An Eighth Shot of Espresso: The Coffeehouse

This is the story of my life. Literally. I wake up in the morning and each day is a new beginning. I find myself in a different bed, in a different room. The books on the bookshelves have different titles. That cup of tea I left on my desk last night? It's now a cold cup of coffee. One day, I hear my husband singing in the shower. The next day, there is nothing but silence. He doesn't exist anymore. Sometimes, I remember his name, but he's no longer the man I married. He could end up as a relative, my best friend, the antagonist who makes my life a living hell. My darling cat is now the huge yellow labrador retriever sprawled across my bed. At least the dog doesn't snore. My best friend used to live next door. Her house is empty now. I get a phone call; she's moved to an apartment downtown. Last week, she worked at a coffee shop, but now she spends her days at the office. What exactly does she do? I have no idea, and frankly, I'm not sure she does, either. Hell,...

The ghosts play a concert every night. You don't notice it at first, for life takes up all of your attention. When the sun goes down, and the din of your daily routine becomes silent, that's when the conductor takes up their baton. You hear the sound of a piano, in a house where there is no piano. A lonely solo that resonates within the soul, more felt than heard. The haunting melodies echo down the halls. The notes ring of loss and pain, a dirge to loved ones long gone You wake up with wide eyes, as your rational mind knows it isn't possible. Perhaps it's a long-forgotten dream, a dance with a lover you never had.  Either way, the memory fades with the morning light. Life hums once more, and the dream is forgotten.There's too much noise to make out a single voice. The second night, when you close your eyes, you hear the flute. Beautiful and sad, it takes up the melody as the piano switches to the harmony. The same wistful theme, a leitmotif of everything that came ...

She had been here before, though she did not remember it well. All that was left here was a rickety wooden platform, fading and discolored from the wind and rain. In her mind's eye, she saw people on that platform, as the herald read from his long list of names. She heard the shouts from the crowd that scared her, then the soothing voice of her mother and the weight of a sticky sweet in her hand. A distraction for the event to come... "Eyes front! Pay attention!" She snapped out of the dream (or was it a memory? She wasn't very sure anymore.). The hushed voices of her schoolmates buzzed all around her, then they all fell silent. The cold wind blew through their heavy woolen coats. She reached up to make sure her hood didn't fly back and reveal her secret. "Traitor's Crossing," the schoolmistress intoned. Her icy eyes fell on every student and commanded their attention. "A gallows used to stand here, at the crossroads,...as you can see, it's ...

"Have you seen such an odd arrangement?"  The elderly wizard shuffled forwards into the forbidden library. His student followed at a much slower pace.  Strolling about after hours, with no permission from the elders, no written dispensations, no protective charms...if they were discovered, the punishment would be swift and most likely lethal. Again, the apprentice hoped a transfer to a more sane--and sensible--mentor wasn't out of the question. These late night outings detracted from his sleep, and he liked his sleep, thank you very much. Perhaps they could look around once, to satisfy the old man's curiosity, then return to the safe walls of the dormitory. He didn't like the restless air in this library, or the distinct feeling of eyes on his back. His mentor stopped so suddenly that he nearly ran into him. He caught himself before he swore curses in every language he knew. Such behavior might have scandalized a normal sage, but his mentor would not have been bot...

 #vssfantasy prompt: ascetic The traveler staggered up the last few steps of the winding staircase. He fell to his knees, breathing heavily in the cold, thin air. The wind chilled him to the bone, despite his thick parka and the woolen scarf wrapped around his neck.  I'm here. I'm finally here. He waited until his head stopped spinning. Aside from the wind, there was no sound at all. No twitter of birds or buzz of bees or drip of water. Just the howl of the air and its icy teeth. Of course, only a madman would climb this high to get away from the world. A madman...or a genius, depending on one's point of view. Grey clouds encircled the peak of this mountain. Dark and impenetrable, a wall that sealed away this little piece of existence. His ears strained to hear any rumble of thunder and found none. Perhaps the lightning couldn't reach this high. Perhaps he had already gone mad. Perhaps his body lay upon the lower paths and it was his soul that arrived here. Could you di...

#horrorwritingprompt is #zoetic zoetic: pertaining to life, living The art of life: bringing it, shaping it, nurturing it. It took a gentle touch and a creative outlook. Anyone could bring a new being into this world; the mechanics weren't difficult, after all, but to be responsible for it was an entirely different matter. A zoetic calling, the healers, the mothers, the caretakers and the teachers.The training was rigorous, for this responsibility could not be taken lightly. She began with the nurseries and the creches, from the beginning of the journey. If one didn't have the patience for this stage, then how could one continue nurturing a life? Not everyone had the temperament or the inclination for this. She took her responsibility seriously. The elders showed her what to do, which words to say, how to handle whatever happens. They involved her in every situation, but they were there to hold her hand. Occasionally, death raised its dark head and snuffed a fragile existence, ...