Raspberry Jam: Chapter 1
September 15, 2019
There’s a conflicting feeling that accompanies buttery croissant flakes that have stuck to your fingers: peevish because you have a passing thought that you seem like an ill-mannered child who can’t properly eat, albeit satisfying because you just ate a fucking glorious gift straight from the pastry gods. Now add a generous helping of raspberry jam, enough to ooze out the sides and catch the corner of your lips in a doubly sticky situation. Jam meets croissant. Love meets human interactions. If there’s anything that makes relationships turn into an utterly sweet mess, it’s love of course. I’m formally aware of the consequences but, god, I’ll never get enough of the taste.
*SAVE*
Sheesh, my neck feels like the biscuit dough they shove into those cylinder cans at the market, but alas… I’M DONE… with… the prologue. And so my heavy head smacks into my cold, unforgiving desk.
“How’s that deadline coming along? You know, the one you’ve set for yourself and pushed back about — what is this the 78th time now?” The taunting voice of Karma shoots through my back like I’m target practice. Karma, not in the form of a metaphor, but in the form of my roommate and gatekeeper leaning against my doorframe with a plate of mango slices brought out of concern for my nutritional upkeep.
Both her and my cat, Jewel, are undeterred by my ghoulish appearance as I begrudgingly swivel in my chair to reveal I am nothing but a mangled pile of dark hair and stress, which is clearly nothing new around here.
“The underlying message I’m receiving from these pointed inquiries is that you’d like to see me spending my weekends off from work partaking in societal norms like standing in the corner of a club, drunk painting classes, getting crushed by a barbell at the gym, or the satanic ritual we call dating… correct?” I reply while attempting to reacquaint my chin with the air above my clavicle.
Karma moves to sit on my bed, rolling her eyes knowing she’s battling with the wrong master of wit. “You’ve been holed up in your room every weekend for three months trying to force words out of your pretty little fingertips knowing all too well you’re out of inspiration from writing articles five days a week.” She sighs and sets the plate next to Jewel. “The world knows you’re talented, I know you’re talented. This fictitious gig isn’t brand new for you, but maybe you should go pick up some new books or go watch people without putting all this pressure on yourself to mass-produce.”
“Queen of beauty, grace, and pep talks. I bow to you.” Emerging from my chair as I theatrically praise her for being a supportive, genuine, angelic being since day one of our friendship. In typical (weekday) whirlwind metropolitan fashion, I give her a forehead kiss of appreciation, shove some (too much) mango in my mouth, gently comb the static cling out of my hair, fling my pink velvet hangers across the room (and one unfortunately at a very startled Jewel, sorry baby) as I nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to undress and re-dress. “If you need anything while I’m out I’m heading to Kaneko Books and will be sure to bring back that lavender lemonade you love from the cafe across the street!” My voice fades as I make a mad dash for the bathroom, putting all the 5-minute makeup tutorials I’ve watched to the test.
Gathering my mint raincoat and apartment keys, I hurriedly slip into my most walking-suitable sneakers and blow one last kiss to Karma before turning to leave.
“Hey! There’s a PetMart 2 blocks over, I think Jewel is low on those sweet potato treats.” Karma catches me before I shut the door.
I chuckle, “Yeah, I wonder who’s been feeding her so many of those while I’m out. See ya!”
--
There’s an enveloping sense of relief and warmth that washes over whenever I’m surrounded by books. Friends and socializing never came easy to me and my imagination ran a bit too wild for my parents to entertain too long, so I found solace in the pages of the likely thousands of books I read as a child. Immersing yourself in a world or character separate from your own, that kind of escapism is a thing of peace for anyone who has anxiously waded through the chaos around them or that which comes from within. Writing is a kindred spirit in that sense as well. It serves as a tool to not only dive into something new but propel ideas and express what you might struggle to say with your own voice. I guess I could simply say places like this, floor to ceiling with books, just feel like home.
Tiptoeing around the many shelves, I’ve already stacked up novels from Jane Austen and Ling Ma, poetry by Yesika Salgado, and a manhwa recommended by my well-versed friend Anneliese who works in the publishing department.
A red leather-bound tome beckons me like a siren in the French literature section, but juggling a cinderblock’s worth of hard-covers into the wedge of my al dente linguine strand of a left arm is getting the best of me.
Managing to balance it at the very top of the mound, I sift through the pages to make a final decision on whether this is worth the need for muscle patches later or a foolish case of my Pandora’s Box curiosity out to seek my downfall once again. All that yoga I’ve been doing sure has done its job though, considering the fact that I’m standing like a flamingo, resting all my future reads on my left thigh since my nonexistent bicep was of no help.
Deep in the furrows of some deeply philosophical, cynical mind of French lit, I’m interrupted by the appearance of a figure entering the aisle. Focus. You are in a potentially suave demeanor-threatening position. Do not falter. Please, you clumsy fool.
“I think you might enjoy this one more.” The shadow speaks as it gingerly sets another brick atop my leaning tower of literary works. The slightest rotation of my vertebrae to get a glimpse of the mystery human suggestions algorithm paired with the loss of circulation in my entire left side sends me hurtling toward the laminated wood floors, arms flailing, zero dignity intact.
Mahogany brown eyes look over me as I marinate in my embarrassment amongst a pile of fallen paper-lined soldiers.
“Wow, you sure are a klutz.”
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Hoping you all enjoy an introduction to my first fiction piece in way too long. Please let me know your thoughts on the future of this project and if you like it so far! I'll try to post chapters every Sunday as a way of serializing the story while still keeping up with regular posts I'll schedule along the way. Have a lovely week everyone. xo
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