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, ...

The purge was all but complete. Necks in the noose, highborn necks.  The reckoning was harsh, with the mob as judge, jury and executioner. Any member of the nobility who did not flee in time was caught in the chaos.Their allies slunk back into the shadows.But people talk and gleefully throw others into the fire to save their own lives.The prisons stayed full, despite the innocent being released. There were too many accusations, not enough justices to verify each and every one.  I'm sure there were cases of human error. Money still ensured a stay of execution, a short one, at least. Cries of foul play and favoritism, and lists of reasons and justifications. In some ways, life did  not  change from one regime to the next. I could have fled with the others, but chose to remain. Why? I stayed to simply record what happened for posterity. Too many secrets harbored too long in the shadows. That was how the old order lasted for as long as it had. Once the floodgates opened...

The #vssfantasy prompt word is "becoming." Moonlight bathed the nursery. A silver light diffused through the trees and touched every leaf within. My Guide guided me down the dirt path. My ears caught a hint of harp music, with a soft melody of pipes and flute.The sharp smell of fresh rain and spring dew tickled my nostrils. All of my senses told me I was outside, under the bright full moon. I saw no signage or any directional arrows, but before I knew it, the path ended at a wide, green meadow. "Where are we?" The Guide smiled. She tossed her head and her long lavender braid sparkled with glitter. "We are close, please follow me."  Before I could say a word, she was down the path. Her feet didn't even touch the ground; her white diaphanous robe shifted with the wind. I scrambled to catch up. Unfortunately for me, my Human capabilities were limited in the Fae realm, and I had to use my own two feet.  "I'm glad you responded to our Call. Some ar...

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...