if you were doing what you love, wouldn't you too?
a twenty-something writerish girl in the San Francisco Bay Area, looking for new material on which to write with a mind all over the place.
PARISKIMWRITES.BLOGSPOT.COM
follow me on Twitter @ParisKimWrites
a twenty-something writerish girl in the San Francisco Bay Area, looking for new material on which to write with a mind all over the place.
PARISKIMWRITES.BLOGSPOT.COM
follow me on Twitter @ParisKimWrites
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i listened to this song all the time i was writing my short story, “The Night Palms.” read and listen to both at the same time.
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no wonder they say don’t nap after 3 p.m.
i finished “Madama!” probably not the best but i feel there’s something to it. check it out at pariskimwriting.tumblr.com.
TACO TUESDAY TOMORROW. AND SHOPPING WITH MY SISSY.
i think i shall go make some tea right now.
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Somehow at six-thirty in the morning Greg ended up along Arguello Boulevard, his sandy hair wild and tangled falling on his face. Luckily he found his Ray Bans in his blazer pocket and popped those on his eyes— luckily he was still dressed at all. No, he couldn’t really recall his night at Shannon’s— that is where he woke up— but he knew it wasn’t meant to be so. Mike, transferring out from City College, held a very pleasant but lively dinner as planned. Casual dress it was intended, so Greg was baffled at his wrinkled black suit with a loosened skinny blue silk tie. The best he could do beyond this point was to walk from Shannon’s (filled still with party-goers passed out, some moaning, around the musty studio) down to Geary Street and the 38 line back to the Fillmore where he roomed with Mike.
His head throbbed slightly near his temples. He was never a big fan of wine until last night…
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A blessing when Cassandra called the boys up. Her and Zac, Kyle, and Anthony. She usually was a nocturnal little eccentric—calling up at odd hours for hang-out whenever eight o’clock had passed. Mostly week days. Weekends she devoted to her boyfriend Alex or aging parents.
Tonight, it was to In N Out Burger in San Ramon. Kyle was recruited to pick up everyone, starting the rounds with Zac in the foothills of Clayton’s polished country suburbs and then to Cass on old Concord Boulevard. Anthony was last. Chivalric courtesy, Cass called shotgun and no one objected. They were even forced to listen to her iPhone which she hooked up to Kyle’s stereo and put on blast Elvis, Orbison, Frankie Valli—it was a sentimental cruise along I- 680 as she laughed along with the tune. “You look like Frankie, Anthony,” Cass exclaimed and turned back to her closest friend, “only taller. Your voice is deeper too.”
“He’s not gay, pretty much,” Zac added with a laugh. Cass ignored him.
The lights were dark around San Ramon as Kyle’s white Mazda pulled off the freeway and made some turns towards the bright illumination of In N Out, a square kitsch block of palm trees and large red outdoor seating flooded with cars— parked or strung on in the line to the drive-through that edged into the main street. Fuck that, they all agreed, swooping into one of the last available parking spaces shadowed in some trees off to the corner of the lot. Inside, Zac, not hungry, reserved a seat for the four of them. Cass pulled aside to get a better view of the menu. “It’s all shit,” she concluded to Kyle.
“Do the secret menu,” he suggested with a wink, “The animal fries, those you never go wrong with.”
“Agreed!” Cass nodded. “No, what you getting Ant?”Anthony shrugged. “Well the animal fries, no doubt,” he decided, “and a four-by-four.”
“Bold,” she said, looking up. “Give me everything. Gosh, this secret menu shit’s just the best thing that ever happened to these people, ain’t it?” They looked around after getting the orders: high school hipsters walking in and taking a look around scornfully at the place; hulky bros flocking from their raised 90’s trucks; occasional t-shirted families piling in from their sons’ victorious little league game. They refrained from the likes of these crowds and continued to talk on about most things, relevant and irrelevant. Cass only was bold to mention the irrelevant, such as Billy Bogart shying away from the gang. “It’s been like the whole summer and he’s not invited us to shit!” she spat after a big slurp of her Neapolitan milkshake, another secret menu delectable. “You’re all fair game, good sort of guys—he’s just a jackass.”
“It’s whatever, who gives a fuck,” Anthony was saying lightly, “Since we all got back from college, he’s been M.I.A. with all those other people we barely spoke to in high school—kind of odd he should start messin’ about with them now.”
“He’s a puss,” Kyle started, “a smart tool that’s going where the fun is. Sorry we like to eat and sit around and get fucking fat, dumbass.”
Cass admired his sarcasm, eyeing Kyle while she sucked her straw. One of the boys, she was. Anthony could see that, they all could. More so Anthony, he knew her longest, practically introduced her to his guys. All was casual and deep with them, though their emotions and quick jabs of general subjects from good new music on Live 105.3 to rating attractive peers seemed shallow. “I don’t see why you’re being left out of the cuts Cass,” Zac began, “You’re a fun person. You’ll do anything.”“Make me seem like a slut, thanks asshole,” she snapped at him with a grin. Zac flinched at first, returning an uneasy smile. Anthony looked to Kyle and both smirked—Zac’s wounded experience with women always made him alert with their impressions and ready to retreat from hurting any girl. Cass’ strong sarcasm didn’t help much.
Fuck Billy Bogart, they moved to sitting outside where they tossed their trays and sat around with milkshakes. When’s the next hang-out, who’s throwing a party that weekend when their folks were away, if you saw that funny shit on Tosh.O, what dates they were all leaving back to their colleges. “Poor Anthony, he sits around on his ass just waiting for us to come back on holidays,” Cass shrugged.
“It’s not bad, Cass, I got only a semester left at DVC.”
“Oh man, you know how hard it is to fucking transfer into the spring,” Zac sprung up. “God, it must suck getting stuck there.”“You talk like I’m going to be there for-fucking-ever,” Anthony remarked. “I got a semester left, and then if all goes well, Cal Poly. Fuck, I wasn’t so lucky as Kyle to afford that school, forgive me.”
“Calm your tits there, Zac,” Cass came to his defense, Zac’s expression moving through mixed phases.
“Yeah Ant, hurry it up so you can come move in with me down in San Luis,” Kyle said. “You get the good side of life there. The ocean, the town’s alright, girls are amazing—“
“Sorry, Oregon’s better with the girls, you should ask me, going there,” Cass cut in.
“We’re not going to touch on USF Zac, the tuition fucking blows,” Kyle sneered.
“I’m not saying Ant should try it there. I practically sold my soul to get in.” Anthony’s face was growing pale. He hated talk of college, when everyone had their situated homes away from home and adventures and he would never know of until next spring. He slurped on his shake, nothing was left. He still slurped.
“Take it easy Ant,” Cass then told him, sensing his sulk. “God-damn you guys, poor choice of subject. Fuck you all, rocking—no, shaking,” she swept up Anthony’s empty carton, and shook it to the other guys playfully, “the boat. Ant feels left out.”
“I don’t,” he quickly said, taking the carton from her and tossing it to the far-distant overrun trash bin, where it missed, “it’s just a headache to think about the future. I haven’t even started classes yet at DVC. Must get past that first before I can even think to Cal Poly.”“True, true,” Kyle agreed. “But the future’s not all to avoid. I don’t even want to touch on after graduation—fuck—but the basics at least: finding a job, your own place—mostly the job. Do what you want to do. That’s the main bit of it all ain’t it.”
Cass was shaking her head, mouth and flickering lashes all about ready to laugh, “Then there’s the in-between. The future is going to be so great! You see, when I graduate, here’s this,” she leaned in and proceeded; “Get the hell out of Oregon, probably get something going with Pixar or whatever my graphic design degree will take me. Pick up my dog Keefer from my parents, stop in occasionally to say ‘hi’ and send my love to them—in the meantime I’ll have found my own place.”
“Where?” Zac asked.
“Oakland probably. Or wherever my job will be. I’m just certain I’ll stay in the area for a bit. But you know, I can’t stand it to hell being lonely, Keef’s not enough. So I’ll save up, muddle on down to San Luis Obispo, and snatch Anthony up so I can marry him.”
Zac and Kyle laughed, Cass was smiling still. Anthony was mute.
“The dream team, you two,” Zac was saying, “Yeah, the future’s pretty fantastic when you put it that way. But why Anthony?”
“So that Kyle doesn’t get there first,” she bluntly said. “Duh!” Kyle dropped his jaw and stood up defiantly. “Challenge accepted,” he announced, he and Cass shaking hands to bind a hypothetical contract.
Anthony never could get the shake night out of his mind after that. It made him nervous to get singled out—nervous it should have been Cass to do so. Such thought reoccurred amongst the group, merely a whole year after that night happened. Give or take a week, it was summer once more, a cold cloudy day that miraculously transitioned into blue skies and refreshing heat as Kyle’s car made it down the coast of Cabrillo Highway to Santa Cruz. They were visiting the Boardwalk, the five of them—Cass’ friend Reyna from University of Oregon was visiting and as of that May officially dating Kyle; she had called shotgun, and no one, not even Cass, objected.
The rest of the gang was making its way ahead through the bunches of tourists and families and half-clothed teens strolling up and down the game stalls, fried food stands, ticket booths and photo-taking in random corners. Anthony and Cass were taking it slow, sight-seeing and observing rather than participating with the others.
“One of you better win me something at one of these games,” she said, looking forward. “Of course, I won’t count on Kyle, he’s got Reyna. She’s probably eyeing a cute fuzzy big-ass monkey or whatever, I just want a stuffed Kenny from South Park.” Anthony laughed at her suggestion of prize.
“Zac needs some practice,” Anthony returned lightheartedly. She looked at him with disgust.
“He’d surely miss, but don’t say anything that’ll make him nervous and he might knick the bottle or make the skee ball at 20.” The group ahead steered out toward the adjacent beach, vast and crowded while fresh cool waves as blue as Cass’ eyes sporadically swept in and out. Zac, Reyna, and Kyle, the latter two hand in hand, descended the sandy wooden stairs that met with the sand; Anthony and Cass made it to the second step down before taking a quick stop to admire what was before them. Cass stayed quiet, until a sigh: “What’s Anthony thinking, I wonder?”
He shook his head. “All the babes on the beach. No big deal.”
He’d made her laugh. “Just find those up in Oregon. They’ll flock to a tanned Californian boy like crazy.” She sighed and nudged at his elbow. “Too bad Alex hates roller coasters—crowds. Something he’ll never get over, I guess.” She got quiet, lost in her own thoughts which anybody rarely saw. The laughter and glow in her face seemed to be fading.
“Don’t worry about it, Cass,” Anthony assured her, “He gets it.” He didn’t really quite know what he meant. She looked up at him, and crooked her arm loosely in his. “Silly Ant,” Cass said to herself. She seemed to have understood.
They remained blocking traffic, standing firmly on the second step adoring the big ocean. The last question, he asked, “You in love with me, Cass?”
She smacked her lips together with a smile. He was surely joking. It was their way of things.
8-5-11
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It was an ordinary day. In Lazytown. More specifically, the bakery of Lazy Town: The Pink Haired Baker. But the locals referred to the place as the pink haired bitch. Although, the cakes were amazing (cooked by the book), the owner, Mrs. Herpington, was a complete and utter B.I.T.C.H. In that case, Mr. Derp Herpington became a baker and gave that bitch a cake (bitches love cake). Soon after, Derp Herpington suffered a fatal heart attack, leaving Mrs. Herpington forever alone. But then she realized if she baked the cakes, she could have all the cakes to herself, to which she said “AWWWW YEAAH.” Unfortunately, having the responsibility of owning a bakery, she was forced to share her cakes “oh..okay”. Some creepy little puppets came along and told Mrs. Herpington how they felt about her bakery “me gusta”.
“We know where you can get it, the cake and cash!” they told her. “You see now, you ain’t got no kicks—but when you bake cake (by the book), you gon’ get a lot of them!!”
Mrs. Herpington took a moment to consider their offer, then promptly told them to buy a cake or GTFO. To which they replied “TITS OR YOU GTFO! It’s Topless Tuesday you bitch”
She then proceeded to show them a bachelor party themed cake which comprised of mountains of boobs. “Oh, I see what you did there” was their prompt reply. One of them, after they ate the cake, took a quick picture on his phone—“PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN!!” he bellowed.
“He loves acid,” his companion explained to Mrs. Herpington. “I know a place where you can get it, right meow”
Mrs. Herpington stared at them blankly. “Are you two slowww??” she asked him. “It’s a legitimate question.” Only after Mrs. Herpington let out this question did she realize, it was not just an ordinary day. In fact, it was national Tumblr meetup day … which explained errrrrrrythin.
So Mrs. Herpington died from spewing out rainbows from her mouth. And the puppets threw all her cakes ON THE GROUND. THE END.
The moral of the story: you can’t trust the system, MAAAAAAAAAAAAAN. (MY DAD AIN’T A CELL PHONE).
(written by me and alyssalatte and iamnotamoogle)
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It’s very comforting and warm, dimly-lit as the fog swirls about the winding streets outside.
Louis Armstrong music’s on repeat, and no one’s complaining.
Drizza’s happy. She’s nabbed a seat off in the corner, her own little place so she can smooth her hair and get back to Sean’s missed call.
It’s getting crowded, it doesn’t worry the four baristas working smoothly behind the counters; Natalie and Smitt get the orders, Joey’s just left to clean off the empty tables and chairs— even if people are sitting there.
Sally’s got to help the artist Ramone hang his bright Brazilian works on the shabby back wall. He’s thrilled. He’s worked on those for nearly eight years.
It’s mostly students passing through from the college up the block along the intersection of Masonic— almost a back street specialty where these youngsters keep a hush pride about the cafe and never speak of it, they just go.
Kevin’s one of these students. His little sister Annie goes to school in the opposite direction. They always stop here to get her hot cider and he his coffee, and Kevin readily walks Annie to her school. He’s always late to his morning class. He couldn’t give a damn.
There’s two bins Smitt thoughtfully placed by the cream and sugars. Neither is garbage. The recycling is closer, the compost behind it. People always fail to throw out their stirrers or ripped sugar packets rightfully into the compost, always recycle.
Only the old man’s sleepy Spaniel, sitting near the counter, notices this. But she’s a dog, she couldn’t give a damn— she still loved people.
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Happily Ever Writing, P.: "On How Fernand's Parents Met"
Curse the late hours of San Franciscan Thursdays.
He’d always walk down Stockton Street, through the crowded back streets of a bustling Chinatown. Worn small faces, lots of open-air produce, Cantonese, Mandarin— he really couldn’t tell the differences, it all meant the same place. Taking Muni was…
my newest short story-esque prose. CHECK IT OUT!
via pariskimwrites➜ -
Happily Ever Writing, P.: "After Party"
He’s feeling the need for coffee, he’s gone wrong enough with the Patron.
He never wants to see a Redbull can again.
Barely making it to the front door of the second-story drab of a place he wouldn’t quite call home— as if there is nowhere else— Joyce kisses him on the cheek and seems to dance…
via pariskimwrites➜ -
KINDLE/EBOOK READERS!! MY BOOK When the Fog Clears IS NOW ON AMAZON FOR $0.99
It’s what happens under the thick layer that gives us the many characters scattered across the San Francisco Bay Area. Seven short stories illustrate the regrets, relationships, and realities youngsters must face as they grow up in a dreamy and always-changing urban Californian treasure.
BART Rider Patrick realizes his iPod cannot keep his mind off the odd person following him around the train. Dylan loses himself to heartache and a wild night with friends and strangers cruising Concord after a devastating break-up. The young Madama leaving the indie theater on the Embarcadero never seems to notice how she enchants the lonely and bitter Alan. And in Strangers and the Bee, a young college student meets his match with cigarettes, music, and a single but deadly insect.
When the Fog Clears will be an unforgettable insight to the laughs and nods to every journey we take towards happiness in such a young life, as well as a remarkable golden setting.When the Fog Clears: 7 Stories
fiction, short story anthology, San Francisco, urban, contemporary, young adult
Price: $0.99
via pariskimwrites➜ -
Mess of an Authoress on Tumblr: By Your Side: "The Mission District"It is old, it is life. The Mission is where hard dreams refuse to die, when they have gone only so far, and just out of reach.He could see this in the taquerias with their dark windows and dented pick-ups parked along the sidewalks of smutty Victorian houses. Kirk lost a silver button…via pariskimwrites➜
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NEW SHORT STORY, By Your Side, BY PARIS KIM➜
worked all this semester on this, after time well spent binging on eighties new wave, In N Out Burger, (500) Days of Summer, and California sun. please read and let me know what you think! -
Trash and Vaudeville: They Dream of Subway Cars➜
I stand next to the bed, watching her as she dreams. Her lips curl into a knowing crescent smile. I wonder if she always smiles in her sleep. We slept over the sheets, our naked skin hot to the touch and although the windows are open, the air in her apartment is still and warm. The only movement is found in the shafts of light that fall over the bed. Illuminated particles of dust and pollen, descend upon her long, creamy legs, like shooting stars extinguished in a snow-covered landscape.
This play of light forms a glowing halo, which hovers over her full round ass. My cock hardens as I imagine her soft cheeks pried apart by greedy fingers and a warm, wet tongue pressed into pink skin. I have never told her but I frequently daydream about fucking her ass. I don’t know why I haven’t shared this desire with her. Part of me feels as if her ass should be a reward for good behavior, that I haven’t earned it yet. So, I worship her ass in silence, a daily vigil performed in the confines my head or as she sleeps.
I think of that hot summer day, twenty years earlier. I was riding the subway from Brooklyn to the Upper Westside. It was rush hour and when the train reached Times Square, the car flooded with passengers. All sense of personal space was lost as our bodies pressed together and sweaty arms entwined as they reached for poles and grab-holds. I found myself trapped in the middle of the car, surrounded by irritated commuters. The only way I could keep my balance was press my palms against the ceiling. A young woman stood directly in front of me. Her back was to me and I could not see her face but she had long red hair that smelled faintly of spice. The car became more crowded as the train made its way uptown. At each stop, new passengers would squeeze into the car. By the time the train reached Columbus Circle, the woman’s body was pressed next to mine. She was wearing a sundress and I could feel the curve of her ass through the thin cotton fabric. I wondered if she felt any discomfort at having her ass pinned against my crotch or if like many New Yorkers, she had resigned herself to these daily violations.
As the train sped through the tunnel, the vibration and movement caused our bodies to rock and sway together. The sensation of her ass rubbing against my crotch was overwhelming. My dick grew warm and hard. I tried to reposition myself but it was nearly impossible to move. I became flush with embarrassment. Could she feel my erection? At any moment, would she turn and confront me, calling me out as a creep and a pervert on a crowded subway car?
Then the train stopped in-between stations. The lights went out and the air-conditioning shut down. A collective groan filled the car as a muffled, nearly-indecipherable voice came over the loudspeaker, the conductor informing us that we were delayed. In the darkness I tried to quell my hard-on, imagining the most unsexy images I could muster. Then it happened—a nearly imperceptible arching of her back as her ass pressed firmly against my erection. Had I imagined it? No, because even though the car was no longer moving, the young woman was still rubbing her ass against me. The movement was slight, the round flesh of her cheeks grazing against the outline of my cock, as it swelled beneath my jeans. She squirmed slightly and I could feel the crack of her ass through her dress. In the darkness, I gasped.
The lights came back on and the car began to move again. The woman kept gently grinding against my dick. I was so turned on that I didn’t care when I missed my stop at 72nd Street. I wondered if any of the other passengers were aware of what was happening. I wondered if the young woman had ever done this before. My mind raced with possibilities. As the train pulled into 96th Street, the woman quickly reached an arm behind her back and softly ran her fingers over the shaft of my cock. It was too much for me. I bit my lip and shuddered as I came in my jeans, delighting in the warmth of her hand and the tickle of her fingertips. She squeezed my cock gently as the subway doors opened, then she exited the train. She never turned around as she walked onto the platform, disappearing into a sea of disgruntled commuters. I never even saw her face.
As I crawl back into bed, I wonder if the woman ever thinks of our subway ride. I press my lips against my lover’s ass, stirring her from her dream.
If you liked this story, consider buying my book, Trash and Vaudeville, which is available here and on Amazon.
Original work by by j. scott grand is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.(via tumblrfiction)
