Bianca Isla prepares coffee for detective Cuadrado

She Uses fresh coffee beans, from an old can which bursts with flavour on opening and she grinds the portions measuring with care
Boiling in an old black kettle over the stove she bites her copper-green thumb nail, staring off into space
She pours the hot navy blue coffee into crimson cups, a silver strainer hovering over the rims
Purple mist cloaks the kitchen with caffeinated aroma

The Stench of My Middle Finger

All day my middle finger does a job

Keep a hole open while my colleague extracts valuables

When the job is done and I remove my middle finger I know the next six months will be stained by a stench which sticks with me tirelessly

The job pays me three months worth of labour and I come back every time because I have to

The doctor said I run the risk of passing this horrendous smell onto my unborn child

I haven’t told my partner

We already have a two year old daughter and she’s developed an allergy to my middle finger; so has my grandmother — who looks after my daughter during the dreaded months

I’ve been saving up and hopefully sooner than later I’ll be able to find a way to use all of this money to stop the smell


The hospital had to be cleared after the arrival of my first son

My partner and I haven’t stopped shedding tears

We sit on the other side of the plastic room

His little body oozing that all too familiar odour

But, ten times stronger, an entire ward is Under quarantine

I’ll need to work more shifts

Something I’ve never done before having feared what it would do to my middle finger but for my child I’ll do anything

So stressed my sense of smell has gone anyway

Maybe they’ll find a cure
Or is it remedy
I don’t know

Got to keep on. What other alternative is there any way?


You want me to be superhuman

-i never said

The way you look at me, the way your face turns when I do something human

-you’re imagining things

I blow my nose and you tense up, you see the contents of my drawer and you act like some juvenile from the movies. This is real life and I’m a human being same as you

-yea well…

Don’t ‘never mind’ me. Are we two grown-ups in this relationship or is this a movie with cameras and no end to your imagined action?

-i don’t think I can do this

And most things too. Enjoy your starring role.

A coin dropped in The packed Kraft Café and everybody continued where they left off when he walked out the door.
She swiped her newspaper and put on her reading glasses, sipping on some coco-Kaffeesahne

Is this a Cube or an Antenna?

She’s a lovely girl of course! We speak about the stars and she laughs a lot, around me at least, doesn’t fancy crowds too much but she’ll grow out of her nerves.

I don’t think other people know so little about their best friends, but we have similar tastes in things, I think. Gawd I’m not even sure about that!

[Sleeping on the couch]

She’s a million different things, not one I know, and that’s how my friends describe me. We are intimate anomalies and I love that about us. She’s been through so much, more than any one I know but here she is, living on and blessing me with her beingness. She’s my precious!

Hard worker, first to work, last out. Needs help with her temper, always getting into fights, but she’ll grow out of it.

She’s a bit too easy with the boys.

Say that name again?

2nd Bestie:
She and I are soul mates. Bonded by something everybody else struggles to comprehend. I remember she pulled my tooth out once with pliers. That person she’s dating currently is a digital apparition, I don’t want to date her, I want us to grow old together. Once I’m out of here.

A Letter to Jø from Anya

You know I find greetings insufferable, so I shall pass the convention gleefully.

I have been eating rather sparsely of late. Not out of any illness, but rather I find food has lost its magic; my tongue cannot discern between two lavish dishes. As you can imagine,with my intimate history with food, this affects me deeply.

I must insist; it is neither a form of depression nor existential malaise (the two are brother and sister); I do hope this news shan’t affect you adversely.

A final note of whining: my uncle has been a tragedy of late! He came from the shadows to plague us with his mysterious illness which no doctor can find and he cannot describe!
In the night he moans like a dying kitten and in the day he sits rather pompously before the television holding onto the remote as if it were a miracle cure. He is robbing the family of a peaceful winter and mother is too kind to see him off.
I digress. I wish terribly that you were here.

Talking about the recipient of this letter; how has the operation gone?

How guilty I feel for not being able to tag along with you.

To be whole, to look in the mirror and finally see yourself staring back! What wonders this century has; alongside tragedies that fog all progress. I add reluctantly.

O! How insufferable I can be; forgive me for my cynical inclinations. I am a terrible cross breed between masochist and pessimist.

I must be off; The uncle summons me. I beg you to respond as soon as possible. I will be dreaming of you my dearest friend.

Yours fatally; Anya.

Wreaks of Havoc-encoded Mysteries

It’s been a long time
Shining knuckles
Fitting shoes

_Lights out after drinking out of its sole

ties laces like nooses
Only, bitter better when quitter shoots.
Know what I mean.

Not a question just a statement
Down here, you either pasted and plastered or, blasted over your boom locks.
With, “rocks under your cabinet,”
After the hour has faded into algebra.

Switch the lights out and think and drink and take a dunk.

Like a noose on a sinking space ship.