Guitar, Waiter, Poetry

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

It was Flamenco night. Some black haired, olive oil skinned man was grating his finger tips on the guitar. A woman whipped her skirt around her legs with one hand while clacking castanets in the other. A spot light illuminated the two on stage, the only other light coming from the candles at each table.

“More sangria, sir?” the waiter hovered his pitcher over my glass. I nodded. He poured. I chugged.

I chewed on a bit of apple that made its way through my teeth and watched the Spaniards sweat on stage. The woman began to sing. A haunting wail that sounded like the agony of regrets. She twirled and sang words that sounded like the poetry of the dead or the drunk.

It was my fourth Sangria. My eyes began to water and tear splashed on the table. Maybe it was the music or maybe it’s because mixed drinks are hard to judge.

I looked around the room. A woman with white hair and spectacles clapped her hands. A man with a bald spot threw his shoulders back and forth to the rhythm. A young couple was making out in the corner. The waiters danced with their trays between our tables.

I looked at the empty seat across from me but didn’t feel regret. I couldn’t place the feeling.

I flagged down the waiter for another Sangria and sat, trying to figure it out. All this raw emotion and rush of feelings but I was alone. In younger days it was easier to identify my feelings. This is happiness. This is regret. This is anger. As I grew older, the feelings tied themselves to memories and experiences, making it harder to untangle one emotion from another.

And so this is it. A moment. The moment. It leads into the next and swallows whole each moment until you find yourself alone. It wasn’t pity I felt for myself, just a reminder that when life is around you, it must be grabbed, touched, caressed, held, laughed at, cried with, struggled with…

To feel it all, all at once and acknowledge that I was feeling. That’s all that was necessary.

The waiter filled my glass. I took a sip before setting it down to enjoy the rest of the show.

España, Familia, Cultura

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320

words provided by @gloglogp

(warning, this one is in Spanish and English. So bad writing in two languages, nadien wins.)

Deberias saber mas español!

Es saber mas? O conocer mas? No estoy seguro y eso es el problema.

Tengo un accento que es verdaderamente español de España. Un accento del reino español no lo puede ser.

Gramaticamente, hablo mas como un Aleman sordo intentando hablar el Chino. Quiero decir que…my Spanish grammar is no good.

Mi familia que vive en España quieren hablar conmigo pero tengo menos palabras que una madre con hijo unico en medio de una discoteca.

The truth is I have no idea if these idioms even translate, in Spanish or English. (Yo invento cada cosa…)

I think I wanted to use an example of someone who wouldn’t have a lot of words. I feel like a mother watching her son at a club could have quite a few words for her son.


Culturalmente, cuando estoy en los Estados Unidos, me siento mas Español que Fernando Alonso conduciendo un toro gue esta bailando una jota.

La manera de vivir en EEUU es muy controlado — cafe a las 8, almuerzo a las 8y5, y solo 5 minutes para cagar. Y asi empieza el dia. Nadien comiendo tranguilmente y nadien “tomando el aire” o “Saliendo por la calle.” No! Oh directamente al restaurante or ha la casa! No hay tiempo!

Cuando estoy en España me siento mas Americano que un gordo comiendo una hamburguesa de donuts y bisteak mientras esta chutando una pistola al aire.

Comiendo en España es sentar en la mesa para 3 o 43 horas, lo que sea.

Un cafe es un…bueno, deberia yo escribir este parte en ingles, como un buen Americano ignorante–

A cup of coffee is really just a shot, even if you order a large. While the food and drink are delicious, I can’t seem to get enough which is ironic because we’ve been sitting at the table for 24 hours.

Also, does anyone work in Spain? Do they want to work? Who is in charge? Where’s the initiative?

But then I come to the United States and I’m telling everyone to calm down.

Relajate tio. Que sera, sera. Conio!

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