Quience please.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The coffee shop was warm and cosy-looking. The tables were populated with people. The Scandinavian-type interiors were made of natural materials and the floor to ceiling windows let in the natural light from outside. It was almost as if the place was made from the very forest it was located in. Yet something about it seemed so out of place. With the low-hanging lamps over the tables made of red-birch and the temperature of the indoor establishment being a lot more accommodating than that of the forest that could be seen through the wall made of windows. "Hi, what can I get you?" She turned to look at the guy behind the counter. "Yes, could I get a cappuccino please?" "One cappuccino. Anything else?" "No thank you." He nodded curtly and turned around to make the coffee. She continued to look around at the cafe. She couldn't believe this place. There was even an upstairs. She stepped backwards to peek up at the people sitting on the upper deck. How can all these people just be sitting here sipping coffee and engaging in conversation? After what was out there... "Here ya go. One cappuccino." He set the cup down onto the counter. She stared at the red cup with the logo of a tree. "That'll be two ninety-five," he says, smiling and leaning down to make eye contact. "Ohh..." she says, pulling out her purse. "I'm sorry." "Are you alright?" he asks. "Yeah," she says, uncertainly. "It's just... I was out there a while." She puts some coins down onto the counter. "Yeah?" he says curiously, sweeping the coins onto his palm. "And..." She wasn't sure how to put it. "How are all these people so... casual? Sitting in here sipping their drinks like there aren't all those... things lurking around out there?" The barista smiled again. "Well. Let me tell you a little something about this forest… and this cafe.” His voice hushed and he briefly looked around. "These people aren't drinking cappuccino. Or latte. Or any of those drinks. To be able to handle what's out there, you need something a little ...stronger." "Stronger?" she enquires. "Something a little more... creative." "I don't understand, what – “ “Hold on,” said the barista. “Hey, what can I getya?” Another girl had just stepped up to the counter. She was quite warmly dressed, as it was autumn, but her clothes bore earthly tones and her spectacles were round and thick-rimmed. She saw the barista jerking his head towards the spectacled girl as she made her order. "Can I get a duo skinny hazelnut macchiato?" requested the girl, adjusting her spectacles. She watched as the barista said "sure thing" and set to work on making the other girl's drink. He used various tools and instruments; frothed milk in two separate cups, ground the coffee beans - that didn't really look like normal coffee beans at all - in some antique looking contraption that belonged in some black and white film, poured some thin, clear liquid from a tall, ornate-looking glass bottle, dropped in a couple of dice-sized cubes of chocolate from a jar in the refrigerator, finally ripped open a small white sachet and sprinkled some scarlet red powder onto a cloud of whipped cream before closing the cup with a plastic lid. She was astonished. He hadn't done half of this work to make her cappuccino, and it was all a routine that he seemed very fluent with. After the other girl had paid and gone, he looked at her and smiled. "So what can I get you?" he asked, smiling.

A new collaborative literature blog with poetry, short stories & flash fiction. Check it out!

He rides through the night like a wild stallion. Only ten minutes remain. He flies through Chinatown, his scooter roaring as he whirls past open-air fish markets, restaurants with roasted duck in the window and row after row of red paper lanterns overhead. His white helmet gleams in the colours of the night. He is on a mission. He pulls left into a dark alley populated with trash bags and fire escapes scaling up the walls of walk-ups. He parks the scooter on the side of alley, next to a dumpster and some street art. He dismounts and hastily opens the box at the back of the scooter. He pulls out a manilla envelope, thick with weight and quite heavy looking. He puts it under his arm as he jogs over to a hidden door in the wall. The dark green colour camoflauged amongest the bricks and graffitti. He raps on the door. A crackling voice comes from an intercom by the side. Password? It calls. Hamlet, he calls out from under his helmet. What? says the other voice. Oh man. He hurriedly removes the motorcycle helmet and calls out the password again.  There is a pause. Then a loud buzzing sound as the door opens a little. He rushes through the door and up the flight of stairs lit by the red light resembling that of a photography dark room. He checks his watch. Four minutes remain. He made it in good time. At the top of the stairs, he makes a left by the reception desk and into the large room straight ahead. It is when he is about to go up to the desk to return the book that he realizes that he has forgotten his library card.

He takes off his snow-covered gear and settles into an armchair. Welcome home.

The river was calm and serene. The anger management sessions had paid off.

The car hums silently as it cruises down the highway. A black muscle car, as black as the night. The headlights enlighten the road ahead. The three occupants inside the car gaze silently out of the window panes. The silent one, the fearful one and the one that has been here before. Here, in the darkness. A sign comes into view. The sign with the x. Somewhat like an irritant chemical symbol. It shoots past. The scared one anxiously shifts in his seat. Buckle up, says the one driving. The one who has been here before. The other two fasten their seatbelts. Their gazes fearful and distant. The one driving gently speeds the car up. His eyes squinting, focused on the road ahead. Remnants of memories resurface. This road is all too familiar, he thinks. This road, this darkness. The car continues to accelerate. The one driving shifts into fifth. Then, out of the darkness, dark fog approaches. The fearful one peers out of the window at it. The fog slowly shifts. It begins to close in towards the moving car. The fearful one looks at the flowing, swirling fog through the dark windows. Even against the dark night sky, he can see it. It rolls in wispy swirls almost like smoke. The scared one shivers, waiting for the one driving to say something. But he says nothing. He doesn't even look at his fearful companion nor at the approaching fog. He merely keeps his focused eyes on the road. The fog gradually begins to cover the car. The windows become even darker. Covered by the ebony mist. Then, as if all at once, complete darkness. The windshield blacks out entirely. As do the windows. The light from the headlights vanishes. The car still seems to be moving, but is it? The occupants, engulfed in the darkness, turn on the overhead lights. The two who have never experienced this before look at the one driving. He is still focused on the road that isn't there. The other two look at each other. Then they gaze out at the oblivious darkness. Somehow, now it is darker than it was before. The only light coming from the inside of the car. The only sound the humming engine. The car continues to move. Through the void of darkness. Then, a light. A speck of light somewhere far ahead. They all stare at it through the dark windshield. What is that? Says the one who is scared. Then the one driving turns to him. And tells him that it is the end of darkness. They drive straight towards it. On some road that it is invisible. Or perhaps too dark to see. The speck of light gets closer. And bigger in size. Now a spot of light. Against the mysterious darkness around. They get closer to the light. The spot grows into a circle. Then a bigger circle. It continues to expand. They are unsure whether it is actually them getting closer, or it is just the light getting bigger. Or both. Either way, the light enlargens so far that the circle spreads out to the edges of the windshield. The car continues to thrust forward. Now, it seems, that they are getting faster. As if the circle of light is sucking them in. Faster and faster. Then, with a sudden lurch, the car lifts off the ground. It lifts up from the rear, pushing the hood down towards the dark or invisible road. The three inside jerk back in their seats. The car flies through the darkness and through into the blinding light.

The moon shone brightly above the dark forest as the night stood still and quiet. The moon was tired; and after ten hours, it couldn't wait to get off work and go home. Only two hours until its shift ended.

​ In the darkness I see him; tall and skinny with a wide-brimmed hat and a scarf wrapped around his whole face save for his eyes. He walks towards me into the light and I see his long brown coat and long brown boots and brown gloves and the scarf that is around his face is grey lined with yellow and it is really long and it dangles from his neck down to his ankles. He continues walking towards me as I stand watching his long scarf swaying slightly, hearing the sharp tapping sounds of his boots against the concrete. As he approaches I know that his name is Murbank and as he fades away into the darkness I realize he is imaginary.

As you walk down the busy street, you know you are being followed by a mysterious hooded figure. You have known it for a while. You glimpse it in a shop reflection; a hunched form wearing red hooded robes that conceal its face in a dark shadow. Long, sloth-like claws protrude from the dangling sleeves. You hear a low grumble as it shuffles creepily after you. You walk briskly at a medium pace, hoping it's friendly.

He solved it and slammed it down onto the desk. They all looked at the Rubik’s cube as if he had just given birth to it. ‘Voila,’ he said. 'How did you do that so quickly?’ one said through an expression of profound amazement. She looked at him, but he had vanished. The elaborately-decorated chair he had been sitting in was empty, giving no sign that there had been a person - or something else - in it only moments earlier. They all turned to gaze at the vacant chair. They exchanged looks of confusion and horror. 'Where did he go?’ someone whispered weakly. They all turned to look at the only evidence of his recent presence, the Rubik’s cube. It had also disappeared.

The plump man of Arabian origin with pink blinds hanging in front of his face. He was very colourful with a large patchwork hat and silk ribbons in his hair and his piercing blue eyes. He tried to pull up the blinds tugging and pulling on the thread they kept getting stuck I wondered why he was wearing them. He told me to read and afterwards stared at me with those fluorescent eyes like rings of hot ice. He began to unwind the silk ribbons and remove his patchwork hat and just as he lifted it up over his head I woke up.

The sun set in the late afternoon sky.
Then it realised it forgot something and came back up.

The cactus stood solemnly in the desert. It was a still and quiet day under the scorching sun. The cactus watched the barren, godforsaken landscape, as he had everyday for years. His aged body now covered in long prickles. His skin now as dry as the desert itself. He had, after so long, become a part of the desert; just as much as the sand and the rocks. He was the desert. A soft, warm breeze traversed the sand and blew across the cactus’ face. He watched as a tumbleweed approached, carried by the desert wind. It rolled and bounced lightly over the rocks and sand. The cactus and the tumbleweed exchanged nods in passing. The cactus after being in this desert for over thirty-five years, had given up on any hope of leaving this barren landscape whatsoever. The tumbleweed, however, was going places.