Conjurer of Short Stories & Bad Decisions

I always loved the idea of being a writer. It was the writing part that I couldn’t stand.

There were plenty of stories that I’d started writing, all of them sitting there in my drafts folder with creative titles and inventive character names. But not a single one of them was finished. Each would end abruptly, most not even making it past the drafting stage. I guess I would just get distracted, or let the crappiness of my own writing dissuade me.

Regardless of which, I’d put any dream of finishing a writing project behind me. 

That was, until I heard my friend James talking about the college history paper he’d completed last month. James was an even bigger procrastinator than me, and was on the verge of being kicked out of college, so this surprised me. He concurred.

“Dude, I never would have gotten this paper done if I hadn’t gone to that cafe” he chuckled to me. “They literally made me finish writing it, it was exactly what I needed haha.”

Apparently, slacker James had discovered a cafe in our city that catered specifically to writers. So much so that it encouraged people, in whatever ways it could, to put pen to paper and complete their projects. I knew that writers often camped out in cafes like Starbucks and occupied tables with their laptops and notebooks for far too long. Such was the cliche.

But an actual dedicated cafe for writers? That made a lot more sense. I figured this was what I’d been waiting for my whole life. If this place couldn’t make me reach the end of a manuscript, then nothing could.

I arrived at the location James gave me on a Saturday morning, Macbook in hand. The cafe looked fairly small from the outside, situated entirely indoors and between two other buildings.

Printed above the door was a quaint sign saying “Final Draft Cafe” with Japanese lettering beneath it. 

Upon entering the glass door to the cafe, I was quickly met by a friendly server with black hair in a white shirt.

“Are you here to write?” she asked warmly, smiling and eyeing my laptop.

“Yes” I replied, taking in the cozy interiors of the surprisingly spacious cafe. 

It was mostly empty but had several people dotted throughout it, each either at a booth or a small table, typing away next to half-sipped mugs. Some of this crowd really lived up the stereotype of earthy writers with how dishevelled they looked, I noted to myself. Almost no one registered my presence as my server led me to my booth.

Equipped with a charging dock, spare pens and cute plush handrests, the wooden booth was the perfect place for me to write in. The odds of me finishing my story were already going up. As I got set up to write, the chipper server handed me a paper card to fill out.

If only I knew how much power that little slip of paper would hold, I would have written something very different. Hell, I would have tore it up and walked out right then.

“Please fill out this questionnaire before starting” the server gently requested. “This will allow us to help you in achieving your goal.”

The paper asked me to specify three specifications for while I was here: what I wanted to write, how long I wanted that writing to be, and how intense I wanted my motivational reminders to be.

I had already decided that I wanted to write a novella I’d long dreamt of—a story about a young would-be sailor who is stranded at sea when his ship capsizes. The ocean had always enchanted me. I would title it “Not a Drop to Drink”. I wanted it to be at least 20,000 words.

As for the last question, I thought it was a joke. Of the options “Mild”, “Moderate” and “Strong”, I randomly picked “Moderate” because I honestly thought it wouldn’t matter. A “motivational reminder” from a cafe server wasn’t going to make or break my story.

With that, I handed the form back to the server, ordered a matcha latte and started writing. For me, the first bursts of story were always the easiest. It was engrossing to recount the first act of young protagonist Drago, who sets out to prove himself on the high seas before running into a massive, inescapable storm.

But, after a few hours of this commitment, the inevitable happened and my attention started to drift. I lazily started looking around the cafe at the other writers, intently tapping away like their lives depended on it. Maybe if I just scrolled on my phone for a bit, my inspiration would return…

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?!”

I whirled up from my phone to see the server from before screaming at me. 

“You are here to write, idiot, not play on your phone!” she roared, snatching my phone from me. “This is why you’re a worthless failure who has never finished anything. Don’t you want to write something for once instead of being a disappointment?!”

I was speechless as she left the table with my empty dishes and phone. This was so absurd it had to be a joke, right? I looked to my left, at the booth with someone in it.

“Can you believe that?” I asked, stunned.

“You really have no idea, do you?” the bearded man muttered in a weary voice, not even looking up from his screen. The middle-aged gent was wearing a suit, yet looked a million miles from put together. He was covered in coffee stains, had bags under his eyes and wore the faint scent of urine.

“Uh, what do yo-”

“What did you think you were signing up for? This cafe really doesn’t let you leave, pal. Not until you’ve finished whatever it is you’re writing.”

Panic reaching me, I stood up and spun around the room. I could see those same rundown traits in the other writers now, faces of prisoners instead of patrons. Without even grabbing my laptop, I ran for the door, colliding with its glass frame with a loud thunk.

It didn’t even budge. Nor did the windows when I desperately pounded on them. Nor did the door to the kitchen when I tried the same. How could no one be able to break out of here? It was a tiny and homely cafe, not Fort Knox prison

“Doing that won’t work, we’re stuck in here” sighed a woman nearest to the door, slouched at a computer under a head of frizzled hair. “Just write your story. At least you didn’t promise to write the next Jane Austin novel”—she gestured to her smudged screen bitterly.

In a daze, I sat back down at my booth. Hopelessly, I tried to comprehend the impossible situation I had signed my way into.

“I’ve been here for a year, I think” said the man next to me, solidifying my horror. “A whole damn novel, I said I’d write. I’d never written anything before this. I watched one stupid sci-fi movie, got inspired, and thought this cafe would be the answer. Like you, I didn’t think they’d really keep me here.”

He finally broke eyesight with his screen, looking me up and down. Then he asked me what writing commitments I’d promised to the cafe.

“20,000 words? Oh, that’s better, especially since you’ve written before. Still not as easy as the yuppies who pledge to write 500 words. They breeze in and out of here like it’s nothing. Most don’t even learn of the prison that this place really is. Lucky bastards.”

His wistful words were interrupted by a server softly reminding him to keep writing.

“Hi sir, you should probably be getting back your novel now” she whispered politely. “We can’t wait to read it.” 

I couldn’t believe how differently my booth neighbour was being treated versus the earful I’d gotten—until I remembered, of course, that I’d selected “Moderate” reminders. He, on the other hand, likely selected “Mild” ones. A small mercy for him at least.

My fugue state continued on for days. I begrudgingly ordered food and drinks, used my hand rest as a pillow to sleep at my booth, used the tiny cafe bathroom, pleaded with the staff to be let out—between rants from them to me. The restaurant never closed and the servers never seemed to leave. Wherever the inside of this restaurant was, it was a parallel world to the outside world.

These dressing downs of me from the servers were getting nastier and more personal. Despite this, I still couldn’t bring myself to write. But it was nowhere near as awful as the treatment of those who put down “Strong” motivation on their form.

Those people, when their time for “motivational reminders” came, were beaten with kitchen tools, had their workspaces roughed up and were even denied the teacakes and tea they lived off of. Bloodstains replaced coffee stains on their clothes. We received these reminders every few hours. I didn’t want to have to watch these people die here. My character Drago didn’t want to watch his crewmates drown, and that’s why he swam for land. 

That was the motivation I needed.

Words started pouring out of me onto my Word document for “Not a Drop to Drink”. First I’d written a hundred, then five hundred, then a thousand, then ten thousand. Time had less and less meaning, although days were certainly continuing to pass. For energy, I chugged every beverage on the menu, from black teas to espresso shots to Red Bull cans. In a little over a week, I’d somehow finished the first draft of my story.

All throughout this time, I saw the occasional new person come and go from the cafe. These newcomers were probably here to write some flash fiction short story, probably regarding my filthy haywire state with the same distaste that I had everyone else initially. They came and went the same day—some leaving after being shouted at, like me, but no worse for the wear. I didn’t even think about trying to escape through the door when it opened for them.

My only salvation would be through what I put on the page.

Editing my story took half the time that it did to write it. All the pieces of it were just coming together and it was practically finishing itself. And then, at long last, my final draft was finished. 20,000 words. 3 weeks. All done.

Summoning my server over to me, I waited hesitantly while she assessed my story. She skimmed the entire thing in just a minute, and yet seemed to have internalised the whole draft. Smiling, she handed my questionnaire form back to my trembling hand, the Completion box at the bottom marked with a tick.

“Congratulations, sir” she smiled, amiable as she’d been the first day. “Your story is wonderful. It evoked Life of Pi with hints of The Odyssey. The resolution of Drago was very satisfying and his character arc was a narrative strong point. Please come back if you ever need help writing a sequel.” 

Shuddering at her words, I didn’t look back at her or the imprisoned writers as I stepped out of the cafe into the beaming sunlight on the street. The brightness outside made me squint after a month inside. The glass door shut behind me and suddenly I had no proof of what I went through. Except for the novella I’d written.

Writing down the events of what happened in Final Draft came easily to me, even while sitting free at home instead of imprisoned at the cafe. I’m not sure how long this creative flow will last, but at least it allowed me to share my experiences. Of my two works, this is the one I want to publish.

At the end of my novella, thirsty shipwreck survivor Drago, upon being finally rescued from his open sea ordeal, immediately drinks an entire galley full of beverages.

Not that long ago, family vloggers had the adoring attention of the Internet.

But we don’t anymore, unfortunately.

Nowadays, all people do is hate on family vloggers. It started with critical videos from commentary channels, questioning the ethics of documenting our daily lives online. Then it snowballed into news reports accusing us of exploitation and hypocrisy behind the scenes. And now there’s legislation coming into effect to expand child labour laws to us vlogging our children.

Hate for creators like us, The ROCK Family channel, is at an all-time high...

“Hey there ROCK nation! Today, me, Odette, Caitlin and Kieran are gonna be opening some awesome gifts from our sponso-”

Beeeeeeeep.

Right as we’re beginning to film a family unboxing video together upstairs, the house alarm starts blaring.

My wife Odette turns to me in confusion while our kids dramatically cover their ears.

“Russell, did you tinker with the alarm today?” she yells to me over the sound.

“No!” I shout back in panic. “S-someone’s triggered it…someone’s broken into our home!”

We spring up at once. While I run to shut off the alarm, Odette grabs the camera with trembling hands, Caitlin hides under the bed and Kieran runs towards the intrusion.

“Stop, Kieran, come back!” screams Odette hysterically. Quickly, I grab a weapon from the bedside table and sprint after him.

Odette and I reach the landing and peer down to see that Kieran is nowhere to be found. Standing at the foot of the stairs, however, is a ragged and unstable-looking man—holding a pistol.

“He’s got a gun!” I gasp.

“Oh gosh daddy, is he going to kill us?!” calls Caitlin’s terrified voice from the room.

“G-get out of our house! S-stay away from our family!” Odette shouts fearfully at the steely intruder.

Suddenly, Kieran appears behind the man. The armed vagrant begins to move towards him with the gun.

“No, don’t hurt him!” I scream and open fire on the invader. Three bullets pierce him and he goes down.

Cautiously, I approach the stranger and kick the gun away.

“Christ, h-he’s dead. It looks like he broke in here to…Odette, put that camera down and call 911!”.

She complies and switches it off.

…

A grin spreads across my face at once. Satisfied, we all break out into excited cheers.

“Amazing acting everyone, our plan went perfectly” I beam.

And it really did.

The harmless, mute homeless man from the park we’d invited over had come. As requested, he’d entered through the unlocked front door. A gloved Kieran had run downstairs and tossed a second gun into the man’s hands, out of frame. And Odette had captured the entire stand-your-ground shooting on video to post online for clicks and sympathy.

Not that long ago, family vloggers had the adoring attention of the Internet.

“Do you know what special day it is today?”

God, that mind-numbing question again. The same one I’ve gotten almost daily over the years I’ve lived with my irritating boyfriend.

I half-heartedly shrug at Herbert, returning my attention to the TV. He sighs with disappointment before perking up again.

“Iiiit’s…International Pancake Day!” he exclaims to my annoyance.

Okay, so today it’s International Pancake Day. And before that it was International Napping Day, or International Limerick Day, or International Richter Scale Day, or International Dance Like a Chicken Day. There was always some meaningless novelty holiday for him to celebrate and tell me about.

“Get your coat on, buddy, we’re going to IHOP” he giddily declares, switching off my TV show.

“Are you serious, dude?” I protest. “It’s like 10pm already”.

“Come on—it’ll be my treat.”

Well, I wasn’t gonna say no to free food. Say what you will about Herbert, but he was always great for sponging off of.

By the time we get to our local IHOP diner, it’s empty besides us and one underpaid server behind the counter. Delighted that they’re still open, Herbert grabs us a booth.

For once, I think of telling my excitable boyfriend how contrived all these “holidays” are, how treating every day as a special event cheapens the meaning of actual holidays. But instead, I shut my mouth and pour myself some of the free coffee Herbert collected from the counter.

“You know, Chad, I was pretty unhappy that you forgot what day today is” he tells me with uncharacteristic coldness.

“Yeesh, sorry for not having…365 days of…novelty shit…memorised…”

Sudden tiredness slows my words. I look at the drugged coffee I just drank and then at Herbert’s ominous face. And then I lose consciousness.

When I come to, I see that I’ve been tied up in the diner kitchen by my crazed boyfriend. The lights are off throughout the empty restaurant, the lone server knocked out on the ground, while heat radiates from the hot grill.

“Why, man?!” I plead. “What about your pancakes for International Pancake Day?!”

“It’s not International Pancake Day today, you idiot!” screeches Herbert. “International Pancake Day is on March 4th!”

“What is it then—International Face-Melting Day?! What worthless holiday did I forget now?!”

“It’s my birthday today! You forgot my birthday again!”

Oh.

It started with simple, awkward compliments about my body.

“Your legs look great in those jeans, Alyson!” Holden would tell me as I walked past him in the hall. I would smile reservedly and offer a forced thanks to my neighbour before hurrying down the stairs of our apartment building.

Then the comments became more brazen. He started calling me “sexy” and “voluptuous” and insisted on nicknames like “honey” and “sugar”. I’d duck my head and pretend not to hear him, or laugh nervously. But he didn’t take the hint.

Eventually, he was telling me about the ways he could please me physically, enquiring about the men I’d been with and begging to sleep with me. Even though I’d started pushing back and asking him to stop, it made little difference.

So, I gradually began altering my behaviour. I left my apartment less often, worked from home as much as possible and barely got out of bed.

Honestly, it was the best I had felt in months.

“Bed rotting”, I learned, was the hip name for this trend of prioritising your own mental health by staying in bed all day and avoiding stressful triggers beyond it. In my case, instead of work or chores, it was a harasser.

I watched Netflix on TV, had DoorDash delivered to my door and played with my Switch all day. And I felt good, safe from leering in my cozy blanket fortress.

I felt so good, in fact, that I didn’t initially notice my new condition.

The first few marks I wrote off as mild bedsores. But when the black, necrotic rash spread across my torso and began to cover it, my alarm grew. It was like the flesh was literally rotting off my abdomen—while I was still alive.

Weeks of ER visits and trips to specialists ensued, yielding no answer for my permanent, mysterious decomposition. No medical ones anyway. I knew it wasn’t gangrene or infection.

It was bed rotting.

Returning to my apartment, I knew that there was no life for me outside it now. So, I did something I never thought I’d do.

I accepted Holden’s advances.

That night, I put on a modest dress, sprayed myself with nice perfume and went out for drinks with him. We returned to my apartment and I asked him inside.

Thrilled by the chance to finally bed me, Holden didn’t mind me flicking off the lights. Minutes of lovemaking ensued before his revolted realisation set in.

“Euuuggggggh!”

Lights flickering on, he sat bolt upright and spat out a chunk of my rotted flesh, registering the decayed body he’d slept with. Vomiting and scrubbing in vain. He might get the taste out of his mouth and the scent off his skin, but he’ll never get the sight out of his mind.