Tag Archives: coffee

50 Word Stories – In Cocoa

It was an idea, a fanciful dream. I packed nothing and left everything.

The plantations were green, not brown. A prevailing wind filtered out the sounds of humanity’s pickers but the life I had wished for never existed.

I returned home deflated. My mum smiled and offered me a coffee.

Advertisements

50 Word Stories – The Raised Eyebrow

Two years! Two years of drinking more coffee than a whole family of cocoa bean addicts. That’s what it felt like, anyway. And I preferred tea. Would I have done it all again? Damn right! When I asked the barista out? She just raised an eyebrow. Still, wasn’t a no.

Coffee Shop Confrontations

If it was to pass without incident or event, without anger or altercation, I had to stay calm. There were no awards for foolishness, nor unprovable bravado. In this game of life and death decisions, I had to remain cool, unbothered, frosty.
"One lemon muffin please."
Her words cut through my misting, morning torpor like a bullet through paper; she'd bought the last one!
My fingers clenched, teeth grated, eyes shot daggers.
"I'm sorry," she said looking me up and down. "Would you like the last one?"
That was it, my faith in humanity restored. Not only was she stunning, but kind. I could've leapt in the air clicking my heels, laughed in jubilation, sung my heart out. But…
"No, you're alright, love. I'll have toast instead.
Well, after all, I was English.

50 Word Stories: The Haunting

A slide guitar slit through the coffee shop like a catamaran the sea. I imagined the chords gently easing aside the customers, the grinding granules, the general hullabaloo with the same simple efficiency of a gravedigger the cemetery's ochre soil. Apt, as it always was my favourite place to haunt.

Cocoa Lagoons

My Mornings

I’m reclining in a cocoa lagoon where the natives all wear the same clothing and the colours never change. I like it here in this snippet of another world, my personal escape.

I breathe. I write.

The sound of grinding coffee is not a vexation but a soothing balm. Here, people talk as though in dreams and Venice accepts them with open arms, and an open cash register. I prefer my privacy but somehow am less disturbed by this than I am the Prefab Sprout that slips from the speakers.

I breathe. I write.

I talk to the girls behind the counter in a way I otherwise could not and would not and try to smile back. The irony, one is Italian, a Venetian, and I wonder if my dream is solidifying. I hope not. I like this dreamscape too much for it to become real.

I breathe. I write.

My time comes to an end. Social media has been answered, words written, and the routine I love and crave beckons though it seems a continent away. But I won’t run, not today. I choose another route, a smile playing across my face. I’ll take a gondola across these cocoa lagoons to remind me of my time here.

I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

The Coffee Shop (It’ll do that to you)

The scene: It's a bustling well known coffee shop where I'm quietly reclining trying to write a few words, whilst knocking back my favourite tipple. The two baristas, (best keep this technically correct) think their annoying discussion is going unheard. It's not. I'm a writer, and I'm easily influenced.

She: "I hate these so much!"
He: "Calm down."
She: "Coffee lids that don't fit!" Grrr!"
He: "Not the worst thing ever."
She: "What could be worse?"
He: "Underwear with no leg wholes."
She: "They're called hats."
He: "They're what you call hats."
She: "I know you're wondering how many holes mine have."
He: "Nope, just why you're putting plastic lids on coffee mugs."