Hostile Teacups
Creative writing Rewritten by Kim Groshek
I sit with friends on the patio at the café, cup in hand, and talk through fixing the world’s problems. I talk like a cappuccino, I’m frothing with anger, and I’m peppermint mocha, or honey-green tea, busy-beeing from flower to flower. My coffee cups speak volumes, it listens while I sip. I have a small espresso cup, decorated with cute little designs. I look inside at the coffee, as if a storm, a far-off cyclone appears. Then out from nowhere a vision of blood has stained the concrete. I sip, cradle the fragile storming cup, and enjoy the bitter taste of the blackness. My frown replicates the lines on the cup, and then I smile.
I’m feeling it. I get it. Many times I don’t talk about it. Many times. There are times I still sit at a coffeehouse by myself. But today, not, I look up and smile at my friend who sits across the table chatting away, about this and that. She has a larger, more solid cup which boasts a dark red color, vibrant and rampant like the words that come out of her mouth, “my friend just lied to me, vagrantly.” she quips, then with lips pursed blows a gust of air to the side blowing her unkempt hair to the side out of her face.
I watch her tap her fingers on the side of her capacious cup.
I wear a long-sleeved top with jeans and a hat to shade my skin. I glance back at the precious cup I hold with my hands, well made, seems to be cracking around the sides, a small cleft runs from the word “Made in china”. Surely my firm cup will not break--it might shatter. I sip then delicately place the cup back on the saucer, hiding the small crevice.
Now that things have changed again, out there, in here, I wonder, perhaps there is one better. Is there something that tastes best? I glance to the counter, the tea-lady pours her liquid into a cup, but somehow she doesn’t look particularly happy. Her tea makes me think of an insatiable feeling, like “dry as a witch’s nose.” Tis' the season, right, Thoughts conjured up from watching the steam cloyingly rise.
I stroke my china handle, drawing boundaries between air, liquid and table. My extroverted cup holds in the conversation, delineating what’s possible from the flowing surge of ideas.
We sit, cups in hand, creating new realities, like the designs on this porcelain cup. Then, I hook the fishy thoughts, which fly out from the cup through the air, challenging what was just said.
I’m feeling it. I get it. Many times I don’t talk about it. Many times. There are times I still sit at a coffeehouse by myself. But today, not, I look up and smile at my friend who sits across the table chatting away, about this and that. She has a larger, more solid cup which boasts a dark red color, vibrant and rampant like the words that come out of her mouth, “my friend just lied to me, vagrantly.” she quips, then with lips pursed blows a gust of air to the side blowing her unkempt hair to the side out of her face.
I watch her tap her fingers on the side of her capacious cup.
I wear a long-sleeved top with jeans and a hat to shade my skin. I glance back at the precious cup I hold with my hands, well made, seems to be cracking around the sides, a small cleft runs from the word “Made in china”. Surely my firm cup will not break--it might shatter. I sip then delicately place the cup back on the saucer, hiding the small crevice.
Now that things have changed again, out there, in here, I wonder, perhaps there is one better. Is there something that tastes best? I glance to the counter, the tea-lady pours her liquid into a cup, but somehow she doesn’t look particularly happy. Her tea makes me think of an insatiable feeling, like “dry as a witch’s nose.” Tis' the season, right, Thoughts conjured up from watching the steam cloyingly rise.
I stroke my china handle, drawing boundaries between air, liquid and table. My extroverted cup holds in the conversation, delineating what’s possible from the flowing surge of ideas.
We sit, cups in hand, creating new realities, like the designs on this porcelain cup. Then, I hook the fishy thoughts, which fly out from the cup through the air, challenging what was just said.
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