An Eighth Shot of Espresso: The Coffeehouse

A mercenary works for anyone, as long as they have coin to pay for your work. You have to leave your morals and conscience at the door. Survival didn't care about the arbitrary laws of Man. After all, a 'murder' becomes a' mercy killing' under the right context. A 'moral stain' becomes a 'necessary evil' when your own head is on the line. No one cares about your righteousness after the axe severs your neck. Survival of the fittest, and all those cliches. In my world, you did what you had to, if you wanted to see another sunrise. If you had a problem with that, then you go your way, and I'll go mine, and we won't have a problem. So this gig was just like any other. A paid patron who needed a job done. So what if the guy was Undead? There were fates worse than Death, and believe me, in those cases, Death was a blessing. Quick and quiet, no complication and no scandal. That's how I like it. Unfortunately, this time, there was one catch. The ...

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 ...

Horror writing prompt on Bluesky, courtesy of @pgpayt.blsky.social and @fhpowellwriter.bsky.social. The prompt is  the headless writer. Beware the headless writer. They sit at their computer and write a story that never ends.  I didn't believe the rumors. They were as bad as the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. Washington Irving took a local legend, built upon it, and wrote a timeless classic. A chilling horror tale, for sure, but in the end, that was all it was. A fanciful story to tell the gullible when the autumn winds blow through dead trees and the campfire crackles on the leaves. The house seemed innocent enough. It stood empty, but it was hardly decrepit. It even had a fresh coat of white paint, with brand new blue tiles on the roof and the front door a deep shade of plum purple. The new grass seeds sprouted in the front lawn. A wooden fence marked the boundaries of the property. So far, so good. The realtor had told me that the charming exterior, excellent locatio...

A re-post from the original An Eighth Shot of Espresso Blog on Wordpress. Prompt: "Each garden is a grave." (Richard Howard) It was the strangest necropolis I'd ever seen, but oddly, the most beautiful. Each plot was different. A field of lilies of every color. Rows upon rows of black roses. Rolling green grass, each blade dancing in the wind. Still, another bursting with fruit and vegetables ready for the table. A team of gardeners and botanists kept it all in pristine condition. They kept the area free of rot and bugs, brought mulch and black soil to enrich the roots, and set up an irrigation system to nourish life in the midst of death. "This is the Green Cemetery, where life is reborn," my guide explained. "In a way, the dead live forever and their legacy lives on." "It makes sense," I said. "Life is a cycle." He nodded. We made our way on the path between the gravestones. Whole families slept under the earth, their physical bod...

Rachel's Revenge (1) Rachel wakes up in a different time, a different place. What has happened and what will  she do now? A snippet for Spooktober. _____ Cold, darkness, heat Where am I Hard wood beneath my palms, barely enough room to stretch out my arms Where am I A sliver of light above her, just the barest crack. Panic gave her strength and she reached for  it. A finger’s width and nothing more. She pushed and pushed against the ceiling and felt it  give way. Push, push, push, that’s it, you’re doing fine Tearing, shredding, a burst of crimson spreading beneath her Head swimming with pain and effort, a rag shoved deep into her mouth to cut off her cries   The ceiling broke under the weight of fear and splintered into many pieces. She sat up in  darkness, unable to see, completely disoriented. Her throat felt as dry as desert sand. “Hello?” she whispered. “Who’s there?” She only heard her voice in her head. Silence crushed her like  a velvet cloak. How l...

A repost from the original An Eighth Shot of Espresso blog on Wordpress. Write about a character who finds themselves in a child's toy room--except that this place has been closed off for decades. Why would this character open it up? And most importantly, why was the room closed off in the first place? Day 120: East Wing, Holyrood Castle We consulted the maps from Master Ifan Holyrood's journal (see insert 13A). This interior wall does not show up anywhere and it is literally sandwiched between two other walls. The outer is the one that everyone sees every day. Then there is this one, and then the innermost one. A mere five feet separates the outer wall from the innermost, but the triple layers are so masterfully crafted that no one is aware of its existence. Why the secrecy? What do these walls hide? _____ It took us nearly two full days of demolition. We couldn't just use explosives; that could bring the entire castle down upon our heads. So pickaxes, shovels, and sledge...

A repost from the original An Eighth Shot of Espresso blog on Wordpress. Prompt: Write about a character who finds a family photograph in a crime scene. This item is one of the few clear pieces of evidence they're able to find-but what does it mean? What happened in the crime scene, and what does it have to do with the people in the photograph? Is this the breakthrough the character was looking for, or has the plot only thickened? (From 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writers Block by M. Kirin ) _____ A light smear of blood stained the photo. It gave a scarlet tinge to the black and white film, but I was still able to see every detail. Six people, three in the front and three in the back. Great-grandmother, grandmother and mother in the front, daughters in the back. All wore high-necked gowns with tight sleeves, their chestnut hair all coiffed to perfection. The youngest daughter in the middle of the back row was a full head shorter than the rest. Her eyes stared at the camera with a defi...

A repost from the original An Eighth Shot of Espresso on Wordpress. Prompt: Write about a bench that is always empty...except that, over time, it has become the subject of an urban legend. They say that whoever sits on that bench will suffer a horrible death within twenty four hours. Is there truth behind this legend? _____ "Don't sit there." "What?" It was the only bench on this side of the park, with a gorgeous view of the ocean. "Why? We've been walking for almost an hour. My feet hurt." "Anyone who sits there, dies. The damn thing is cursed." I frowned. "You can't be serious." "Take a closer look at it, but don't sit down." I huffed as I sat on the grass right next to it. The worn wood curled at the edges, its dark brown sheen worn by the wind and the rain, places smooth by decades of use. Rust ate away at the frame, splotches of red like blood on dull grey metal. Someone had traced intricate carvings on th...

Epistolary: involving or concerning letter writing, a literary work consisting of letter writing Dearest Aunt: I have reached the seaside and checked into the cottage. It is marvelous, with a view of the blue ocean and the lighthouse on the island yonder. As you know, it has been years since I've been to the beach. I longed to sink my toes into the sand, hear the waves crash onto the shore, and feel the breeze ruffle my hair. How long has it been? Thirty, thirty five years! Oh, how I've missed this! The caretaker is kind. Her name is Mrs. Phillips, an elderly lady whose son is the keeper of the lighthouse nearby. She greeted me on the path and showed me around the place. Mrs. Phillips used to be a nurse and she commented on my 'pale pallor' and 'listless demeanour'. A seaside holiday was the perfect solution to whatever ailed me, and she said that she hoped that the time away will help put more color into my cheeks. There are still good people in the world, li...