http://slow.writerscafe.org/cabalamuse The original writings of author A.T.B. en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776062700 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 "you ignoring me?”she asks with that tonethat says much more. after a moment of silencethey couldn’t enjoy becausehours, days, weeks, monthsof screaming and shouting,insults and accusationsmuffle their ears like cotton balls. he slowly looks up from his paperand with a look tha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/642712/ It appears now, from up close, that these palaces are fake. the faux colorful arabesque engraved ceilings, the enormous, but worthless sparkling chandeliers dangling like rotten fruits somehow unable to detach from the tree, like worn out shoes tossed on a wire, the imitation marbl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/551457/ The bartender leaning on the counter slowly stands up. He stretches his armsTrying to touch the ceiling, arches his back. His movements spontaneous, in synch with the lingering jazz tempo played by the band. The peaceful blue countertop is accentuated by the candles burning in .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/507165/ are sweet words chained by silence?are sweet words gagged by defiance?stabbed after a fight.buried in the mass grave of our alliance.forgotten in the folds of time to eternityas to one another we become strangers.only remains the hollow sounds ofinconsolable sobs echoing strongerand .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/507162/ After a few hours, I got tired of sitting down as shoe shiners, beggars, men, women and children walked by in search of an illusive stroke of good luck, or in avoidance of that inevitable sense of mortification pressed on them by reality. My oneirism as I ogled the swinging supple derrieres of pulch.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/468063/  he stands by the water withhis back to Tarifa, his toespinching the white sand of Los Lances,his eyes focused onthe horizon line and a barely perceptiblespeck of land thirteen miles south.the funds he is raising by swimmingacross the strait will buy tonsof fish for distressed.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/450739/  many years ago, I lived in a studio in the back of a dingy apartment complex in an ill-reputed neighborhood known for fitful drug users and scrawny, wiry-haired drifters, pushers and prostitutes. often a single person could be all four. the air in the building was a punge.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/449978/  the head was filled withit to the brim, man.no room for nothing else.it oozed out of our mouthslike pus, leaving a bitter tastethat permeated into our noses.made us gag, man!it made us sound like the comical version of some actorwe saw in a B movie in one of those darkene.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/391008/  I remember a summer’s dayat a pool my father took me toin Casablanca when I wasno more than four or five.from the pool, I could seethe blue expanse of the Atlantic ocean.its horizon merchant ships andfishing trawlers dotted.the sun high above blew hot airon us like th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/384182/  I keep your voice loitering in my mind like I keep chocolate leisurely melting in my mouth. I hung on to you the way a summer’s day holds on to sunlight until the sun coyly withdraws behind the horizon in a fiery, orange shroud. That’s why the sun, which.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/299708/  we drink our nightly libationsitting on a hotel bed king size.a slew of stories coming out of our mouths and hearts.we laugh at every word.we breathe each other's lustas it oozes through our eyes,our lips,our finger tips.we spurt truths and lies in elation. we both li.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/297141/  i left my memorylodged between two breastsas i gave in to shamelessprurient craves,sucking on the sweetnessof soused lustsprouting through scrawny hairthat indulged the zephyr of my breathingone lonely hour in the winterwhen rain was scarceandi was thirsty.the whole.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/297129/ heads bobbing,hands waving as if fending the notes that are trying to slap them on the face.them feet tapping,fingers snapping,the band playing for themselves oblivious of the audience.the audience listening for themselves hanging on the fast moving fingertips of the musi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/287370/  a cork pops in the freshnessof the night.unscrewed from the cork screw.thrown on the table, but bouncesontothe white marbled floor.kicked around,it rolls awkwardlyhere,therebetween bare feet in jeans.bounces off an Italianpair of shoes drapedby tailored pants.hm.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/268041/  the soothing smellof citrus treesand the pungent oneof fig trees.the chirping ofunaffected birds,the demented hustlingof ants carrying adead beetle on itsfuneral procession.a feast.and me here.the heat is softeron my skin.the sun less burdeningon my eyes.the f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/264280/ 150 million chinesewho have never hadmilkonce in their livesdecide one dayto try it. A guy in Zimbabwewho has beendrinking a glass ofmilkall his lifecan no longerafford it. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/256106/  because of the fightingthe trash is piling on upin thoroughfaresand alleywaysand by doorsteps.mixed with the trash,the bodies, lifelessthe hopes, stillborn  the festering expectationsof normalcyand civility.the flies like it.the maggots like it.the ratsthe ca.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/255642/  I see through the eyesof my childhood.I project my memories,black andwhite andgrainy onwhitewashed wallsthat meant somethingto meonce.I walk throughthese nameless streets,where so manybeautiful girlsmade me swoon,where jacarandasand oliveand citrus treeswh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/254676/  we sat drinkingthe milk of lionsand smoking argilaway past midnightthe curtains drawnthe candles burningoutside, the curtains were drawnBaghdad is burningdo you see the glasshalf full of wateror half empty?I askedI don’t see the glass!one saidI don’t s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/254012/  Looking at you I thoughtto myself there is a mesmerizing magic aura about you. I am captivated by the delving intensity in your hypnotizing eyes.It’s sweet!It’s so sweet! The symmetry of your features, the natural flow of your beauty defies descripti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/253093/  I walk alonggraffiti streaked T-wallsin Baghdad thinking…there has to be a reprievefor a heart that shunsthe hatred. there has to besome crumbs of happinessleftovers here somewhere.some love,some cracklinggood-hearted laughterleft here somewhereto subdue.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/252037/  He tumbled in with his disheveled hair like weed.His angular body slouched from the heavy bags underhis bleary eyes.He seemed in need.Half a filter-less cigarette dangled from his lipslike consumed harlot breasts which had longsurrendered to gravity.He IS in need.Gr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/251663/  I stand lookingacross the dusty streetat the cinderblock walls ofher humble timeless dwellingswept by desert sands inneed of a more peacefulplace to amassand speckled by shrapnel and bulletswhose crackling soundI can still hearif I put my ear against the wall.the slugs .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/249944/  The first sad look today isin my cracked mirror.Today is a good day for a sassy shorthair cut that would show my almondgazelle eyes and sensual lips.I need something to accentuate my beautifully pronouncedfeatures and disguisemy not so many flaws.What I need fo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/248993/  Take a deep breath.Close your eyes. Imagine you’re at a sandy beach in San Diego or Miami … You can feel the heat of the sun on your oiled skin and thinking about how beautiful your tan is going to look makes you smile. The sound of crushing waves tickles your .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/248266/  You don’t know how it feels,she deadpans while standingnaked by the window looking outinto a Baghdadshrouded in a ragged reddishmourning dress of dust.I stretch naked on a mattresshalf covered by a wrinkled whitesheet sullied by the sweat of oursexed out bodies.A lo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/247878/  it’s so easy!it’s so easy!fear comes barging inso easy.and death!crisp and guileless.it’s so common now.it’s such an easy sight.recalcitrant childrenwrinkle their noses at itand walk on so easy.to get kidnapped.and to never beseen again.so .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/244974/  amidst the dead,those waiting to die,its height surpassingthe crossed swords,the ziggurats,overlooking the Tigrisflowing red andthe xeric landscapesbeyond its banks,an even sadderpalm tree stands withits palms shreddedby gloom,its trunk blackenedby the dried blood.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/cabalamuse/216820/