The Coffee Shop

In a small coffee shop in Cleveland, Ohio, not far from Playhouse Square, two men were discussing the state of the war. One of them, a redhead with glasses and a flat cap, seemed particularly agitated. “The president said he wasn’t ruling it out,” he said. His friend, a tall bald man with a long beard, just shook his head. “They already used them in the Middle East,” continued the red-headed man.

“There is a significant difference,” said the bearded man, “between using nuclear weapons on foreign soil and using them against American citizens. Even if they are rebels.”

Jared listened to the two men as he swept the floor behind the counter. He knew eavesdropping on them was rude, but he couldn’t help it. It was that time of evening when hardly anyone showed up. Not many people needed coffee after six o’clock. He and Kelly barely needed to do anything. Jared looked around the shop at the customers. Apart from the two politically-minded individuals, there was a middle-aged couple a few tables away. The husband had on a Cavs jacket and an Indians baseball cap. Every so often he would turn away from his wife and look over at the two men discussing politics. His wife, meanwhile, was trying to keep him engaged in their own conversation, which had to do with school choices for their children and how they were going to pay for college. The only other person in the coffee shop was a young woman, around college age, who was pretending to study a calculus textbook but kept checking her phone every few minutes.

Looking around, Jared realized that, once again, everyone in the coffee shop was white. This wasn’t surprising: people of color hadn’t been coming to the coffee shop for a long time. Jared recalled one particular Middle Eastern couple, neighbors of his named Aleah And Brahim, who used to be regulars. Aleah would get a medium latte and Brahim enjoyed a large black coffee. One day, while Jared was driving to work, he noticed a couple of black vans parked in front of their house. They stopped showing up to the coffee shop after that, and the next time Jared drove by their house there was a for sale sign in front of it.

Even the staff of the coffee shop was now completely white. Jared’s friend Jamal had left the coffee shop a little over a month ago. Rumor was that he’d run away to New York City, deep in rebel territory, with one of the regulars, Marcus, who he had been dating. Jared liked Marcus. Marcus would come in and order a latte with a shot of pumpkin spice every fall, and Jamal would laugh. “You’re such a little white girl, Marcus,” he’d say. But if Jamal and Marcus had been planning on fleeing to New York, they had never told Jared. Sometimes Jared wondered what had really happened to the two of them. Were they really going to New York? If so, did they make it there? Did Jamal join up with the rebel army, or were they living peaceful, civilian lives?

“Would you really put it past the president to go that far?” the redheaded man asked his friend. “He’s always said that we need to get tough on them.”

“But what happens when the war ends, and there’s a big radioactive crater where New York used to be?” replied the bearded man. “Think of all the money that would need to go into the rebuilding effort. Do you really think that the president wants to spend that much, especially with the national debt as high as it is?”

“I suppose not,” conceded his friend. “God, can you just imagine, though? All that destruction, thousands of people dead. And not just troops, but civilians, too.” The bearded man nodded, a grim look on his face.

The man in the Indians cap leaned towards the two gentlemen. “Hey,” he said. The men ignored him.

His wife put a hand on his shoulder. “Jack, don’t,” she admonished. Jack ignored her.

Hey,” he said again, louder. Again, the two men ignored him. Jack got up from his seat.

Hey, you ginger fuck,” he said, “you some kind of rebel sympathizer?”
That got everyone’s attention. Even the woman in the booth stopped pretending to study and was now looking up at the scene unfolding a couple of tables away from her. The red-headed man turned to face his accuser. “I’m sorry?” he asked, a bewildered look on his face.
“I asked,” said Jack, “if you and your friend were a couple of rebel-loving traitors.”

“Of course not,” said the redheaded man. “I wasn’t—”

“Because it seems to me,” said Jack, interrupting him, “that any real American wouldn’t have the slightest bit of sympathy for these traitors. If they wind up dead in a crater, then I say they got what’s coming to them.”

“But what about the civilians?” asked the redheaded man.
“Anyone who’s over there with the rebels is just as guilty as any rebel,” said Jack. “They’re just as guilty of abandoning American values as the rest of them, and they deserve to die just the same.”
“Even the women and children?” asked the bearded man.
“Everyone,” said Jack. “Which brings us back to you two rebel-lovers.”

Jack’s wife stood up and put her hand on his shoulder. “Jack, stop,” she said. “They’re not worth it.”

“Shut it, Martha,” barked Jack, pushing her hand off him. He stepped towards his two targets. “I think we should have a look inside your houses,” he said. “I’d bet we’d find some interesting stuff.” He inched closer. “Stuff like letters to rebel soldiers. Maybe even a prayer rug or two.”

Jared could see where this was going, and he knew he needed to put a stop to it. “Hey,” he said.

Jack turned to look at him. “What?” he asked, annoyed.

Jared swallowed a lump in his throat. Jack was at least six feet tall, and he had a chest like a barrel of whiskey. Standing across from him, Jared felt like a housecat that had just picked a fight with a mountain lion. He shook himself out of it. It was too late to back down now. “If you’re going to continue to harass our customers,” said Jared, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Jack turned towards Jared, directing his fury at the barista. “Oh yeah?” he said. “You a rebel-lover, too?”

Jared pointed at the flag by the door. “You see that?” he said. “I put that there myself.” He hadn’t, but Jack didn’t need to know that. “Now, do you see the sign next to it? The one that says ‘We reserve the right to refuse service to anybody?’”

Jack didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his eyes going over every inch of Jared’s face as if he were memorizing it. Jared felt a sinking feeling grow in the pit of his stomach. He knew what happened to the people who spoke up. Everyone did. One day a friend or acquaintance of yours would be running their mouth off. A few days later, they were gone without a trace. No one ever wondered where they had gone off to. Not aloud, anyway.

Finally, Jack broke his gaze from Jared’s face and sat back down at the table with Martha. A haze of tension seemed to drain away, and the coffee shop returned to a level of normalcy. The woman in the booth went back to her textbook. Jack and Martha tittered away about the educational prospects of their children. Jared continued sweeping the floor. And the redheaded man and his bearded friend began conversing again, albeit in more hushed tones. The malaise of a lazy Ohio evening began to take hold once again.

A few minutes later, the woman in the booth got up and asked for a refill on her mocha. Kelly rung her up at the register while Jared began making the drink. As she waited, the woman once again whipped out her phone and began scrolling through what must have been status updates. At last Jared finished her drink and brought it over to her.

Here’s your drink, miss,” he said, holding the cup out for her to take. The woman didn’t respond. Jared struggled not to roll his eyes. “Miss, your drink,” he said again. The woman still didn’t respond. She was staring at her phone, her face completely pale, as if all the blood had rushed out of her at once.
“Oh my God,” she said, her eyes glued to the screen.

Jared was becoming a bit impatient. “Miss,” he said again, more forcefully, “your drink.”

They did it,” said the woman, her voice shaking. “They actually did it.”

Something in her tone unnerved Jared. He began to feel that something was wrong. “What did they do?” he asked.

New York just got hit with a nuclear missile strike.”

Every eye in the shop shifted towards the woman. For what felt like hours, no one said a word. Slowly, Jared put down the mocha in his hands. Then he began taking off his apron. For a moment, he just stood there with his apron off, not doing anything, not saying a word.

Kelly,” he said finally, “I’m not feeling very well. I’m going to go home.” Kelly didn’t say anything. Jared went to get his coat from the back of the shop.

Am I just going to be here by myself, then?” Kelly asked suddenly, as if she had just awoken from a trance.

Jared almost told Kelly to call Jamal, but he stopped himself before uttering it. “Call Brent,” he said instead. “He owes me a favor, anyway.” He heard Kelly sigh.

OK,” she said.

Jared grabbed his coat and walked outside. The sun had just finished setting, and a cool night breeze wafted through the air. There was a National Guardsman patrolling the street, his eyes scanning up and down the sidewalk on both sides. Eventually those eyes came to rest on Jared. Jared kept his head down and didn’t say anything.

I wrote this story about a year ago. I tried to get it published in a punk zine, but that didn’t work out. I didn’t try to get it published elsewhere. I was afraid it would be seen as “too political.”

After what happened today in the Senate today, I simply don’t care anymore.

A Matter of Seasons

Twigs crunched under Nikos’s feet as he made his way to the border. All around him were the signs of summer: chirping birds, bright sun coming through the trees, and of course, the late summer heat. Nikos’s own appearance, however, did not reflect the season of his surroundings. Nikos was dressed from head to toe in the regalis of autumn. His cloak was made of autumn leaves, and his armor was the deep red gold of maple leaves in that most transitional of seasons. His hair, too, was of the same color, as were his eyes. Nikos had always gravitated towards the season of autumn, even as a child. It was a season of generosity and friendliness, when the beginnings of cold were seeping in. It matched his own personality, as he had always tried to be friends with as many people as possible. Though he had to admit, that tendency of his had caused him more harm than good as of late.

Nikos looked to the sky and saw the colors of autumn reflected in the setting sun. It would be twilight soon; the crossing would be open and he would soon be out of the Feywild forever. Nikos shook the thought from his head. It had been all he could do not to fall into the patterns of winter and despair all through the trial. Even when he was sentenced he tried to maintain a friendly and polite demeanor. But when he had seen the scorn in the eyes of his father, he felt icicles begin to form in his hair as a chill spread through his body. He had been stuck in the season of winter for the entire week leading up to his banishment. He had only been able to break the spell on the day the was told to begin walking towards the border.

Finally, Nikos reached the clearing that marked the end of the forest and the beginning of the border. Though the border itself was invisible, Nikos felt the hair on his neck stand on end. Clearly, there was magic about.

Suddenly, he heard a twig snap behind him. Turning around he saw a creature that was rare, even for a place like the Feywild: a unicorn. She was tall and regal looking, her fur the color of a snowfall. Yet it seemed as though she could disappear into the forest as easy as any creature with better camouflage. She looked at Nikos, and her blue eyes seemed to be staring into his very soul.

“Child,” she said, “why are you so far from the domain of your parents? Why have you come to this liminal place between worlds?”

“I am no longer welcome in my home,” said Nikos.

“Why not?” asked the unicorn.

And though Nikos was quite sure that he had never seen this creature in his entire life, he told her everything. He told her of his father’s rival, of the dare his older brother gave him, of the chase through the manor and up to the ramparts. He told her how he had dropped the bust he had tried to steal and how it had shattered beyond repair on the ground below. He told her of the trial, of his father, Nikos the Elder, and his scornful stare, full on in the implacable season of summer. And he told her of his shame and his banishment, though it made the chill of winter creep back up his spine.

The unicorn was silent during Nikos’s story, and only spoke once he had finished. “The selfishness of some eladrin never fails to amaze me,” she said. “That you committed a crime is evident. That you are guilty, there can be no doubt. But to banish you for such an affront? It seems too extreme.”

“I thank you for your sympathy,” said Nikos, “but unfortunately, my fate is sealed. I have brought dishonor on my family, and my father will not have me. I must try to find a home elsewhere.” With that, he turned to leave. He could already see the crossing shimmering into existence. Soon it would materialize fully, and he would leave his home forever.

“Wait.” Nikos turned around to face the unicorn. “Your fate may not be sealed just yet,” said the celestial. “I may be able to help you regain your father’s favor. If you were to slay a great monster, one that threatens both the material plane and the Feywild, your banishment may be lifted.”

“And how would I do that?” asked Nikos. He was no warrior, nor was he a mage.

“With my blessing,” said the unicorn. “There is a monster that hunts my kind. It travels throughout the material plane, killing unicorns. Whether it hunts us for sport or sustenance, i have no idea. I do not even have a description of the beast, save only for the dying words of one of its victims: ‘the Red Bull.’”

The unicorn stepped towards Nikos. “I will give you a portion of my power. It will grow in you like a seed, and you will become strong enough to face any foe. In return, you will find whatever this ‘Red Bull’ is, and you will kill it. If you do this, I will tell the Fey Court of the service you have rendered my kind, and your banishment may be lifted.”

Nikos looked at the creature before him. It was true that unicorns had great magical power, and could bless mortals with it. But if this beast had slain unicorns before, how could one mortal stand up to it? And yet, for the first time since his trial, he felt a glimmer of hope. Suddenly, there had come to him a way out of the darkness. This was his only chance to get back what he had lost.

“I accept,” said Nikos. The unicorn stepped closer to him. She bent over and touched her horn to Nikos’s forehead. As soon as the horn touched him, Nikos felt a brightness enter into his very being. He felt power within himself: power that was just beginning to take shape. He wasn’t sure if he could stand up to such a beast as this Red Bull just yet, but he knew that if he got stronger, he may be able to face it.

“Go,” said the unicorn, “and end this beast.” And with that, the unicorn stepped back into the forest’s edge and disappeared.          

Nikos turned around to face the crossing. It had fully materialized now: a door of light in a wall that wasn’t there. Before, it had been a symbol of Nikos’s shame. Now, it was just the first step of a long journey home. Nikos the Younger walked towards the door and vanished into the light.

I’m starting a thing where I stream myself writing on my Twitch channel. This was one of things I wrote today. It’s a backstory for a D&D character, Nikos the Younger, whom I will be playing tomorrow night at 8:30 PM EST on Quips N Crits, a live podcast on twitch. Come check out both streams sometime!

In the Shadow of the Facility

The building taunted Arthur every time he walked past it. It stood there, all steel and glass, a modern architectural style designed to evoke medical cleanliness and peerless efficiency. No matter how hard he kept his eyes on the ground, the image of that facility remained burned into his consciousness, a reminder of the grisly deadline that lurked ever closer in Arthur’s future.

He would have just as soon have avoided walking past it except that it happened to be so close to the coffee shop. His daily cup of coffee was the only luxury Arthur had been able to fit into his current budget. His walk down to the shop had become a sort of ritual. It got him exercise, and got him out of the apartment and away from the constant pressure of bills. He felt that without this ritual, he really might be in danger of losing it.

Entering the shop, Arthur walked over to the counter, ordered his usual (a medium cup of coffee with cream), and took a seat by the window. He made sure he was facing away from the facility, and yet it still lurked in his mind. Arthur thought back to when the first facility of its kind opened in Washington, D.C. He remembered the president’s speech, promising an end to the nanny state, to the do-nothing parasite who suckled themselves on the government teat. Arthur remembered that he used to think the facility was a great idea. He had felt ecstatic when one had opened right here in Cleveland. Finally, he wouldn’t have to see so many transients on the way to work.

Arthur had continued to think this up until the day his manager called him in to talk about his performance. “So you see, Arthur,” the manager had said, peering at Arthur through his spectacles, “you just aren’t processing software change requests at an efficient pace.”

“But my work has been improving,” Arthur had protested. “Everyone has been saying so!”

“Yes, the individual requests you complete are quite thorough. But you see, it’s not just about the quality of thew work. We also have to consider the rate at which the work is done. Efficiency is key. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Arthur had, in fact, understood. The modern world worked at a blinding pace, and those who couldn’t keep up were left behind. Arthur had seen then that his protests would be in vain. The manager, for his part, had been nothing but cordial. He had even walked Arthur to his car to make sure he was OK to drive. This politeness didn’t stop Arthur from cursing the manager out as he pulled away, however.

In the months that followed, Arthur fervently applied to every business that would take him. And every week, he had received another email apologizing to him for the inconvenience and wishing him luck on his job search. Around the three month mark, he had begun having nightmares about men in clean, crisp uniforms coming to his apartment and dragging him screaming into the metal and glass doors of the facility, never to be seen again. These nightmares had continued unabated throughout the rest of his job search.

Shaking his head, Arthur brought himself back to the present. Though the nightmares were terrifying, the future they predicted was not yet a forgone conclusion. There was still a few days before the six month deadline. and just last week he had attended a promising interview with a local tech support call center. Sure, it wasn’t the most glamorous work, but it was better than the alternative. And besides, in all likelihood it was the last chance he’d get.

Suddenly, Arthur felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Taking it out, he saw that he had gotten an email from the tech support company. Arthur felt his heart begin to pound. Opening the email, Arthur read the words “We are sorry,” and then the room began to spin. Arthur felt himself take shallow breath after shallow breath. He felt beads of sweat form on his brow. His sight became unfocused, and he couldn’t read the rest of the email. He didn’t need to, anyway. He knew what it said.

Then Arthur heard the tiny ringing sound of the bell on the coffee shop’s door. He didn’t need to see who had come in. The men from the facility were here for him. Arthur knew this in his very bones. “Run,” said a voice in his head. “Run, run now!” And Arthur did run. He ran out of the door and straight into the street.  There was the honk of a car horn, a screech of the brakes, the crunch of bone under rubber, and then finally, nothing.

This is a story I wrote a couple of months ago, basically just as a way to deal with the stress of being unemployed. It’s completely self-indulgent and over-the-top, but MAN was it cathartic to write. Writing is good therapy, even if the result is kind of grim.

One Moment in the Life of a Private Dick

She walked into my office and shot me. I stared at her face, covered by a black veil, and at the gun in her hand, smoke rising from the barrel. Then I looked down at my chest and saw the flower of red that was spreading across my shirt. “Shit,” I said as I collapsed to the ground.

“I told you not to meddle, Johnny Coldclock,” she said. “But you had to go and stick your neck in where it wasn’t wanted.”

“I’m not Johnny,” I coughed. “I’m Rick Stephenson. Johnny Coldclock is next door.”

I heard her say, as if from a great distance, the words “Oh, Goddammit, not again.” Then I blacked out.

I don’t know where this idea came from, but I just had to get it out of my head once it was there. It’s too long for a microfic, so I put it here on the blog. 

A Special Annoucement

Steve filed in to the auditorium with his fellow employees. At the podium was the CEO, her face twisted into a smile that made dogs howl.

“Thank you all for coming,” said the CEO to the assembled crowd. “We have a really exciting piece of news for you all. We are ready to proceed with phase two of the Great Transferal. Now is the time to ready ourselves to topple the governments of the world. We shall begin immediately.”

As his co-workers shuffled off their flesh, exposing the alien forms underneath, Steve began to wonder if he should have chosen a different place of employment.

The CEO of my company sent out a really cryptic email about a surprise mandatory meeting, and this popped into my head. The announcement turned out to be that the CTO is retiring. I guess you humans get to live another day.  

The photo is yet another one from my trip to Wales. It depicts the newspaper where Dylan Thomas worked. 

The Lady in Blue

“If you get lost,” said Anna, “the Lady in Blue will get you!”

Anna saw James stop in his tracks just ahead of her. She smiled. An imagination like James’s was a feeding ground for ghost stories, and the tale of the castle’s signature ghost had terrified him. “Come on now,” she said, catching up to him. “Let’s go find everyone…” She paused. Down the corridor, she saw a woman in a blue dress. They locked eyes.

And suddenly Anna was the lady in the blue dress, standing over the graves of her murdered children, knife in hand, ready to plunge the steel into her breast…

And then she was Anna again, and the woman had gone. Shaking her head, she took James and walked up the steps and down the corridor. Only when they had gotten back to the tour group did Anna realize she was crying.

This was done for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers weekly challenge. The Photo is by Louise with the Storyteller’s Abode.