Coffee Lover

"He could list off the best coffee grinder brands in his sleep. He could talk origins and roasting times and temperatures. He could make the best cup of coffee you'd ever tasted in your whole life. But when you asked him what his favorite was, you know what he'd say?" 
"What, Mom?" 
"He'd say, 'oh, no, I don't drink coffee. Never really liked it all that much. Just learned how to make it on account of my wife. She's a real coffee nut.'" 
"I guess that's the meaning of true love, then, huh?" 
"I guess so. Behind every successful woman is a man who makes her coffee."

Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompts: 'But First...' and 'Famous Duos'


She wept, sometimes, when she thought of the library of Alexandria.
She could not bear the thought of all that beauty and wisdom, the treasure of ages, destroyed through carelessness.
The books surrounding her held the majority of her own small treasures. The dusty smell of old covers and disintegrating spines and the welcoming crinkle of turning pages spoke to her of riches. Things like the unimaginable blue of skies, and the painter's pallets of sunrise and sunset. Stars, sun, moon, and the wheeling planets. Clouds and mountains and grass. Smiles and flower fields.
She traced these sights with delicate fingers, turning with care the fragile pages that she would never be able to see.

Written in response to Art Stew 52 prompt: 'Vellichor'

The Boy and the Flying Machine; A Short Story

He fell from the sky, one rain-lashed night, slipping through the clouds on tattered wings.

He called himself Ashari.

He was long and lean and tawny-colored. He couldn't have been much older than I was, but he knew about things. In that soft, strong voice of his, he spoke of a world I'd never seen. Of mountains and waterfalls, and plains that stretched, like the sea, for as far as the eye could reach and rippled in shades of brown and green. 
His dialect was strange to me at first, but as I sat, hour after hour, and listened to his stories, I grew accustomed to hearing him. He spoke in pictures, sometimes, describing the words that held no meaning for me, drawing images in the air with grease-splattered hands. It was good to sit and hear about distant lands. It was good to forget, for a while, the troubles of my own small life and the dark memories of the nights.

But that, of course, was after.
When he arrived in the village, no-one dared approach the flying machine. There wa…


I am the one who perches precariously on the edges of life.

Always second-guessing. Always keeping my options open. Always with some escape hatch in the back of my mind.

Just in case.

And you? You're the one who comes along and pushes me off the edge.

You're the one who trusts my instincts, even when I'm in the midst of explaining that I really can't swim.

A firm shove in the small of my back.

A terrifying rush of empty space.

And suddenly, there I am, in too deep...and swimming.

And, as my head breaks the surface and I realize that I haven't drowned, I look up, catch the twinkle in your eye, and laugh.

Written in response to this prompt.

Saturday Morning at the Beach


One Morning at Stein's Pawnshop; A Short Story

The bell above the door had long ago ceased to fulfill its purpose in life. Instead, it was a broadening shaft of morning sun let in by the opening door that caught Stein's attention. Reflexively adopting a tough expression, he looked up to see who'd come in.
"Oh." His harshness melted a little at the edges. "It's you, Peg."
"It's me." Peg confirmed. She stepped forward, and the sun made a momentary halo of her yellow curls before the door closed and shut it off. 
Stein noticed, with apprehension, that her hands were trembling slightly, as they always did when she was preparing herself for something. "Look, you're a good girl, Peg," he said, hurriedly, "but if it's about that job. Well, I've already given you my answer and it's final. This shop can barely support me and the boy."

"I said I wouldn't ask you again an' I won't." Peg drew a deep breath, bracing herself.

Don't you le…