Perfect (Watty Awards 2013)

Chapter 8.50: Poems

Chapter 8.50: Poems

        “Macchiato was fine.” Ethan nodded in agreement. “But Frappuccino is still the best with Choco Mousse with white chocolate on top!” he exclaimed as he clapped like a child given a candy in rainbow wrapping.

              Ethan laughed as Serena and Tristanny giggled beside him. He stared at them and inhaled deeply, practically exhaling more with relief.

Poems, they are vulnerable, flexible; somewhat they are alike with… with the beauty of… coffee; like brownies too just to add. It was sweet yet varies from its base of sugary reality. Some are dark. Some are light. Some are xenial. Some are rude. But in one thing, we are all brownies, words of rhythmically presented ideas like poems. Some are free verse. Some have measures. Water is neutrally presented yet with the different accuracy of beauty, grace, shame, pride, sorrow and happiness, it becomes unique. It becomes different. It is graceful. Some hated, some are loved. But one thing we, them have in common, people, we came from a single source, we have or we are at least what I call, water or poems.

“Remember when Enid told you Rachelle is going back, Have you been seeing her?” Tristanny asked, putting an end on their giggles.

“Ummmmm…” Ethan paused. “No,” he frowned.

“Well, look who do we have here,” Tristanny pointed at the farthest end of the hall.

“Mom?” Serena dropped her espresso. “Mom?” she repeated, rushing to Tritanny’s hand direction.

“Wait!” Tristanny chased her, leaving Ethan behind.

The guy in heavy sky outfit, grey knitted scarf with a heavy light blue trench coat, stood still, sipping his macchiato. He finished his drink and threw it in the nearby trash bin. “Wait!” Ethan tried to run, not ruining his dense sky blue outfit.

Huh?

A grab hindered him to. It stopped him in his position. Something big handed creature held his coat’s thick collar and crumpled it to its advantage.

“I guess it’s the two of us left, isn’t it, Colchester?” a familiar voice whispered to his ear.

“Apparently, we have people smiling fakeness around, Zak,” he forced to let a smile out.

He attempted to walk casually but the grab pulled him even more.

“Don’t play sarcastic on me, homo,” Zak angrily whispered. “I need to talk to you.” He grabbed and dragged him down the nearby staircase.

Ethan struggled to remove the pithy word death on Zak’s mighty grab. He knew this wasn’t trouble. It was more; more than it; something I call, peril; something where he’s dragged over a narrow auburn stair.

“Let go!” Ethan yelled on the empty hall. It echoed silently yet gravely. “What is your problem?” he emphasized each word in proper anger.

Zak’s lips neared a smirk. He chuckled fiendishly and put his hands in his typical cerulean varsity jacket. He tugged his body slightly as if dancing to the rhythm with the silence.

“How’s you with Mr. Perfect?” His voice became stern.

“Excuse me?” Ethan strongly asked as he meticulously hand-ironed his trench coat. “You ruined it.” He rolled his eyes.

“Shut up!” Zak raises his voice. “I’m asking you!”

Ethan moved back, scared. His back met the bisque wall, cold, concrete.

Zak charged fast. He pushed Ethan toward the wall and held him on his heavy collars.

“When I talk to you, talk properly! I don’t need your sarcasm! Understoo—!”