab some good food and go home happy. (more…)

(Please excuse any grammatical errors. All short stories by Solovino Reyes are in development and will be edited throughout the year.)

It is 1992…..

The sun comes up on East Los just like anywhere else in the world. The birds make their noises and the clouds, if any, proceed in their idle manner.

You get the morning din from traffic and the caustic sound of engines trying to start in the cold air of winter. Visceral shrieks, like a sick man trying to discharge the phlegm out of his chest. A lot of old cars around here are trying to get their motors turning at this hour.
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(Please excuse any grammatical errors. All short stories by Solovino Reyes are in development and will be edited throughout the year.)

He opened one eye to see her lying next to him. Then he opened the other. The light coming from the window made him squint. In the glow of the sun’s rays he studied her face closely. Enamored by her pout, he looked at her long, allowing his senses to take it all in. He mimicked her breathing pattern and felt connected to her. Under the blanket that they shared all night he held her hand and felt a profound sense of comfort, a feeling of belonging that he never openly shared with her.

His eyelids began to feel heavy again. Slowly they closed, things faded to black, and he fell back into a deep sleep. Sinking slowly, then rapidly, then slowly into himself, his dreams took over.

Solovino, has always favored his morning dreams, as they are the most lucid interpretations of his thoughts: in full color and high definitio­­n sensory perception.

All the light in the room and the woman lying next to him suddenly materialized before him in a world of perfect dimension and color. Here, a single touch from her sent electric impulses all over his sleeping being. In this world he made love to her better than he had the night before, absorbing her entire existence in every embrace and penetration, feeling the natural beauty of his tongue deep in her face.

Last night’s drunken fuck was like a sloppy good night kiss that lasted only as long as schoolyard fight and ended in two people snoring the night away inside a cheap hotel, midst the smell of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat; both too tired and too drunk to complain. The sound of two people fighting next door was their lullaby.

But this morning the cerebral visions being transmitted were different, except for the fact that this too ended much too quickly. The explosion of the dream sensation was overwhelming and sent his waking body into an upright position. His eyes opened to see an empty pillow next to him. He looked back over his shoulder and saw her purse and clothes were gone from the dresser.

Dammit! She left!

His feelings for this woman were stronger than he’d like to admit. He enjoyed the simplicity of being next to her. It might be another month before he sees her again. As he reminisced about last night’s quickie he hoped for a chance to redeem his sexual manhood.

Lying there collecting his thoughts he heard the shower start.

Yes! She’s still here.

He smiled.

It took me way too long to post this writer. I first read Aquino while part of a writers workshop: www.theundeniables.org.

But it was on the last day of this seasons Tuesday Night Cafe in J-Town that I met him. The Tuesday Night Cafe is a poetry and performance showcase that has survived for eleven years under the navigation of Traci Kato-Kiriyama. He dedicated this poem to her on the night I was there. I’ve wanted to post it since that day and I’m glad I finally got around to doing this.

Below is the poem he read on that night and I’ve included two other poems by Aquino.

Enjoy.

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The following poem is from Jim Marquez’s latest book “Heart of the Beast-Collected Love Stories” available exclusively at ANTIGUA COFFEE HOUSE in Cypress Park, or at www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez.

Jim has self-published 9 books in the past 5 years and is the Editor of the “Citizen LA”, a monthly arts & culture magazine out of Downtown Los Angeles serving the arts communities of the City of Angels. In addition to being born & raised in East LA, he is a proud graduate of East Los Angeles College & Cal State LA.
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He Was Dancing With A Beautiful Woman

Slow dancing in a dive bar, mid-week, not in downtown.

This was a dream, right?

A mid-west beauty,

In my arms

An actual lady…         (more…)