Tick tock.
There goes time. There goes the chance to call her mine, the wizard sings. Only this wizard doesn’t believe in time. There he goes, swooping down, wishing away her songs so only he can rhyme. They say he eats hearts, swallows them whole. But instead of eating hearts, he chews through songbird’s notes, twisting them from whole notes into halves. He’s nothing like the Welsh wizard from the story on my shelf, but instead a starling. He plucks eggs from nests that aren’t his own, until one day, a young boy cried out, “Please, no!”
The wizard stared back, puzzled and incomplete, with half his body human, and the other half with avian feet. He’d never heard a little boy speak. He’d only been smashing the songs of others, without any knowing of what he’d been killing.
“Please don’t hurt them, they’re my brothers and sisters,” the little boy wept.
And it wasn’t until the clock ticked and tocked again, the wizard’s eyes slept with sorrow. The boy had two feet, two wings and a beak.They were two of a feather, birds of a kind.
But it was too late. His starling friends already hated and reeked.

A purple tentacle sprung out at my face from underneath Table 14. I jumped back, careful not to spill the pot of coffee in my left hand, nor the platter of pastries in my right. The one-eyed little girl whom the tentacle belonged to let out a cackle from behind the draped-down tablecloth. Her mother quickly scooped her up off of the carpet in her own tentacles and planted her firmly in her chair.
“Oh, I’m so very sorry!” cried the mother in Phlanomian. “I have no idea what’s gotten into her! She’s normally such a well-behaved child.”
“Oh…” I hesitated. “It… is… good.” Darn it. I reminded myself to review my interplanetary languages after my shift was over. I set down the platter in front of the two and scurried away to save myself any more conversation.
I sighed. My cafe was always crowded around this time. Every table was packed with customers from everywhere in the galaxy. The air was full of grating screeches, howls, and unfamiliar languages I couldn’t even begin to decipher. Children of all different species were smearing their faces against the floor-to-ceiling windows, peering out into the expanse of space and down at my bluish, smoggy home planet which my cafe orbited like a satellite.
My vision was suddenly blocked by a slimy yellow mitt reaching down from the ceiling, gripping an empty mug. I looked up and was met by half a dozen eyes, all sunk into the blobby yellow mass which the arm was attached to.
“Oh! So sorry, sir! I didn’t realize you were out!” I managed a smile as I refilled his mug to the brim. His flesh bubbled as he gurgled out what I hope was an expression of gratitude. He then oozed across the ceiling over to a bench, which I had bolted up there in between the hanging overhead lights. The trail of green slime he left in his wake was unsightly, but at least odorless. I could put off cleaning it for later.
I hurried back into my barista station before any more roadblocks could appear. I took a deep breath and forced another smile at the customer seated at the counter. He was an eight-foot tall Sarsualrean with bright blue fur, interrupted by streaks of gray. His four green eyes gave me a stone-cold stare from beneath his four bushy eyebrows. The dozens of military badges on his yellow coat gleamed in the light.
“‘Bout time I could expect some service ‘round ‘ere!” his gruff voice boomed.
“Yes, I’m so sorry si-!” I stopped short. I had understood his words perfectly. “Wait, you speak my language?”
The man let out a hearty guffaw and pounded his enormous paw on the counter. “What language DON’T I speak, sonny? I’ve been EVERYWHERE in this blasted galaxy!”
Almost none of my patrons had spoken my language to me before. For the first time, I didn’t have to fake my interest in a customer. “Oh my gosh! Thats-”
“Coffee,” he commanded.
“Oh, right! Sorry!” I hastily grabbed a mug from under the counter and filled it. A bit of the coffee splashed down onto the counter, the floor, and even my brand new work shoes, but I couldn’t have cared less. The second I was done pouring, the blue man snatched it from my hand and downed it in one swig. He slammed the mug back down onto the counter.
“Refill,” he ordered.
I took the mug back. Filling it more slowly this time, I asked my first burning question.
“So, how’d you learn my language?”
I slid the mug to the man. He drank it in one gulp again and passed it back to me.
“Hmm…” he paused, reclining in his seat. “I was called to these parts a few decades back by a planet with a bunch o’ rings. They said some people on a planet with a big red spot were tryin’ ta invade, and they needed my help ta stop ‘em. Some guys who looked like you happened to be livin’ on the rings planet, speakin’ that language, so I learned it from ‘em. Figured you might know it, too.”
I passed back his second refill. “Yeah, a lot of my people headed to that planet after ours got uninhabitable from pollution. Makes sense you’d run into them.” I took the mug back and refilled it. “So, you’re in the military?”
“Gee, how’d ya piece THAT one together?” the man chuckled, gesturing to the medals adorning his person. “General Xylathryp Hyaloo, at’cher service!”
A new voice squealed from across the room in Sragysian, a language I was pretty familiar with. “Wait! No way! General Hyaloo?!”
Hyaloo and I turned our heads. Down at the end of the counter sat a stubby little orange cylinder-shaped guy with dozens of noodly appendages wiggling out from his top and bottom. His three eyes protruded upward like antennae, and his smile stretched to cover half of his entire body. He hopped closer, from stool to stool, until he was seated right next to Hyaloo, staring up at him in amazement.
“Wow…” the orange guy gasped, “General Hyaloo, sir, I’m a huge fan! I learned about a bunch of your battles in school! I even followed all of your escapades in the Gualthir region!”
Hyaloo’s booming laugh filled the air again. He switched his language to Sragysian. “The Gualthir region! Now THOSE were the days! Back when I could wield a Nruja Lance without rupturing a vertebrae!”
“And how impressive you looked wielding it!” He replied, emphatically. There was something familiar about his voice that I couldn’t quite place. He went on. “I actually got a few of your victory speeches to air on my channel! Ratings absolutely skyrocket whenever you open your mouth!”
My eyes went wide. “Wait! Are you Lanthamar Kzull?” I asked in my best Sragysian.
The orange guy turned to me, beaming. “Yep! You know my show?”
“Do I know the twenty-six o’clock news? Yeah, man! EVERYONE knows your name!”
A few of Kzull’s appendages turned blue. “Aww, stop it! You’re making me blush!”
“Hey, yer right!” Hyaloo belted. “I’ve heard that name before, too! Gotta say, ya look pretty young fer a big-shot celebrity!” He reached over and gave Kzull’s top ganglia a noogie.
“Oh, please, please! It’s really not that big a deal,” Kzull chuckled. “I’ve only been covering regional stories so far. I’ve barely even been on TV for a full cycle!”
Kzull suddenly turned to me. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Where are my manners? We’ve already introduced ourselves. What’s YOUR name?”
“Oh, uh…” I hesitated, “it’s John.”
Kzull waited a moment for me to continue. “John?”
“Uh, John Smith.”
Kzull nodded. “Ah.”
There was an awkward pause. I nervously scratched the back of my head. My hair suddenly felt too shaggy.
Hyaloo broke the silence. “Well, go on! We already shared our life stories with ya! Surely you got somethin’ to share with the class!”
Kzull waited eagerly. I gulped.
“Well, uh… I opened this cafe around three and a half cycles ago…”
Kzull and Hyaloo waited for me to continue.
“...that’s it. I haven’t done much else since.” I said.
“Oh…” Kzull shifted, uncomfortably.
“Hm… sorry fer puttin’ ya on the spot like that, Johnny,” Hyaloo murmured.
“Oh, no, no!” I quickly cut in. “It’s fine! It’s not like I’ve got a problem with where I’m at or anything!”
“Oh, good. Good.” Hyaloo smiled.
“Ooh! What’s your favorite part of the job?” asked Kzull. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was genuinely interested in me.
I scratched the stubble on my chin. “Hm… I guess… it’d be meeting guests like you.”
“Aww,” Kzull smiled, “you’ll make me blush again!”
“I get customers from all over the place,” I went on. “I guess hearing all of their stories allows me to live vicariously. I might be tied down to- er- currently working this job, but hearing the stories of the adventures everyone else goes on… the opportunities and excitement you all have access to… I can just imagine myself in your shoes when I hear you describe it over a cup of my coffee.”
There was a beat of silence in the room. “Huh,” chuckled Hyaloo, “ain’t that somethin’.”
“I don’t actually wear shoes,” Kzull interjected.
“Sorry,” I quickly added, “that might’ve been too personal. And shoe-reliant.”
“Oh, no, no, not at all!” Kzull reassured me. “Honestly, I’m flattered you think of us that way!”
Hyaloo looked around at the tables behind him. Several of my customers had begun to clear out to the parking deck, unanchoring their ships and flying off. “Uh oh, how long’ve I been ‘ere?”
Kzull stretched his eyes up to one of his ganglia, which I now realized had a tiny analogue watch on it. “Oh no!” He jumped up. “My next spot’s coming up! I gotta go!”
Kzull leaned over the counter and shook his top appendages rapidly. Coins flew out of his limbs and bounced away in all different directions. He straightened up. “That should cover it! Thanks for the chat!” Kzull quickly hopped down from his stool and sprinted toward the parking deck as fast as his ganglia would carry him.
Hyaloo and I watched Kzull run out. Hyaloo then turned back to me. He switched to my language again. “I think I got time fer one more cup o’ joe."
I nodded and filled his mug one last time. Hyaloo took it, stared down into his reflection in the mug, and smoothed down some of the fur on his head. He then drank half of the coffee, and set the rest back down on the table. He stood up, nearly bumping his head on one of the overhead lights.
“Well, I’m outta ‘ere.” Hyaloo reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled bill. “Keep th’ change, Johnny.”
I took the bill and nodded. “Thank you for your patronage, sir.”
“C’mon, Johnny. It’s just Hyaloo to ya.” Hyaloo leaned in. “And don’t worry, kid. You’ll get outta ‘ere soon enough. I’m rootin’ fer ya.”
“Thank you, sir,” I responded.
“Tch.” Hyaloo straightened up and headed out toward his ship. The bell on the door tinkled as it swung shut behind him.
I was left alone at the counter. No new customers were coming in, and the few that were left seemed to be quietly wrapping up their meals. I took a rag and began wiping down the counter where I had spilled coffee earlier. I picked up the mug Hyaloo had left and cleaned the coffee ring underneath it. I paused, brought the mug over below my chin, and stared down into the half-empty mug. In the coffee’s reflection, an alien stared back at me.

A foreseen event of thoughts, words, and execution.

That was all it took.

At first, it's a silent conversation of ominous tunes echoing through the perturbed room.

Whispers travel left and right like a tin can telephone as an imaginary game of tug of war occurs. Pick a side.

Eyes nervously shift, flickering like faulty lightbulbs when other pairs of eyes catch sight.

The clock's hands spin hastily as compliments sweeter than honey swirl around the room.

But sometimes, sweet compliments mask the bitter truth.

Mistrust or perhaps–hatred, planted on their faces. A seed bound to grow into a garden conquered by an assembly of Belladonnas.

One side serene with peace, triggered solely when the clouds weep with crocodile tears.

The other side brews a recipe of organized chaos into a cauldron.

A spell that amuses the vagabond wind. It's faint whistling chants mocking incantations against the window:

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the deceiver of them all?

But the truth eventually ascends like the sun, gradually rising above the horizon; unraveling the night's attempt to conceal its secrets.

At last, thoughts pile up gunpowder, and tongues ignite fuse.

Then, Fire.

Tucked in the backseat, right-side of a ‘99 Camry.
My perch, my fort, a kingdom of my own.
Keys jangle in the ignition, rousing it from sleep.
Sometimes a guttural purr, low and lazy.
Sometimes a lullaby, sung off-key and fading.
But always sputtering like a heart skipping a beat.
My chubby cheeks press into the cold glass.
As we drive, I flip a storybook— each cloud a page left behind.

Wait, are the clouds drifting, or is it me?
To this day, I don’t know.

Cirrus, altocumulus, stratus…
The names when I saw Rubin’s Vase.
Circuses, alto saxophones, strawberries…
The names when I saw Rubin’s Face.

Could I ever reach them?
To this day, I’m still plotting

07/24/16 To-Do List:
1) Trade the cow-shaped cloud for magic beans.
2) Plant the beans in my backyard
3) Climb the beanstalk to reach the swirling clouds.
4) Feel their softness? slickness? sharpness?
5) Taste their sweetness? sourness? saltiness?
6) Don’t get tempted by the castle!
7) Bring some fluff for my sister?
8) Flee before the giant awakes.

My sister cranks 98.7 on the radio,
Justin Bieber, One Direction fading into my left ear,
Above, the horizon unspools a tapestry of tales,
When I wanted humor,
The angels farted
When I sought adventure,
Dragons uncoiled in the sky
And ships sailed in the treacherous sea,
When I marveled at nature,
Forests were rich with blossoms and fruits,
Deer pranced playfully.

Is that a duck or a flamingo?
No, it's a duck’s head with a flamingo’s body.
To this day, just a cloud.

Now, I stare at the sky— its life withers.
The clouds wisps, too scrawny to hold their shape,
I plead with the sky for just one more story,
But the angels haven’t eaten.
The giant is asleep.
The dragons are fossils.
The ships have docked.
The flowers were monocarpic.
The fruits gone rotten.
And hunting season begun.

Did the clouds grow old?
To this day, only I have aged.

But on that right side, I am always the kid.
The kid chasing stories like fireflies in the dark,
The kid who clutched onto the stories like treasures,
The kid who wore the clouds like a crown,
A crown spun from imagination and creativity.

The blustering winds send icy chills down my numbing fingers. I — stupidly — forgot gloves. Snow pools about me, littering the exterior of my car.
I fumble with the scraper, leaning across my windshield, scrape, scrape, scraping off its icy finish — careful not to touch the glass with my frostbitten forearms. Being the genius I am, I forgot a coat too.
Filing out of the school gymnasium, adults, bundled in coats with warm, remote-started cars — unlike me — hustle like businesspeople with places to be, eyeing me pitifully. I avoid their gazes.
Hands burning, fingers screaming, I scrape quicker, my shame accumulating alongside the snow. An elderly man strolls by, cigarette lighter in hand, chuckling when he sees me shivering. I cut my losses, unable to brave the cold any longer, and yank the car door, icicles flying off in a dramatic spectacle.
I slam my head against the wheel and sigh, defeated.
I can drive, but I forget to pick up my sisters. I have a credit card, but I don’t know how to pay the bill. I give my full effort, but it’s still not enough.
How am I supposed to grow up — I can’t even scrape away frost.

The most important day of his life. Trevor had been waiting for this day ever since he first laid eyes on her. She was stunning, like nothing he'd ever seen before. The way she shone and how gorgeous she looked, how it took his breath away. He knew the world was envious of whoever got to have her. And now, he'd finally get to make her his, show the world who she belonged to.

He got up, feeling giddy for the day ahead. He'd been planning this for months, the perfect location, the perfect timing, the perfect car to drive away with her after. Trevor finished knotting his tie and beamed at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't wait to start the rest of his life with her by his side. Trevor got in the car and pulled up to the venue. It was decked out, every inch of it covered in extravagant decoration. He cast his gaze around the crowded room. There she was. Impossible to miss. He grinned, and strode toward her. She was so beautiful.

Trevor pulled out his gun and fired it into the air. "Give me the diamond, and everyone leaves alive."

I am a fish, I say.
Swimming in your absence.
I am a fish, I say.
While my gills struggle to breathe through the plastic rings of your ignorance.
I am a fish, I say.
As I float up, instead of down.
I am a fish, I say.
As you pull me down, instead of up.
I am a fish, I say.
Whilst your hands squeeze the life out of me, your fingers removing my transparent coat of protection as I silently plead.
I am a fish, I say.
As you see my heart right through me, pumping gallons of washed away love.
I am a fish, I say.
As I sleep without motion instead of consciousness.
I am a fish, I say.
Until you decide to flush me away.

I was a fish.

A seed lay inside a ripe tomato, growing inside a garden. One day, a bird ate the tomato, and the seed began a new journey inside the bird. Eventually, the bird dropped the seed, and it landed in a crack on a paved parking lot. Its quest for survival had begun.

There was no water or soil for the seed. Time after time, people went by this weak seed, oblivious to the struggles of the seed. The seed could do nothing but live its life in despair, soon to perish.

On its last strand of hope, the seed sprouted, pushing tiny, feeble roots into the pebbles that lay below. Somehow, underneath, lay a small patch of soil, signifying the glimmer of hope it had left. Yet this barren earth still lacked water and nutrients. But then miraculously, rain fell. Daily, showers soaked the dirt, providing the seedling with water. It grew stronger, absorbing every trickle of water possible.

As time went on, the seed grew into a healthy tomato plant and bore fruit. Against all odds, it had fought for survival, showing that through despair and hardship, one can still survive and thrive.

You always swore you’d leave this town.

Ever since you were a kid, you’d trace the highway on maps, following it past fields and forests, past rivers and state lines, past anything that reminded you of this sickening place. The roads were a promise, and you were going to keep it.

But the trees don’t forget.

Neither does the river.

And when you drive past the old willow tree at the bend—the one by the water, the one you crashed into last year—you can’t forget either.

The dented guardrail. The split bark. The wilting flowers someone had left at its base.

You grip the wheel tighter. You don’t quite remember the impact, just the feeling of falling. Of being weightless for a moment before the waters swallowed you whole.

Pfft, whatever. It doesn’t bother you, right?

Turn up the radio louder. Keep driving.

The street lights flicker. The road stretches endlessly ahead, but something isn’t right. No landmarks. No signs. Just pavement and sky and a hush of wind through the trees.

Then you see it again.

The willow tree.

The guardrail.

The flowers.

The truth is–

You never left.

You never will.

privilege.
to refuse to see
or to stare idly, half-lidded
as the waters lurch forward—
not here though.

the sea laps insatiably at foreign doorsteps,
but our streets glimmer in pure opulence.
we sip from greed-rimmed glasses,
while frail hands elsewhere wring out floodwater
from the fabric holding their very lives.

we do not fret—
for we are shielded by distance,
by steel and glass called arrogance.

privilege is to have
the indulgence of waste,
to glut then discard,
to lay waste to a world
already gasping for breath.
to cradle abundance in silver-plated hands,
while others claw at the earth for scraps.

we sit back,
stretch our limbs
beneath tainted "broad stripes and bright stars"
on chairs built on the backs of those bent double.

privilege is to believe
our decadence is divine,
our hunger is dignified,
our smoke is ours to exhale,
though it snakes its way across the sea.

but the tide does not tremble before borders—
it saunters in, uninvited.
floods rise without a passport,
pollution spills forward, indifferent.

the land beneath them sighs
exhausted from the weight of debts
it never incurred.

privilege is to take,
to pluck, to seize, to gorge,
and feign innocence.

to have the luxury
of turning a blind eye—
that is,
our nation.