The Ibrik
Part One: The Ibrik
Water rushed past Christy’s ears as he choked on the filthy fluid. He fought to hold his breath despite the pressure against his head. The fingers in his hair tightened to pull his head out of the toilet and he gasped before having his head flushed a second time. His eyes stung as he fought to keep them shut, and his lungs were painfully tight from holding his breath. Although Christy couldn’t see him, he knew Miguel was supervising his humiliation. He could imagine him directing his cronies, but standing to the side; unwilling to soil his own hands. It had become his weekly routine. Wake up, go to school, attend class, and get his head flushed by Miguel’s henchman Erik. With another strong tug on his hair Christy’s abuser tossed him to the side, his tears mingling with the toilet water, as his head slammed in the side of the stall. Erik was snickering while he wiped his pudgy hands against his grey school pants, stomped out, and threw the stall-door shut behind him. Erik was tall, bulky and on the rugby team, while Christy was slight and ran track. Miguel had somehow gotten out of playing sports; his Father had probably paid off the school. Miguel was an eighteen year old exchange student who had light blond hair with tight curls, and blue-grey eyes. His eye brows and lashes were so pail colored they look white. He had a handsome squared off chin and broad shoulders, and although he wasn’t tall his demeanor and excess money demanded respect, even from those larger then himself.
Christy could hear them leaving as he coughed up water onto the tile floor of the men’s bathroom. Pieces of toilet paper clung to his neck and he brushed them off while gasping and rolling onto his stomach. Christy pulled himself out of the puddle he lay in and cautiously pushed open the door of the bathroom stall. With one hand he pushed back his dripping brown hair and frowned at his reflection. His white dress shirt clung to his skin, revealing the contours of his ribs, and giving him a malnourished appearance. With one finger he touched his forehead and winced. With a handful of paper towels he attempted to dry off a bit, rubbing his hair and wringing out his shirt. Luckily he hadn’t gotten any blood on his school uniform this time.
I hate cleaning out blood stains. Christy looked at his watch which read 7:16pm. Shit!
Now he had missed the last school bus, which meant he would have a long walk before he could get home. He slowly bent over and began to pick up his books and papers which lay scattered across the bathroom floor and stuffed them into his backpack before exiting the men’s restroom and beginning the three mile trek to the nearest city bus stop. He frowned at his cell phone, which was blinking lethargically instead of glowing. He sighed before dialing Loli’s number. The fingers in his pocket were crossed as he hoped his call would go though. But, the phone rejected his attempts and shut itself off instead. After a bad day, Christy would immediately call Loli. She always seemed to calm his nerves and knew the right things to say. Loli lived on his street, and even though she attended a different school, they still managed to find the time to get together. She was fifteen, a year younger then Christy, and they had been casually dating for almost a year. Despite their enduring relationship, they acted more like best friends then a couple.
It was Christy’s second year as a Senior High Student at Saint Georges School for Boys and he was already looking forward to finishing. For the past two months he had kept a calendar on the wall of his bedroom, where he tallied the days until graduation. He was looking forward to university, and had his mind set on a few places in the United States. Well, that was if he managed to pass. With the combination of Miguel constantly on his tail, and the strict academic program at his school, he wasn’t doing too well in his classes. Christy was sure he had failed the mathematics test he had taken that morning, which added to the misery of the day.
~.~.~
His backpack was draped over his back heavily as he shuffled down the street in his soiled uniform. He had rearranged it the best he could in the school bathroom, and hid his embroidered crest so that his rumpled appearance would less likely be reported. It was dark enough already to disguise his school colors. He didn’t want to get in trouble for looking like a ruffian. The walk-by traffic looked his way curiously as they passed by, and he could feel their lingering stares.
“Are you alright?” He heard someone ask, and he turned to the side to see a young boy looking at him from the front step of a small family-owned grocery store. He was observing Christy’s crumpled shirt with his dark eyes partially covered by a mess of shiny black hair. The little boy’s skin was brown and he was dressed in a blue t-shirt and a pair of shorts that revealed his knobby knees.
“I’m fine.” He said curtly, continuing down the street.
“You want some of my candies?” The boy called after him, which made Christy smile at his effort.
“Are they the type of candies that give you better grades?”
“Not really.” He said. “But my dad might be willing to sell you something that might.” At that, the boy popped up and grabbed the edge of Christy’s shirt to pull him into the store. It was small and contained shelves holding imported foods from the Middle East. The packages were colorful with primary patterns in bright yellows, reds and blues with Arabic writing.
“Abu” the boy called “I found us a customer.” A man with thick black hair, a mustache and an apron stood up from shelving cans to greet them. He glanced at Christy’s rumpled appearance and smiled at him in a friendly manner.
“What can I do for you?” He questioned Christy in a heavy accent. Christy looked down at the floor.
“I’m sorry Sir, but I was just joking around.”
“He wants better grades” the boy interrupted. “You should sell him Grandmothers coffee.”
“But that coffee is old.”
“So sell it cheep.” The man sighed and walked to the back of the store. After fetching a package in a dusty blue tin, he placed it carefully on the counter.
“Now,” he warned, “This coffee is old, so it may not work. But my mother told me it contains an ancient herbal remedy which sooths the soul and enlightens the drinker.” He smiled and continued. “There is a legend that says when one needs to be clear of thought and sharp in wit they would have someone prepare this coffee. Its dramatic effects would bring about a change in attitude and outlook. We don’t normally sell it, so this is the only package we have. You may have it for free, if you buy an ibruk.” Seeing Christy’s baffled expression he explained. “An ibruk is a long-handled pot to brew Turkish coffee.” He showed Christy to the other side of the store were there was a variety of small oddly shaped copper vessels. They were narrower at the top and had long wooden handles which were painted black. “The small ibruks are $15 and they serve a 4.5 oz demitasse cup. That should be fine for you.” Christy nodded as the man placed the ibruk in his hand and started to write out directions.
“First you add water to your Ibrik until it’s around two-thirds full. Then add sugar, if you want sweetened coffee and a spoonful of ground coffee. The coffee forms a cap over the water, and as you heat the Ibrik, the boiling water will bubble up through the coffee grounds. This is where the shape of the Ibrik is important. When the water foams up, remove it from the heat. After it has settled, bring it back to the heat source. Once your coffee has foamed up three times, it is done. You can then stir and serve it in espresso cups but, let the grounds settle before drinking.” Christy took the instructions and paid the man before walking out of the store with the bag containing the tea and Ibrik. He added these to his already heavy backpack. He smiled at the man’s generosity; it had cheered his mood although he didn’t believe coffee could change a person’s state of mind. He continued the walk to the bus stop smiling in silence and rode the bus examining the curious object he had just bought.
~.~.~
Christy barely had time to open the door to his house when he was attacked by an energetic bundle that latched arms around his waist and burrowed a face in his side.
“Alice, please!” he said trying to defend himself from her over enthusiastic greeting. At five, Alice was energetic in ways Christy couldn’t ever imagine himself being. Christy peeled his clinging half-sister off before sprinting down the stairs to his room and shutting his door behind him. He had no interest in his step-mother noticing him. But, it was already too late.
“Shawn” he heard her calling down and winced.
“It’s Christy.” He screamed at the door while rummaging though his clothing for a cleaner shirt. They always had the same argument. When his mother had left, he refused to have anyone call him by his given name and preferred to have them call him by his last name, Christy. He picked out a grey t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Once his father remarried, his new wife refused to do so and persisted in calling him Shawn, a name which she felt was more masculine. Every time he heard that name he was forced to recall his mother whispering it and running her fingers through his hair. And every time he recalled it had been his mother who had given his name to him before running off with another man when he was eight. His name was one of the few things he still had of hers and he didn’t want anyone else using it.
Letting loose a bit of his aggregation, Christy kicked at the pile of clothing on the floor sending his shirts and socks around the room to mingle with his school papers.
“When are you going to clean up your room.” He heard his step-mother asking and turned to see her standing in the door frame with her lips pulled tight and a well manicured hand tapping on her tailored slacks.
“When I get to it.” His step-mother wasn’t a terrible woman, but she was terribly hard to please. Her name was Tammy, and she was a petite second generation Japanese-Canadian. Her shiny black hair was layered and she had gotten the arch of her small nose redone to look Caucasian. When she had married his dad, Christy had hated her, but after six years he was used to her presence and tolerated her fussing; most of the time. Tammy was still tapping her nails franticly so Christy started putting things away in a lazy effort to make her leave. She left, convinced he was doing something productive, so he opened up the window in his room and climbed out of the window dragging his backpack with him. Once he had escaped, he ran to visit Loli.
This is the first part of a new story I'm working on. It's juvenile fiction with some fantasy elements. I wanted to get a head start for my fiction class next semester. (Wow that just pegged me as a total nerd) I'm a slow writer, so it would be nice to have some material I can use ahead of time. This way I won't be left writing a fifteen page story in a week. Huzzah. I would love to hear what you think about the story so far.
Thanx
Nina
Water rushed past Christy’s ears as he choked on the filthy fluid. He fought to hold his breath despite the pressure against his head. The fingers in his hair tightened to pull his head out of the toilet and he gasped before having his head flushed a second time. His eyes stung as he fought to keep them shut, and his lungs were painfully tight from holding his breath. Although Christy couldn’t see him, he knew Miguel was supervising his humiliation. He could imagine him directing his cronies, but standing to the side; unwilling to soil his own hands. It had become his weekly routine. Wake up, go to school, attend class, and get his head flushed by Miguel’s henchman Erik. With another strong tug on his hair Christy’s abuser tossed him to the side, his tears mingling with the toilet water, as his head slammed in the side of the stall. Erik was snickering while he wiped his pudgy hands against his grey school pants, stomped out, and threw the stall-door shut behind him. Erik was tall, bulky and on the rugby team, while Christy was slight and ran track. Miguel had somehow gotten out of playing sports; his Father had probably paid off the school. Miguel was an eighteen year old exchange student who had light blond hair with tight curls, and blue-grey eyes. His eye brows and lashes were so pail colored they look white. He had a handsome squared off chin and broad shoulders, and although he wasn’t tall his demeanor and excess money demanded respect, even from those larger then himself.
Christy could hear them leaving as he coughed up water onto the tile floor of the men’s bathroom. Pieces of toilet paper clung to his neck and he brushed them off while gasping and rolling onto his stomach. Christy pulled himself out of the puddle he lay in and cautiously pushed open the door of the bathroom stall. With one hand he pushed back his dripping brown hair and frowned at his reflection. His white dress shirt clung to his skin, revealing the contours of his ribs, and giving him a malnourished appearance. With one finger he touched his forehead and winced. With a handful of paper towels he attempted to dry off a bit, rubbing his hair and wringing out his shirt. Luckily he hadn’t gotten any blood on his school uniform this time.
I hate cleaning out blood stains. Christy looked at his watch which read 7:16pm. Shit!
Now he had missed the last school bus, which meant he would have a long walk before he could get home. He slowly bent over and began to pick up his books and papers which lay scattered across the bathroom floor and stuffed them into his backpack before exiting the men’s restroom and beginning the three mile trek to the nearest city bus stop. He frowned at his cell phone, which was blinking lethargically instead of glowing. He sighed before dialing Loli’s number. The fingers in his pocket were crossed as he hoped his call would go though. But, the phone rejected his attempts and shut itself off instead. After a bad day, Christy would immediately call Loli. She always seemed to calm his nerves and knew the right things to say. Loli lived on his street, and even though she attended a different school, they still managed to find the time to get together. She was fifteen, a year younger then Christy, and they had been casually dating for almost a year. Despite their enduring relationship, they acted more like best friends then a couple.
It was Christy’s second year as a Senior High Student at Saint Georges School for Boys and he was already looking forward to finishing. For the past two months he had kept a calendar on the wall of his bedroom, where he tallied the days until graduation. He was looking forward to university, and had his mind set on a few places in the United States. Well, that was if he managed to pass. With the combination of Miguel constantly on his tail, and the strict academic program at his school, he wasn’t doing too well in his classes. Christy was sure he had failed the mathematics test he had taken that morning, which added to the misery of the day.
~.~.~
His backpack was draped over his back heavily as he shuffled down the street in his soiled uniform. He had rearranged it the best he could in the school bathroom, and hid his embroidered crest so that his rumpled appearance would less likely be reported. It was dark enough already to disguise his school colors. He didn’t want to get in trouble for looking like a ruffian. The walk-by traffic looked his way curiously as they passed by, and he could feel their lingering stares.
“Are you alright?” He heard someone ask, and he turned to the side to see a young boy looking at him from the front step of a small family-owned grocery store. He was observing Christy’s crumpled shirt with his dark eyes partially covered by a mess of shiny black hair. The little boy’s skin was brown and he was dressed in a blue t-shirt and a pair of shorts that revealed his knobby knees.
“I’m fine.” He said curtly, continuing down the street.
“You want some of my candies?” The boy called after him, which made Christy smile at his effort.
“Are they the type of candies that give you better grades?”
“Not really.” He said. “But my dad might be willing to sell you something that might.” At that, the boy popped up and grabbed the edge of Christy’s shirt to pull him into the store. It was small and contained shelves holding imported foods from the Middle East. The packages were colorful with primary patterns in bright yellows, reds and blues with Arabic writing.
“Abu” the boy called “I found us a customer.” A man with thick black hair, a mustache and an apron stood up from shelving cans to greet them. He glanced at Christy’s rumpled appearance and smiled at him in a friendly manner.
“What can I do for you?” He questioned Christy in a heavy accent. Christy looked down at the floor.
“I’m sorry Sir, but I was just joking around.”
“He wants better grades” the boy interrupted. “You should sell him Grandmothers coffee.”
“But that coffee is old.”
“So sell it cheep.” The man sighed and walked to the back of the store. After fetching a package in a dusty blue tin, he placed it carefully on the counter.
“Now,” he warned, “This coffee is old, so it may not work. But my mother told me it contains an ancient herbal remedy which sooths the soul and enlightens the drinker.” He smiled and continued. “There is a legend that says when one needs to be clear of thought and sharp in wit they would have someone prepare this coffee. Its dramatic effects would bring about a change in attitude and outlook. We don’t normally sell it, so this is the only package we have. You may have it for free, if you buy an ibruk.” Seeing Christy’s baffled expression he explained. “An ibruk is a long-handled pot to brew Turkish coffee.” He showed Christy to the other side of the store were there was a variety of small oddly shaped copper vessels. They were narrower at the top and had long wooden handles which were painted black. “The small ibruks are $15 and they serve a 4.5 oz demitasse cup. That should be fine for you.” Christy nodded as the man placed the ibruk in his hand and started to write out directions.
“First you add water to your Ibrik until it’s around two-thirds full. Then add sugar, if you want sweetened coffee and a spoonful of ground coffee. The coffee forms a cap over the water, and as you heat the Ibrik, the boiling water will bubble up through the coffee grounds. This is where the shape of the Ibrik is important. When the water foams up, remove it from the heat. After it has settled, bring it back to the heat source. Once your coffee has foamed up three times, it is done. You can then stir and serve it in espresso cups but, let the grounds settle before drinking.” Christy took the instructions and paid the man before walking out of the store with the bag containing the tea and Ibrik. He added these to his already heavy backpack. He smiled at the man’s generosity; it had cheered his mood although he didn’t believe coffee could change a person’s state of mind. He continued the walk to the bus stop smiling in silence and rode the bus examining the curious object he had just bought.
~.~.~
Christy barely had time to open the door to his house when he was attacked by an energetic bundle that latched arms around his waist and burrowed a face in his side.
“Alice, please!” he said trying to defend himself from her over enthusiastic greeting. At five, Alice was energetic in ways Christy couldn’t ever imagine himself being. Christy peeled his clinging half-sister off before sprinting down the stairs to his room and shutting his door behind him. He had no interest in his step-mother noticing him. But, it was already too late.
“Shawn” he heard her calling down and winced.
“It’s Christy.” He screamed at the door while rummaging though his clothing for a cleaner shirt. They always had the same argument. When his mother had left, he refused to have anyone call him by his given name and preferred to have them call him by his last name, Christy. He picked out a grey t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Once his father remarried, his new wife refused to do so and persisted in calling him Shawn, a name which she felt was more masculine. Every time he heard that name he was forced to recall his mother whispering it and running her fingers through his hair. And every time he recalled it had been his mother who had given his name to him before running off with another man when he was eight. His name was one of the few things he still had of hers and he didn’t want anyone else using it.
Letting loose a bit of his aggregation, Christy kicked at the pile of clothing on the floor sending his shirts and socks around the room to mingle with his school papers.
“When are you going to clean up your room.” He heard his step-mother asking and turned to see her standing in the door frame with her lips pulled tight and a well manicured hand tapping on her tailored slacks.
“When I get to it.” His step-mother wasn’t a terrible woman, but she was terribly hard to please. Her name was Tammy, and she was a petite second generation Japanese-Canadian. Her shiny black hair was layered and she had gotten the arch of her small nose redone to look Caucasian. When she had married his dad, Christy had hated her, but after six years he was used to her presence and tolerated her fussing; most of the time. Tammy was still tapping her nails franticly so Christy started putting things away in a lazy effort to make her leave. She left, convinced he was doing something productive, so he opened up the window in his room and climbed out of the window dragging his backpack with him. Once he had escaped, he ran to visit Loli.
This is the first part of a new story I'm working on. It's juvenile fiction with some fantasy elements. I wanted to get a head start for my fiction class next semester. (Wow that just pegged me as a total nerd) I'm a slow writer, so it would be nice to have some material I can use ahead of time. This way I won't be left writing a fifteen page story in a week. Huzzah. I would love to hear what you think about the story so far.
Thanx
Nina