the hipster

Reads: 104  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


A man sees a face in a coffee shop

Submitted: January 31, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 31, 2018

A A A

A A A


A new face walked into the bleak and already saturated coffee shop. He looked up, noticed the face and snapped his head back down to his typewriter so quickly it splintered. His sunken cheekbones and grey skin was shaped to an unnatural black hairdo that was styled in an intentionally messy manner. He peered up to find the backside of the new face at the counter. The pungent smell of days old coffee and body odor wafted in the air so heavily it created a veil between the two and he briefly, subconsciously began to wonder why he came there in the first place. As his mind wandered so did the face. Following it with his darkly circled eyes, it sat across the room from him. The face turned up, peering around the room. Eye contact, another splinter, typing. He stopped his feverish work and reread the words on the page to realize it was all nonsense. The last few words read “blue eyes..the blakc hair.xx..boots”. Perplexed in the issue at hand he snatched the paper and began the process of whiting out the mess he had created of the already expensive paper and ink. Beside him the writings of Poe, Dylan, and Faulkner were spread around the cramped 2 seated table complete with a large coffee--black, headphones, a leather-bound notebook, and enough refills of typewriter paper to assuage Henry Mill himself. Random coffee goers bumped the tables lining the shop left and right, unnoticed by any sitting downers as they themselves are guilty of the same crime in search of a decent place to sit. The customers were colorful, pierced, and fragrant. Fragrant of the various political stances they held, pierced with the adolescent wrong doings they endured, and colored with their nuances. In the past years such feelings manifested in speeches, in movements, and in originality. The supplemented group of activists, artists, and clueless were speaking of a multitude of problems and were ill thought in how to fix them. The bang and clash of voices didn’t hit his ear directly so that none were understood but all were heard. The sound of cackling from a smoker and a strum of an acoustic banjo was so well combined to him. He had a troubled past just as most of the individuals in the room did. His parents were divorced when he was 13 so naturally he took up counseling, football, the guitar, and masturbation. Completely traumatic of an experience it was for him, mother and father fought quite often and he had to be in-between the two. He felt ‘alone’ for 6 years whilst ‘in a room full of people’. While the parents were focused on the divorce and the atrocities that come along with it—losing money—and were so eager for custody of the boy—more money—he decided to use the time he was being ignored at each of the adults houses to use music as a frustration outlet. He began proficient, then advanced and took up all the look that comes along with the guitar. Eventually he was a real, full on Kurt Cobain. So there he sat in the inefficiently dim lit coffee shop staring at the face yet again. 


© Copyright 2018 R. Bea. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Literary Fiction Short Stories