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After all the time we spent talking, crying, dreading your leaving, kissing and holding each other and wishing it would never come, all we had before you left was a short kiss and "I love you." Then you were gone, out of sight. Maybe you could see me from the windows of the train, but I couldn't see you; the lighting was against me. I like to think that I saw your silhouette pause and turn toward me, but I can't be sure.

I hesitated as long as I could without looking pathetic or crazy before I started down the platform stairs. As I passed the level of the platform, I could hear the conductors closing up the stairwells and the hiss of brakes releasing. The cramped, long pedestrian tunnel under the tracks felt wide open as I walked back to the parking lot on the other side. I could feel—more than I could hear, at any rate—the train rolling out of the station. By the time I crested the stairs on the other side, your train was out of sight. You'd disappeared again.

I couldn't stand the sound of music on the ride home. The silence felt better somehow. Perhaps not better so much as more fitting; your absence was a presence unto itself which demanded appropriate accompaniment. The isolation would not bear the tinny strains of club music through my phone's single speaker.

The house was still empty when I arrived. I unpacked and did laundry, mostly to keep my hands busy. The personalized mug you gave me filled and emptied again a few times. This loneliness was different from the last, but they were close bedfellows. This was an emptiness, a complete void in which the only sensation I could feel persistently were the memories of your kisses and bites upon my lips. The washing machine laughed in your voice.

My family came home later. They'd brought some beer from a craft brewery for me to try. Again the mug did its duty. After a short chat with my mother, she asked me a simple question that almost made me cry. When it comes to you, my heart's stitched right on my skin.

Here I sit, breaking the last promise I made to you—sappy, cloying songs pumping through the speakers on my glass and wood desk—and even as I write this the last two words I never said echo through my head, rest on the tip of my tongue, only too late.

Don't go.

A True Story and an Inspired Haiku

Before you read this haiku, you need to understand something. You need to know the story of Amy Phillips and me. Below  is a picture of the two of us when she came to visit me in Philly last summer. You can read our story after the break.

Super-Important

THIS UPDATE IS CRITICAL.

I finally thought of a name for the cocktail I mentioned in the last post. I'm calling it the "Early Morning." Good times. The previous post will be edited to reflect my recently slain indecision.

In other, more writing-relevant news, Twins Part 2 is progressing... slowly. I can't seem to work out how it ends. Would-be editors, please contact me. I need some help on this one, I think.

Peace or whatever,
Brendan

Half-Drunk on a Wednesday: Winning

Hola, Deviants. After what I can only describe as an eventful day, I find myself awake at an ungodly hour, writing (surprisingly enough) the second part of the tepidly-received "Twins" story that I posted some four months ago. Suffice it to say that I have no intention of publishing this story as it stands, in the roughest of rough drafts, but I have something that may keep you mildly entertained in the meanwhile. I'm drinking a cocktail I can only describe as a grown-up gin and juice, the sort of thing that Snoop Dogg would drink if he were James Bond. I'm still working on a proper name for it.

EDIT: Adjusted the ratio slightly. There was too much lime. I like it better this way!
RE-EDIT: It has a name! It's the "Early Morning" until I think of a better name/one is suggested to me.

The Early Morning:

Three parts gin
One part lime juice
Four parts orange juice
One splash triple sec
Seltzer
Maraschino cherries (as a garnish)

Combine the gin, juices and triple sec over ice and stir well. Strain into a highball glass and top with seltzer. Garnish with one to three cherries (they'll drop to the bottom but give it a sort of tequila sunrise look). Enjoy!

Twins, Part One

So I'm calling this part one, but I'm not so certain I want to pick this up again. I'll leave it open for now, I suppose.

And We're Back!

Hello there, ladies and gentlemen! After a rather extended hiatus, I've returned once again to writing. But that's not all! I've put up a quick little questionnaire on Facebook, as I'm considering expanding the format of this here writing blog. What sorts of things would you like to see? Want me to post more recipes? Share my opinions? Rant impotently at the world around me? Tell me about it!

In the meantime, stay tuned! In about two minutes, a new piece of writing should be published, a little piece I'm calling "Twins." It's still in first draft, but what can you do? As always, please share feedback with me. Thanks for reading!

Every Panda Has Its Day

The following is a short story and my first stumbling attempt at surrealist writing. Judge it harshly or not at all.