This month we offer Eeylore screaming with sunshine.
Next month we
SPLINTER
Submission guidelines can be found here.
Today is the Day
The day is ordinary. Or at least, Sky expects mundanity as they open the shop—set out the unbalanced tables, brew the first batch of overpriced coffee, pull an espresso shot and slam it back, nibble on a stale croissant. Their assumptions hold true when the first rush of customers crawl in, the commuters with their americanos and non-fat lattes, eyes hemmed with red, plagued with the bay’s special brand of corporate anguish.
While the tech bros begin their migration south, Sky has a shot more, reads a few pages of smut, and awaits Eeyore’s entrance. The man’s name’s not Eeyore, obviously, but Sky’s good with faces and terrible with names, so they tend not to bother, instead pointing a finger, shouting “Hey, you” when a drink is done. With regulars like Eeyore, however, Sky bestows a title. Mainly for mockery.
Eeyore’s not quite the highlight of Sky’s day—if anything, he’s the low point, scuffling inside and sighing at the floor, spine permanently bent in misery. His order’s always the same, and Sky’s halfway done making it when Eeyore comes in.
“I’d like something different today!”
Sky turns, cocking their head to the side. “Say again?”
Eeyore’s grin completely changes his face, sharpening his brown eyes but softening his chapped lips. He’s shed his grey for navy blue, suit pressed, tie so tight it must be strangling. “I’d like the spring special,” Eeyore chirps. “Almond rose!”
Sky can’t help but flinch, Eeyore’s practically screaming with sunshine. “Yeah,” they say after a moment. “Whatever.”
They pour out the cappuccino they had been making and get to work, expecting Eeyore to lurk in the corner and watch Sky with a disappointed glare. Like usual. Instead, Eeyore stays by the bar and chats.
“And sure it’s not warm, but the wind isn’t too shabby…my landlord turned off the water and didn’t tell me, so that was quite the surprise!…feel better than ever now that I have a plan…saw a squirrel miss a car by just a second, the sneaky dodger…so really, today’s the day.”
Sky tunes in to Eeyore’s nonsense then, the rose almond latte hot in their hand. “Today’s the day for what?”
Eeyore’s brows climb to his balding hairline. “Oh! Nevermind.”
Sky slides the latte across the bar and nods, ready for Eeyore to leave, for their day to return to normal.
“Hey, Sky?”
“How do you know my name?”
Eeyore points to Sky’s name tag and laughs. “It was nice to meet you.”
Sky doesn’t bother pointing out that Eeyore has been a regular for nearly a year now, eleven months of cappuccinos at the strike of 9:00 AM, barely an exchange of words between them, much less names. On his way out, still smiling, Eeyore tucks a wad of cash, then another, and then another into the tip jar. Sky waits for Eeyore to cross the street outside before they run to the old chipped thing, and count the bills.
“What the fuck?” Sky’s hands shake.
100 hundos. $10,000 They’ve never held this much cash before.
A note is wrapped around the final wad, a slimy rubber band holding it all together. Sky uncurls it. Then they bolt out of the store, running after Eeyore, the image of his hasty scrawl branded behind their eyes.
Tell them to find me at Golden Gate Bridge. Larry Thompson. I’m a donor.
Miranda Jensen is a creative activist with roots in the San Francisco Bay Area. Through her writing and critical theory, she seeks not merely to interpret the world, but to change it. You can find her at www.mirandajensen.com
This month we offer Eeylore screaming with sunshine.
Next month we
SPLINTER
Submission guidelines can be found here.
Today is the Day
The day is ordinary. Or at least, Sky expects mundanity as they open the shop—set out the unbalanced tables, brew the first batch of overpriced coffee, pull an espresso shot and slam it back, nibble on a stale croissant. Their assumptions hold true when the first rush of customers crawl in, the commuters with their americanos and non-fat lattes, eyes hemmed with red, plagued with the bay’s special brand of corporate anguish.
While the tech bros begin their migration south, Sky has a shot more, reads a few pages of smut, and awaits Eeyore’s entrance. The man’s name’s not Eeyore, obviously, but Sky’s good with faces and terrible with names, so they tend not to bother, instead pointing a finger, shouting “Hey, you” when a drink is done. With regulars like Eeyore, however, Sky bestows a title. Mainly for mockery.
Eeyore’s not quite the highlight of Sky’s day—if anything, he’s the low point, scuffling inside and sighing at the floor, spine permanently bent in misery. His order’s always the same, and Sky’s halfway done making it when Eeyore comes in.
“I’d like something different today!”
Sky turns, cocking their head to the side. “Say again?”
Eeyore’s grin completely changes his face, sharpening his brown eyes but softening his chapped lips. He’s shed his grey for navy blue, suit pressed, tie so tight it must be strangling. “I’d like the spring special,” Eeyore chirps. “Almond rose!”
Sky can’t help but flinch, Eeyore’s practically screaming with sunshine. “Yeah,” they say after a moment. “Whatever.”
They pour out the cappuccino they had been making and get to work, expecting Eeyore to lurk in the corner and watch Sky with a disappointed glare. Like usual. Instead, Eeyore stays by the bar and chats.
“And sure it’s not warm, but the wind isn’t too shabby…my landlord turned off the water and didn’t tell me, so that was quite the surprise!…feel better than ever now that I have a plan…saw a squirrel miss a car by just a second, the sneaky dodger…so really, today’s the day.”
Sky tunes in to Eeyore’s nonsense then, the rose almond latte hot in their hand. “Today’s the day for what?”
Eeyore’s brows climb to his balding hairline. “Oh! Nevermind.”
Sky slides the latte across the bar and nods, ready for Eeyore to leave, for their day to return to normal.
“Hey, Sky?”
“How do you know my name?”
Eeyore points to Sky’s name tag and laughs. “It was nice to meet you.”
Sky doesn’t bother pointing out that Eeyore has been a regular for nearly a year now, eleven months of cappuccinos at the strike of 9:00 AM, barely an exchange of words between them, much less names. On his way out, still smiling, Eeyore tucks a wad of cash, then another, and then another into the tip jar. Sky waits for Eeyore to cross the street outside before they run to the old chipped thing, and count the bills.
“What the fuck?” Sky’s hands shake.
100 hundos. $10,000 They’ve never held this much cash before.
A note is wrapped around the final wad, a slimy rubber band holding it all together. Sky uncurls it. Then they bolt out of the store, running after Eeyore, the image of his hasty scrawl branded behind their eyes.
Tell them to find me at Golden Gate Bridge. Larry Thompson. I’m a donor.
Miranda Jensen is a creative activist with roots in the San Francisco Bay Area. Through her writing and critical theory, she seeks not merely to interpret the world, but to change it. You can find her at www.mirandajensen.com
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