Bitter brew

Ideas

• A solitary figure sits at a kitchen table, staring into a steaming cup. The ritual of making tea/coffee is their only solace amidst the chaos of their life. As they sip, the bitter taste stirs memories of hardships and fleeting moments of happiness.

• Write a piece that captures this quiet, introspective moment. Consider their thoughts and emotions as they drink, reflecting on their existence.

Responses 

Dregs

Pike popped open the plastic lid and stared down into the styrofoam cup, pondering the dark roast’s oily mahogany surface. What was it about an extraction of toasted bean fragments, pulverized and scalded, that drove the world batty? Personally, he could take it or leave it. He didn’t mind the taste. Like most adults he had grown into it. Like beer and Republican politics, what was abhorrent to his youthful palate became understandable and eventually indispensable with age. He wouldn’t say he enjoyed the concoction. But it could be useful, to be sure. Certainly raised his heart rate. Right about now he had palpitations a mile a minute. He was about to try something new, something that, if successful, could become his signature. What had brought him to this point? Who knows. The typical toxic combo of bad luck and bad habits. But as he stared into the slick Colombian brew that warmed his hands, he saw his future. And damned if the burnt chicory aroma wasn’t calming.

He had planned his strike carefully. No guns. No bullets to be traced. Or knives. So no trouble with any metal detectors. No need to kill. That was excessive. He was interested only in a simple commercial transaction. There might be some damage, but no need for headstones.

Pike drained his cup and ordered another to go. He hustled out of the coffee shop and strolled into the nearby diamond store, sipping his Joe. The door tinkled as it opened. No guards or security. The cams were not a concern. He’d been told by ladies in all five boroughs his face was forgettable.

Pike quizzed the manager about a variety of high-end watches. His research had paid off. He asked to take a quick up-close gander at a couple of the gem encrusted beauties. They sparkled on the glass countertop like a freshly mopped floor.

In a flash, he emptied his boiling Java into the poor merchant’s face. As the jeweler yowled, Pike grabbed a pair of Piagets and flew.

Hold onto the cup, he thought as he sprinted away. No need to leave prints. Then Pike had another thought as the hammering of his heart persisted. Decaf would work just as well.

Scott MacLeod

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Punk Noir, Micromance, Rmag, Every Day Fiction, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming.