Johan's eyes glint beneath the brim of his cap, his jelly-streaked chin accentuating the smear of black paint below each eye. When did he have jelly?
"Yooooou're ouuuuuuut!" he yells, swinging his arms into an X. He clutches the sack of candy in one hand, out of reach for the small Fae.
"Moooooom! Johan isn't SHARING!" the little fairy yells. Her yellow wings sag on one side, gravely injured in a clash with a gate post.
Stella pulls a fist full of curls over her nose, her thick eyelashes holding the first few tears in suspense. "Stop wiping your nose on your hair honey, PLEASE." I mean to sound gentle, yet my voice still has a slight edge.
It's as if I've said this too many times today. Scooping my smallest love into my arms before the shakes turn to sobs, my hips sway her back to baseline on autopilot.
I glance at the clock, 7pm. Yikes! It's getting dark so early now, I think as a yawn sends a shiver down my spine. I need coffee. Oh yeah, that red house on the corner...
I thought he was dressed as a pirate as we approached the house, a black patch covered one of his eyes. The other twinkled with mischief.
He did not seem interested in the usual banter with the children, brusquely gesturing to a bowl of malted chocolates for them.
"You. I have something you might need." he says, and presses a packet into my hand. Some neighbors give out favor bags, I assume that's what it is, and don't even look at at.
Tossing it into the sack with the rest of the loot, I nudge the children. "Thank you!" they remember, "Happy halloween!" we wave off. The kids run ahead, and I share one last look with the man.
He winks at me, and suddenly the breeze cuts through my sweater. Leaves kick up in an arc in the street, as I take my leave. "Thank you!" I say, unable to shake an odd feeling.
Back in the warmth of our brightly lit kitchen, we dump the sack onto our heavy wooden table, and there it is. Familiar gleaming aluminum, an old friend.
The packet says "Yggdrasil Brew" huh? Probably imported I muse, as I fill the carafe to make a pot of willpower. The aroma that greets me as I tear the foil is complex.
It is the proper color... the texture that tumbles into the filter is unremarkable. Yet, the smell. My mind begins to wander away as I close the lid of my coffee maker.
I remember the sharp scent of sterile materials utilized in childbirth. The primal joy of inhaling the night air as it mixes with my first campfire.
I can smell my mother's perfume, it carries her voice as she sings to me. Cradling it as she ages, I hear her make her peace, leaving me in the world she brought me into.
The machine begins to crackle as the first drips of coffee hit the glass bottom. Tick tick tick, as the speed increases, I realize how strange I feel.
I must REALLY need this coffee, I chuckle. The children running about in the living room rumbles the floor, I mean to tell them to slow down, but instead I select my favorite mug.
The steam that rises as I pour the dark amber liquid is exaggerated, my kitchen darkens as a mist blurs the details around me. The cup beckons to me, I know the handle fits perfectly in my hand.
In my heart I feel this isn't right, a nagging voice in my head insists I reevaluate this situation. A louder voice scares it away.
I pull the first sip of sanity into my mouth, velvety warm and soothing. A feeling that my soul recognizes becomes the craft that takes me away... down.
I lay in the roots of a tree which stretches up beyond where my eyes can see, its upper reaches lost in the cosmos which swirl all around in vivid clarity. The point that connects all that is.
I stand to greet a series of doors; they tower over my small body, and I am humbled in the wake of ALL. Each one swings open to reveal the realms within.
Frost giants lob their anger against the mountain tops, dark clouds flicker with their wrath. Gone yet preserved in the seamless story of time.
I see hearty folk belt songs out to honor those around them, foamy beards catch the flow of hasty chugs of ale. They are so rowdy you would think there was a fight at first glance.
And I see my city, as evening gives way to night, the streets fill with stumbling adults. They shout to one another in nostalgic costumes.
The sound swells to static, I float away to my own part of town, where I see my children chase each other about through the window. Their laughter muted by the pane of glass.
I step closer to the door, and I can smell the aroma of coffee that wafts through from my kitchen. Home, my place in it all.
I step through, and real life comes flooding back abruptly. I blink in the brightness of my overheard bulbs; the mug is still in my hand. I breathe in deep through my nostrils, the scent enchanting me.
I can see the old man's face on the surface of my coffee briefly, before the ripple of my next sip scatters him away with everything else once more.
This is my submission for creative writing prompt 16 from Cinnamon Cup Coffee Community:
You're trick or treating for Halloween and someone puts a packet of ground coffee in your treat bag. You get home and open it but there is something strange about it, something seriously wrong with it.It was fun to participate in #spillthebeans 😁☕️!
