Before the Broken

 

Before the Broken
by Daniel Eng

His eyes gazed into the vast darkness of the night sky, studying it’s grace intently. Every time he caved into blinks, the sky seemed a little lower, as if sticking its neck out for a closer look.

A concert of flickering stars draped the cimmerian shade, orchestrating a silent medley for its solemn admirer. The crusty soil branched its way above ground with trees dimmed to a murky shade of brown, planted neatly across the horizon, framing the boy’s view to a symmetrical perfection. Nary a single cloud, the colossal spectacle—bled across boundless yards of foreign soil he could only plant himself in his dreams—would have easily held his breath on any other night, but there was something appreciative about the melancholy that dimmed before him tonight.

Tonight, it was an exemplary stage set for his broken heart, tired of catching up with his haunted past.

Today

 

 

Today
by Daniel Eng

There it sat, in a little blue Tiffany box, nested calmly on a silk stitched cushion—as if oblivious to the world that spun around it’s existence—an exquisite diamond ring.

Her eyes were dreary but she couldn’t think of anywhere else to direct them. Her head was burning with questions that escaped in a frown that made her face home.

Bewilderment kept her curiosity rooted, yet she found herself looting through a pile of perhap’s and what if’s that saturated her mind.

What if she didn’t scour her wardrobe to find the black Gaultier dress that never failed to titillate a compliment from him? Would she have stumbled across the very same box that found silent refuge in her top drawer?

What if she didn’t make a coffee stop the day they first met? Would he have picked up her soy latte by mistake? And would she have sat him down for a 30 minute lecture if she didn’t have the lactose intolerance of a ferret?

What if he didn’t—

“Tracy, the guests have all arrived,” her mother announced as she entered the room, interrupting her thoughts with a little startle. “It’s time.”

Her mother must have traced her eyes to the box, because as soon as they did, she let out a little gasp.

“Oh sweetie…”

Almost instantaneously, she plucked the ring rudely off the cushion and slipped it into her pocket without much thought. She stood up with all the calmness she could afford, pushing her chair back a little, walked past her mother and out of the room. The Gaultier dress was a little tighter than when it first left the store, but it didn’t matter—tiny knots have found their way into her stomach and deep breaths into her chest.

As she paced down the hallway, she felt a tinge of guilt for leaving her mother to deal with her new found discovery; she didn’t want to deal with her mother’s idiosyncrasies, as she has had for the past 30 odd years, but not today.

Today was different. Today, she found a ring that had her name all over it. Today, she discovered that man she has known to love for the past 4 years was planning on proposing to her. Today—

***

Her train of thoughts came to yet another halt when she found herself standing behind a stand, staring down at pews after pews of faces—some familiar, some not so much–estranged relatives and work colleagues she never really fancied; high school boyfriends and her drunk 3rd aunt Jenna.

They were all here, as if brought together by some cosmic energy to collectively stare her down at this very moment.

She stared hard and long at the rehearsed speech placed before her, but she might as well have been staring at ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. All she could make out was the scribbling of a madwoman who hasn’t had any decent sleep or food for days.

Fuck this.

She returned her attention to the pairs of eyes that have found a focal point on her face. It was as if they were waiting for some sort of holy guided sign. Or the chandelier to come crashing down on her. At this point, she couldn’t really tell. Or care.

This is it, now or never. Reaching into her pocket, she grasped the ring tightly in a sweaty clutch, administered a solemn pause and cleared her throat.

“Today, we are here to mourn the loss of my late fiance.”

The Perfect Stranger

The Perfect Stranger
by Daniel Eng

Alone.

That is when her thoughts run amok, like a single wild horse—with no summit in sight—breezing through uncharted plains; her hoofs traipsing tirelessly across unkempt greens, neither a care nor a doubt in mind.

She adores the muted frenzy that swallows her whole, the world that spins madly around her insignificance. She can be anyone—a penniless busker making music out of rhymes and home out of streets; a jaded drunk who saw no ordinance beyond a glass of pinot; a slinky escort well versed in French and deep throat—and those who cross her path will know as little as they care.

For all that matters, she is the perfect stranger.

With her past tightly pursed between her lips; her story guarded by a callous indifference, she traces her footsteps in a single file, careful not to leave any bread crumbs behind.

As identities assumes her, she will have ripened into nothing more than a stretched shadow, shrouded by a trail of cigarette smoke, fading into a vicious cycle.

A shot of life.

A Shot of Life
by Daniel Eng

There it was, staring straight back at him, the bottom of an empty glass.

He stared right back, hard and a tad curious. He’d heard the stories—albeit highly exaggerated ones, but he knew better to deny the benefit of his doubt—about how prayers were answered and mysteries were resolved, blessed almighty by the bottom of an empty glass.

But tonight, maybe it was his ongoing throes of rotten luck, he thought, there was nothing but what it was, cheap glassware mildly scented with a hint of his favorite scotch.

He paused his thoughts, eyes fixed firmly on the commodity before him; a sketch of breath clammed up between his lungs.

Nope, still no resounding voice from God.

“Tough day?” A voice materialized before him.

Tired from a long day and slightly startled by the interruption of his thoughts, he looked up and found his intrusion in the form of a bartender, probably in his late 20′s, dark chestnut hair slicked to the back of his neck. A crisp white shirt fell over his body in all the right places, but there was something about his eyes that seemed tired, perhaps from the heart and soul his customers have poured across the bar over the night.

Or it could be the midnight shift, but he decided he was too many drinks down to care.

“Hit me up another,” he tapped the rim of his glass in defeat.

A silent nod between both parties and a sinking shoulder later, a string of single malt streamed poetically into his glass.

And almost as soon as it came, it left—right into his parted lips and at some point, possibly corroding what’s left of his liver’s healthy bits.

“So why are you here?” The barkeep held up a familiar bottle.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen your type before. Alone by the bar, eyes away from the little nymphs that are crawling all over, minding your own business and never saying when.” He swung the bottle in a little tease.

He brought his eyes to the bottle, back to the bartender, raised his glass to a forced smile and swallowed the few remaining drips.

Placing a fifty on the counter, he crept off the bar stool. He managed a little wave as he turned his back to the door, making sure he has fully avoided eye contact before choking up under his breath,

“my drinking problem.”

The night, in his own terms, has ended. And he could feel nothing but relief.

Oh hey there.

My name is Daniel Eng.

I’m a freelance writer who—due to circumstances, or what my mother constantly refers to as ‘lazy piece of shit’—pushes paperwork by day and waits tables at a gay bar by night.

Yes, I know, I’m trapped in a terrible cliche that’s better left for straight to DVD rom coms.

I like to write, although I’ve taken a few months hiatus which stretched to years (once again, mom’s ‘lazy piece of shit’ reference comes to mind) but I’d like to start again, and hopefully, maybe, perhaps, slowly but ideally surely, my words will bring me to places I’ve never been where I can walk among people I’ve never seen.

This blog is a collection of my short stories, some relevant and some not to my personal life; ideas swirling in my head like a frozen yogurt waiting to be lapped away at.

I hope you enjoy your time here and feel free to take a piece of me away before closing this window.
xx
Daniel Eng