Games We Play_Desayuno chapin._Suspense_Cackleberries, Hot Rocks, and Texas Butter
Catalog Guide:
Games We Play
“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,” I explained to the very pretty yet fretting woman standing in line behind me. She rocked on her slim legs in her trendy sandals, she let out a deep sigh, her long slim fingers raking through beautiful curls. “You can ruin this whole experience if you don’t set yourself up for the win.” I add. “Oh. Uh...I—I know. But, right now I’m second guessing why I signed up for this in the first place,” She said quietly with a giggle, leaning forward so only I could hear her. I turn my head and muster up a half smile. “Whatever the draw was f...
Desayuno chapin.
Desayuno Chapin. We’d travelled Central America for eleven or twelve weeks, (mostly by rattling, lumbering chicken buses, fast winding downhills and slow open roads), and having crossed into Guatemala from the cloud forests of Honduras we had arrived early morning at the Puerto Barrios ferry terminal. A few others were chatting at the food stall. Perhaps now the house is empty, for at least a few days, their life can get back to normal (I have told Willie – the grass mowing man – to leave the yard uncut).It was first light as we stood on the dock looking out over the ocean. A warm breeze off t...
Suspense
The clock on the blue wall is ticking signalling the hours the minutes and the seconds passing. The lady to my left is sleeping or should I say passed out from exhausting from trying to handle 3 kids. The man to my right is coughing into his hand to not let anyone inhale his molecules of bacteria. I’m sitting in my chair biting my nails and staring at the ceiling. From where I am sitting the ceiling and the walls aren’t looking too bad, but upon closer inspection you can see the mould on the walls and the cracks of the years of the building. The lady in reception duty is staring at the clock l...
Cackleberries, Hot Rocks, and Texas Butter
Brody took a mouthful of hot and gritty, campfire coffee from a tin cup. Choking, he swallowed down the bitter liquid portion, wiped his black horseshoe moustache on his sleeve, and spit coffee grounds onto the dusty earth. “Cripes sake, Skinner! Why the hell we should keep ya on the payroll is beyond me! Yer brown gargle is the worst!”“Maybe because the little weasel makes the best damn cackleberries, hot rocks, and Texas butter?” Tripp defended his fellow outlaw while scarfing down a plateful of the bean master’s signature eggs, biscuits, and gravwww.onedoor.ccy.Skinner, the thin, sickly chuck wagon cook,...