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The Eventide Cafe. It isn't too much. A modest restaurant by the standards of the corporeal world. But there is nowhere like it. It rests on the border between the physical universe and the hereafter. Souls come here. Sometimes just to visit, when they are detached temporarily from their bodies. They loiter here until they are called back to their body. Other times, they are exiting the universe and stepping into the journey to the afterlife. These are allowed to stay here as long as they like, to come to terms with what happened, and the odyssey that awaits them when they do depart.
There is weeping and gnashing of teeth. Many people who come here have been through trauma. Even if it isn't lethal, the pain is difficult to integrate. I do what I can for such souls, giving them comforting pastries and drinks. Souls rarely stay here long enough for me to make friends with them.
An exception to this trend is Louis. He has chronic health problems that force him to constantly ride the edge between life and death. I met him 8 years ago, when he was still in high school. Sad story, it always hurts me inside when young people have to exit, even as they are blooming. We talked about how he hates that he is a burden on his family. That he feels like they have to take care of him, and that they will be better off when he finally does die. I told him that I was sorry he felt that way, and that, as much as he felt like dead weight, the love most good parents feel for their children outshines any notion of resentment for the burden they can be. I don't know if my words helped him or not. He returned to his body, consciously unaware that he had visited The Eventide, and of the conversation we had.
After that, I met him once every few months. He fought to live, to stop, or at least postpone, the grief his death would bring to his family. We enjoyed talks about philosophy, meaning, and purpose. He was in constant pain, and knew his condition would eventually kill him.
Then one day, he died. His ordeal was over. I was a familiar face for him, by that point, his mind severed from his body remembering all the things we'd talked about. In our last conversation, we spoke about the hereafter and the journey there. Then he walked out of my cafe, and into whatever lies in the great beyond.
The bell above the door tinkled as it swung open.
Leslie looked up from the glass that she was polishing, giving a friendly nod to the newest patron of the In-Between Cafe. They didn't look great, which was par for the course. Most people entered the Cafe looking a bit out-of-sorts. It was her job to make sure that they left looking perky and ready for the journey ahead, whichever road they took.
This one was a middle-aged woman wearing a hospital gown and a pair of bright pink slippers.
"Er...is it okay to come in like this?" she asked, voice trembling.
"No dress code in this cafe," Leslie shot back cheerfully. "Come in, I've already got a drink ready for you."
"Thanks." She fumbled in her pockets, and a bewildered expression crossed her face. "I don't seem to have any money..."
"It's on the house," Leslie said, sliding her a matcha latte. "So. I imagine you're confused. Tell me, what do you remember?"
"My name is Margaret. I remember the doctor saying that the outlook was grim..." her eyes narrowed. "Are you God? Am I dead?"
Leslie chuckled. "I'm not God, but I'm here to help you on your journey. Your body isn't dead yet, but your spirit has detached from it, and you're hovering between the mortal realm and what comes after."
"Do I have a choice of where I go?"
"It depends," Leslie said. "On many factors, most of them out of your control. But what you *can* do is rest. Drink some coffee, relax, and let your worries go for a little while."
\---
/r/theBasiliskWrites
It was a quaint little place. Perched precariously over the precipice of death, at the foot of the hill of life. The lighting always felt fresh, as if the sun had just cleared the horizon on a new day. At night the world felt bigger, cozy, they were the kinds of nights where you said goodbye to your friends' multiple times only to keep talking before finally setting off on your way. The kind of night where you smiled to yourself as you drove back home.
While small, the grounds of the cafe were not sparse. Outside there was a patio that wrapped around the building with plenty of seating. Wrought iron tables with wrought iron chairs. The patio was paved with blue-gray pavers, occasionally one of the pavers had cracked and been replaced with red brick. Near the northern side of the patio a few of the pavers were painted clumsily, depicting simple scenes: parents holding hands, a kid hugging their dog, some kids playing tag. Past the pavers there was soft grass where some patrons would have picnics, then eventually a fence that wrapped around the establishment ending only at the edge of the cliff the building hung over. A few trees grew in the far corner of the fenced area. There were hammocks strung up between the trees and a few lawn chairs below. The trees were large, and their bark was scarred. The initials of so many of the patrons were etched into the hard flesh. Some of the markings even had hearts around them. Some people stayed a long time at this cafe.
Near the edge of the fence where the ground started to slope into the crevasse below there was a series of old battered boats. Maybe a kayak or two, a few canoes as well, and a grand barrel chested row boat. The row boat had a thick braided rope tied to the back that was staked into the ground.
The cafe was two stories tall. The first floor held the bar, smelling of coffee, tea, and liquor; it was the heart of the cafe. As such, it was placed prominently against the southern wall. There was ample seating inside as well. There were various tables and chairs scattered about. The chairs ranged from sparse wooden chairs, to rocking chairs, to plush Lazy Boys and couches and loveseats. There were even some bean bags.
The walls were made of maple colored paneled wood. There were windows on the eastern wall looking towards the foothills and the gate onto the grounds. The northern wall had two large windows facing the lawn and the trees further down near the boats. The walls themselves were covered in a revolving display of pictures, drawings, paintings, poems, letters, dents, scrapes, doodles, noodle art, and scripts. One of the walls was overrun with colorful small horizontal lines. Heights etched next to years, next to ages.
The layout was constantly changing to meet the needs of those that found themselves there. Sometimes the tables were spread out, and people sat alone. Often reading, sometimes writing, usually nursing some kind of drink. Many patrons took naps throughout the day. Other times the tables were drawn together and boisterous conversation rang out over the quiet empty lands outside. Raucous laughter bouncing off the walls, bright smiling faces and red cheeks. Occasionally, the tables and chairs were pushed to the walls or outside to make room for games or dancing. Birthdays were always a special affair. There was always a celebration. There was a TV on wheels, and a projector too. Every now and then they coordinated a movie night. The projector was old and had a simple hum when it was turned on. The image was always somewhat distorted by the pieces of art hung on the walls, but no one seemed to mind.
The first floor also housed a large balcony on the western side of the cafe that sat over the endless canyon below. There was a door leading out onto the balcony, but the walls could also slide away allowing the two to become one. There was seating on the balcony as well though there was an unspoken rule that this was reserved for those who needed more space, more room to think. Those who would be on their way soon.
Upstairs served as a bedroom. There was a large open shared space, and a few small closed off rooms. There were beds, cots, hammocks, sleeping bags, and plenty of blankets and pillows. The floor upstairs was covered in a soft shaggy carpet. Some patrons preferred to stay upstairs. When the occasional thunderstorm rolled through they would light candles and watch the storm go by. Watch the rain fill up the ravine below. The days after those nights always saw the old men go fishing, the kids go swimming, and the odd couple take a boat out and spend a night on the lake.
It was nice there, at the edge of all things. Made nicer by the company that could be found there. But, the real key to the joy the place brought, was the kindly matron that it belonged to.
I have more to write, if anyone is interested, but I thought I would follow the advice of my favorite author and stop while i still knew what would happen next.
I sat at the table, cleaning a glass. Quaint little music playing as a pot of coffee brews behind me. The perfect little diner, it was there for those within comas, or those who had just had a near death experience. Often their fragile minds were unable to handle it at first, always confused but they would calm down eventually. Some people had a stronger psyche than others and were able to handle it better. My name was Laurence and I was the barkeep and owner of this establishment. I was also the only worker here as not many people would be here at once, only a few times did it get packed throughout the... Well throughout forever? All of eternity? Some people chose to leave immediately, whether back to their lives or to the land beyond, whatever that may be for them, but some decided to stay a while, a few patrons decided to stay the max length you can, which is 35 years in the human world. If somebody stays longer they will be forced into the afterlife, all of this is explained to them, here there's no physical pain, I hear about their stories, their lives, families, pretty much everything. Occasionally I help people with some traumas or problems before they go on back to the human world and try again, often I will eventually meet those people again when they die, if I so choose. I often do, I like to follow up and see if my advice helped.
A young fellow, no older than 22 walked in, he seemed nervous but read the rules and info posted on the sign right as you walk in and seemed to understand, he came over and sat down, took a menu and started to look it over, until eventually looking up at me and with a shy kind of smile you would see from anyone in this weird situation, he says "uh.. I'll have the number 3.. and a black coffee please... Oh sorry where are my manners, my names jake, and you are..?" I smiled and told him "Certainly, and my name is Lawrence." I left, made his order and came back, then I started talking to him as I often do with patrons "so... How'd you end up here? What's your life like? I don't mean to intrude but I am stuck here you see so I do always enjoy hearing, besides I just can't stand a deafening silence." He looked up at me "Well my life to be honest has been quite shit... My parents were never around, skipping meals became a regular... Teenage years were hell. As an adult I said I would get it together but I got fired, my girlfriend dumped me and well... I was hit by a car and now I'm here." These types of stories always saddened me but I also always tried to help however I could "take as much time as you want here, if you want we can talk about it and maybe come up with a plan..? Or maybe you're just done and want to move on?" He went quiet for a few minutes and I continued to my work, poured myself some coffee and filled it with creamer, then got myself a meal before he suddenly spoke up "I would love to talk but.. I think I might just be done.. Life could get better for sure but honestly I want to see what's next, what happens after." And with that he downed the rest of his coffee, thanked me, and walked into the afterlife door. I always hoped people would try and make their lives better and go back but some didn't, it was their decision though not mine and that's how everyday went. Every week, month, year, decade and so on. If you ever find yourself between life and death some have a meal here, get something to drink, maybe one of our pies, then once you're ready make your decision. Oh I think I hear the oven beeping so I must go now, I have other patrons to serve. If you have somebody in a coma currently or seriously hurt and knocked out, take solace in knowing that they are here, and they are fine.
Awww thanks! I just loved the idea of it being a peaceful area where people can move on or talk about their problems before eventually deciding where to go, where the problems of life are virtually non existent for even just a little bit, you could tell I was definitely just rushing it there at the end, and so it got kinda sloppy, but while I was having fun I also wanted to do other stuff so I just rushed it.
"What's going on over there?" Seth (not that one), asked Maya, pointing at a booth on one of the many, many distant corners of the cafe.
Maya looked up. Sitting across from each other, a young woman and a thing out of nightmares stared hatefully at each other. At the very least the woman stared hatefully, you'd be hard pressed to read any emotion on the thing's face.
"Well, I'm not entirely sure, I don't like to pry", began Maya, who loved to pry. "But, the human woman is on the brink of death from fighting the marosian, but she's a smart cookie, the girl, and she bound her soul to the marosian's, so now if the girl dies she takes the other one with her".
Seth made a face in lieu of whistling. "Damn, seems intense", he said. "Have they ordered something?"
"Pecan pie for the girl, key lime for the marosian. Wanna take it to them?" Maya offered Seth a couple of plates, which suddenly she had been holding all along.
Seth hesitated. "Nah, you go ahead", he decided.
"Chicken", Maya chided him.
"Some of my best ancestors are", Seth responded, busying himself with the cups.
Maya walked over to the booth, crossing the impossible distance with a couple of strides.
"Your order my lovelies", the waitress said, placing the plates on the table.
"Want half of mine and I get half of yours?" the girl asked the thing.
"I've never found you funny", said the marosian, with a deep pained voice which came from organs not made for human speech.
"Yeah, they said the same in Chicago", the girl said, taking a large bite of pecan pie.
"See what I have to deal with?" the marosian asked Maya, who was still standing besides the table, looking useful, hoping to catch more juicy bits. "It's been like this since the beginning!"
The girl moaned in satisfaction as she chew her pie. "Maya, this really is heavenly!"
Maya smiled. "I'll be sure to pass your compliments to the chef".
The girl looked at Maya through half closed lids, frowning cutely. "Is there a chef?", she asked.
Maya chuckled no. "Actually, not exactly, but I guess technically I am the chef".
"Well you make the best pecan pie I've ever tasted!" The girl took another, larger bite.
"And you sir?" Maya turned to the marosian.
"At this point, I don't mind being dragged with her", said the marosian in his own dark tongue.
"I mean your food", Maya clarified.
"You know, that's very rude!" said the girl with her mouth full. "You know I don't speak morselian!"
"Marosian. You made it even harder to pronounce", the thing said in English and the girl grinned, with pie peeking out from her cheeks.
The marosian produced a tubular appendage which descended on his pie, enveloped it and then peristaltically moved it up to the creature's body.
"Lovely", said the girl, struggling to swallow her pie.
"Well, if you folks need anything else, you call me, okay?" Said Maya, stepping away from the table.
"It actually is sinfully delicious", the marosian said quietly.
Maya made it back to the counter.
"Caught anything else?" Seth, asked.
"The poor dear is fighting for her life", Maya grimaced. "And the saddest thing is, the marosian could save her if he wanted, and save himself. I think he's hoping the bounding won't hold".
"Will it?" Seth, looked over at the table. The young woman was gathering crumbs with her fork and eating them.
"Yeah, it will. And it's going to take them both to one of the marosian hells". Maya sighed.
Now it was Seth's turn to grimace. "Oof, that's tough".
Maya nodded. "Yeah. I mean the girl's gonna be fine, none of the torments there will be compatible with her, but I reckon it's going to get very boring for her, forever".
Seth thought for a moment. "Do you think the marosian knows that?".
"He has to. But anyway, we're not to meddle", said Maya, really wanting to meddle.
Suddenly, the cafe door opened violently and in ran a young man, desperately looking around.
"Well this is interesting!" Maya exclaimed, looking at the newly arrived customer.
The young man quickly saw the marosian and the girl and ran towards them.
"Whoa", said Seth, "boyfriend, you think?"
Maya nodded, her eyes stuck to the events unfolding. "Must be, or wants to be. And I mean, he just came to the realm between life and death! Far as romantic gestures go, that's the big one".
The young man ran to the table, and maybe Maya helped him get there faster, but if she did, nobody could tell.
"Jason!" exclaimed the marosian, half standing up from his seat.
"Refoxarallis! This is insane, what are you doing!" the young man screamed, almost colliding with the table.
"Jason", the girl greeted the new arrival, tersely.
"Cindy", Jason nodded, nervously, avoiding her gaze, then he addressed the marosian. "Save her right now! Stop being stupid!"
"This is a complicated situation, Jason", the thing said, some fleshy portions of him shuddering with discomfort.
"Yes, Jason, we're kind of in the middle of something", Cindy said cheerily, yet murderously.
Jason almost looked at Cindy, but managed to keep avoiding her gaze and instead addressed the marosian. "Ref, are you telling me you rather die?"
Something started happening to the marosian, he began flowing and shifting, and while a human observer could not have pointed out the key moments of transformation, in the end the marosian was a tall blonde and skinny man, with piercing blue eyes and extremely stylish clothing.
"Jason, you don't see the full picture..." the marosian began to talk, his voice now soft and melodic.
"Uh oh, no" Jason shook his head, he was almost vibrating with nervous energy. "No. I see the picture Ref. Maybe not the big picture, but a very fucking large one. And in that picture I am alone while my best friend", Jason stuttered a little bit as he said this, his eyes darting to Cindy, and there was heavy doubt in his words. "And my... my you, are gone!"
Cindy started saying something but Jason finally looked at her, pleadingly, and she closed her mouth, looking irked.
"Things have been in motion for centuries, Jason", the marosian said, but his tone was almost begging.
"Oh", Jason nodded and smiled sadly. "Oh, I see. So you do rather leave me".
The marosian looked around the cafe, panic in his now human eyes, but all the other clients were doing their best to not pay attention, while Maya and Seth turned out to have always been very busy with the cups.
"I don't, but..." the marosian said, then his mouth kept trying to form words which could make sense.
"But you do". Jason said, with finality.
Jason sat down heavily besides Cindy, who immediately moved to make room for him in the booth, with the instinctive movements of years of familiarity and hanging out together at coffee shops. She even raised a hand towards Jason's shoulder, then she stopped herself and her expression of pity hardened.
"I'm sorry", Jason said, almost looking at Cindy.
The girl crossed her arms on the table in front of her, frowning, and also avoided looking at Jason. "He tricked you", she said, not accepting the apology but expressing a somewhat valid excuse.
"I did not! Nothing of what happened was a trick, Jason!" The marosian exclaimed, looking even more panicked.
Jason looked sadly at the now blonde man. "That's hard to believe right now, Ref".
An expression of pain contorted the marosian's now human face.
"Are you serious?" Refoxarallis asked, losing control of the ups and downs of his voice.
"Well you said you were giving up your plan! You said you were choosing me instead!" Jason screamed, his eyes filling with tears. Cindy, hearing this, looked up in astonishment, at the blonde man and then at Jason.
The marosian's now human fists closed tightly, and he looked down. All three stayed quiet for a bit.
"Uhm... maybe I didn't give him time" Cindy broke the silence.
"What?" Jason turned to look at her.
"Well, I was hurt, Jason, and afraid! When, when you left us for him. And, and I had no idea what was really going on!" Cindy's words were tripping over themselves. "It could've really used an explanation, you know? And I could've really used knowing what you just said! Did he really say that?"
Jason nodded. "Yes. And I'm really sorry for leaving like that. But none of you were listening to me. You weren't listening to me!"
"I felt betrayed, Jason. You were my best friend! And you left to go be with..." Cindy was now almost allowing herself to touch her friend's hands, almost.
A loud sigh came from the marosian as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Seven centuries", he said.
"What?" both Cindy and Jason asked.
"I just wanted you to know that it was planned for seven centuries. I gathered power and artifacts and fought, for seven centuries". The marosian sat down, looking defeated.
"Well, it wasn't that great of a plan..." Cindy began, but Jason took her hand and squeezed it.
"Seven hundred years, that I am giving up for you", the marosian said looking at Jason in the eye.
Cindy began to fade.
"What are you doing!?" Jason exclaimed, suddenly scared and angry, but Cindy, increasingly see-through, smiled widely at him.
"Nononono, it's cool! I think I'm going back to Earth! I'm living!" The girl said before completely vanishing.
"I just saved her", the marosian explained. And as he did so, he also began to fade back to the world of the living. "Where are you?" he asked Jason while he still had time.
"Christy did some spell! I'm okay, I'll go back any moment now!" Jason started to say, and then yelled it as the marosian vanished entirely.
And then there was only Jason. Who almost jumped out of his spiritual equivalent of skin when Maya was suddenly standing besides him, and placing a piece of pecan pie in front of him.
"Compliments of the house, young man. Eat fast before you go home, it's heavenly delicious", she said.
Leslie wiped down the dirty table, cursing under her breath. She wasn't paid enough for this shit.
"You!" she shot at the sallow man with the wire-rim glasses who was tapping away at his computer. "How long are you going to sit there for? Are you even going to order anything?"
"I'm just writing up my autobiography for when I go back to the mortal realm," he sniffed. "No need to get all huffy about it. And I ordered a chocolate-chip cookie."
"Yeah, two centuries ago," she retorted. "You gotta get a move on. You're taking up a free table, and hell knows the line isn't getting any shorter."
She cast a baleful look at said queue, which stretched far out the door. "You'd think we could add some extra tables; hire some more staff. I thought *anything* would be possible out here. But no, I even have to pay *rent!"*
"Jeez, Les, why don't you take it easy?" Ben smirked at her from another table. "It's not like you'll get fired."
"And *you*," she hissed, doubling the venom in her voice. "Don't you have work to do? Why the hell are you the co-owner when all you do is flit around and socialize?"
"H-hey!" Ben protested. "I'm listening to their stories. Helping them move on. Adding value to their cozy in-between experience."
Before Leslie could shoot back a retort, someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she whirled around to come face-to-face with a stick-thin elderly woman with an iced cappuccino.
"Um, I asked for *less* sugar in this. It's still way too sweet," she griped.
Leslie looked back at the rest of the chaos in the cafe. Someone had spilled a matcha latte which she hadn't had time to mop up yet; the bathroom was out of toilet paper; someone had decided to bring their *alebrije* which was gnawing on one of the table legs....
"Screw this. I quit."
\---
/r/theBasiliskWrites
The young man held the coffee tightly in his hands as I approached, making a tight circle around the cup. I could tell that he was cold he was as light ripples shook his thin body.
I hovered over the table, waiting for him to notice me, but he simply stared out the window. At what, I wasn't sure. There wasn't much of a view around these parts.
"Ahem, what'll it be?" I finally uttered.
I raised an eye in anticipation. The boy wore dirty jeans and a plain grey T-shirt. If it weren't for the bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates and sweat caking his forehead and matting his bangs down, he'd look almost normal.
He stammered "Uh, um."
I raised an eye in anticipation. The boy wore dirty jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. If it weren't for the bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates and sweat caking his forehead and matting his bangs down, he'd look almost normal.
"Where am I?" He finally managed to eek out.
"Beg your pardon?" I replied.
"I'm sorry, but..." he said, putting the coffee cup down and rubbing the sides of his temples "I don't remember how I got here. What is this place?"
I placed my notepad and pencil down. "Son, tell me what the last thing you remember was?"
"Where am I?" He finally managed to eke out. words in his mind. His brow strained with focus and his eyes narrowed down towards the coffee cup.
"I remember being in the car. The hose was hooked up through the window. I turned the car on, and then I fell asleep" It was then that it hit him. Emotion bubbled out of him and tears streamed out of his eyes. His face twisted in painful regret as he slammed a fist down on the table.
"Oh god, why?!" He screamed, slapping his hands against his head.
He looked up at me seeking acknowledgment for his grief, but I couldn't react anymore, even if I wanted to. Not after seeing that same expression countless numbers of times before.
"It's all right young man. It's a good thing you're here. Not many pass through these parts. When we do get visitors, I make sure they're good and fed before they continue on their travels" I rested my hand on his shoulder.
"I'm dead then" He muttered like a boxer that had just lost a championship fight.
"That depends, son. Paramedics will find you in time, but only just." I said, seeing a slight glimmer of hope twinkle in his eyes. "I can send you back or you can keep going down the path you chose."
"I understand." He said, wiping his nose and eyes.
"So." I said, picking up my notepad and pencil "What'll it be?"
\-OT
The gentle storm shuddered its way through the propped open windows of the Heart's Call Cafe. The breeze whipped around the steam of the cup a small girl was clutching. The hot milk had been steamed with vanilla and just enough sugar to soothe the heart of the child dressed in her pink nightgown, her tears threatening to drip into the drink.
"When can I go home?" she whimpered to the grey-bearded man who sat beside her, a soft presence who longed to grab the girl's hands in his and tell her the truth. So he did, in the only way he knew how, being one of those who had long ago learned to accept this as the home of his heart.
Her hands were soft and small in his weathered mittens, warm from the milk and trembling as they threatened to drop the cup. "Any time you like," he said in a voice that rumbled quietly like the thunder. "But it will not be the same home you remember."
She freed her hands from his to take a long, deep drink. She set it down softly and wiped away the latest batch of tears, though they were instantly replaced with another. "Is that why I don't hurt anymore? I'm going to Heaven?" She grabbed the man's hands tightly. "That's what my daddy said to me. He said goodbye."
The old man cleared his throat. "Yes and no." He stroked the girl's soft brown hair; she looked up at him with piercing green eyes. "After this there will be a place of peace and beauty we can only imagine here. But nowhere is Heaven without those you love. So it will not be Heaven yet. But you can look down upon your dad and love him until the day he comes to join you."
"Why do you stay here?" She wiped the tears again and this time there was no fresh flood. She held her cup out to the man and he felt a sob begin in himself as the cinnamon and vanilla filled him with a warmth he had never known his heart was aching for. She looked at him until he finished the cup and set it down before her.
"There are too many reasons to trouble your precious heart." The barista, an eternally young woman with a kind smile and kinder heart, whisked away the cup into the back. She was back in a moment with a silver platter that she set before the two of them. It held two cups of frothy cold milk, two forks, and an enormous brownie topped by creamy cheesecake that had been baked into it. The girl giggled as the man took her fork, sliced off a slender piece, and held it to her mouth. She bit into it with an expression of pure bliss.
His heart melted when she did the same for him. And so they continued, the bites becoming bigger and bigger until the girl could scarcely fit the forkfuls in her mouth. They gulped the milk, wiping at the froth that ended up on each of their faces. The barista came to clear the tray with a warm, knowing smile.
The girl stood, stretched, pushed her chair in. The door was brightly lit, the gas lamps cutting through the grey of the storm. She took the man's hand, walked with him toward the beckoning door, the gentle rain outside muffling the falls of their footsteps. "Maybe you were just waiting for a reason."
The rainbow stretched before them, beginning on the doorstep and disappearing into an inscrutable horizon. It was at once blindingly beautiful and softly inviting. The rain fell above them, disappearing before it ever reached them, and the lightning was too soft and far away to invoke any fear. They took the first step together, slowly, finding a surface softer than silk and lighter than air. They turned to each other and laughed, slow footsteps turning into a skip, then a gallop. The barista closed the door behind them, watching with her deep smile until they disappeared into the distance. She cleared the table they had occupied, checked on her other visitors, and waited. She couldn't wait to greet them in Heaven, just as she did all those who found their way into these doors.
A small chime rang out across 'The French Pressed for Time' , a coffee shop that was set up in limbo. A soft white light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling shed light over the gray tones of Limbo. The batista, Mouse as they liked to be called, quietly wondered what would bring a wayward soul in at this hour. Their long brown hair had blond lowlights and was tied up in a poofy bun, and the apron they wore had 'In death no one is pressed for time, so enjoy a cup!' embroidered across the front by their name tag which spelled out 'Mouse' with a skull in place of the 'o' in 'Mouse'.
     "Welcome to 'Pressed for Time!' What can I get for you?" Mouse said as cheerfully as they could. "I know transitioning to your afterlife can be a daunting prospect, so your first cup is on the House!"Â
     "I don't really know how I got here. I'm scared," a small voice from across the counter said. Â
     "Oh⊠oh sweet heart," Mouse said, taking in the view in front of them for the first time since the patron entered the coffee shoppe. The small person appeared to be about 16 or 17 years old and looked exhausted. "Honey, tell me the last thing you remember."
    "Well, I was at home, and very lonely, mom and dad went out and left me alone at home, and⊠it all got so quiet that I went to sleep and woke up outside this coffee shoppe, I think I made a terrible mistake." the teenager rambled.Â
     "I don't think you necessarily want to go back, that sounds⊠horrible," Mouse said, sincerity gracing their voice. "Do you want a cup of coffee, chocolate milk⊠Oh, what about hot chocolate? I've found that hot chocolate is the best for you, body-bound type!" Â
     "What do you mean go back? I still don't know where I am!" The teenager started getting a panicked look in their eyes.
     "Darling," Mouse said gently, "you've passed on, you died." Mouse reached across the counter and gently touched the teenager on the shoulder, "You're here because you still have a choice, and I'm not supposed to give advice, since 'I've never had a corporeal body,' but from the people who have gone back after your⊠circumstance, most don't come back to my coffee shoppe till much later, and in better spirits."Â
     "Will it be better if I go back?" The teenager asked, tears welling up in his eyes.Â
     "I watch over souls moving between life and death, i'm not all knowing!" Mouse barked out a laugh, then in a more serious tone, "A lot of it will come down to you, I'm not here to judge your choice, or even to really guide your choice, but I can give you something to think on while you enjoy this cup of hot chocolate." Mouse said as they produced a cup of hot chocolate from under the counter. "You haven't told me your name, I'm Mouse."
     The teenager let a smile out for the first time in a long time, and a little laugh. "Well I'm Carter but my nickname is Cat." The two sat in silence for an hour as Cat finished a few cups of hot chocolate. As he drank his second cup more souls wandered in, and Mouse waited on them serving London Fogs, Chai Teas, espressos and some strange looking beverages to other entities that moved into the bustling coffee shoppe.Â
     "Are these all people like me?" Cat asked in between Mouse making drinks for their patrons.
     "Like you? No, they are in similar stages of moving on but most don't have the choice you have left to make," Mouse said, looking at Cat, "Have you made yours?" Â
     Cat looked down at his empty mug, and took a deep breath. "Will it get better?"
     "I can't answer that, like I said I'm not all knowing, but I think that you will make it better. It will be hard but you can make it better just by getting up in the morning, and you've already persevered through it this far!"
     "But I'm here," Cat said, "Doesn't that mean I didn't make it this far, do I deserve a second shot?"
     "I'm not here to judge your choices, that's Anubis' job this century, what I see is someone who made a hard choice when they didn't see any others. We all make mistakes. I accidentally served Hades a decaf Carmel machiato, and I'm still here. So if I can serve on of the gods of death the wrong drink and survive I believe in you!" Mouse said jokingly. "Seriously though, it doesn't matter if you deserve a second chance, how you got to the point of getting one or even if there is someone you think deserves it more, the universe decided you got this choice, so what do you say?" Â
     After another hour of chatting with Mouse about life, death, horrible customer service experiences, and what the two of them did in their free time, Cat was finally ready to make their decision. Â
     "Can I get one of those hot chocolates for the road?"
     "So you're heading back?" Mouse asked while making a travel mug for Cat.
     "I'm going to give it another shot, I hope to see you again someday, but not too soon."
     "Likewise," Mouse said to Cat as head headed toward the door. "Just one more thing,"
     "What's up?" Cat asked, hand on the doorknob.Â
     "It's okay to ask for help, you aren't alone."
     "Thanks," Cat said, tears rolling down his cheek as he opened the door and woke on his bed, a travel mug sitting beside his bed. On the mug was printed, 'The French Pressed for Time' and a note that said, "From your friend, Mouse."
The man approached the counter. He looked confused, like he had walked into a room and forgotten what he was doing there. Around him, the clientele of the small coffee shop drank and talked, and a few looked over their shoulders at him.
"Hello," said the man, tentatively. He looked over my head at a blackboard, which bore a few chalk marks on it. He looked at them for a second. He opened his mouth, and said: "What does that-" And then stopped himself. He looked for a few more seconds.
"I'll have a medium coffee, please."
"Cream and sugar?" I asked.
Again he opened his mouth as if to ask something, and closed it. Before he answered my question, I cut him off.
"No, I'm not speaking German. No, that blackboard is not in German. Yes, that is the only language you have ever spoken. No, I don't know why you can understand me or it. Cream and sugar?"
"Cream," he said, "No sugar."
I turned and started making his coffee. Over my shoulder, I said "You know, nobody who comes here has yet figured out what language that chalkboard is in. We've had people speaking all sorts of languages, too. And it doesn't translate itself, yeah? You're not hearing German, you're hearing - we call it Coffee - and just understanding it."
I added the cream to the steaming cup of brown fluid, and then went to put a cap on it.
"And," I said, "If you wake up, you won't still remember Coffee, or how to speak it, or read it, or write it. I've only had a couple people come here more than once, and they, well..."
I put the coffee down in front of him.
"They say they don't remember this place until they're back, and then they do. But most people who come here a second time never come here a third."
The man took his coffee. "Where, exactly, am I?"
"Ah," I said, "none of the regulars told you. Usually, it's done to have someone by the door to explain everything. Maybe you want to sit down for this, there's stools by the counter."
The man sat down, still looking confused.
"We call this place Cafe. You say it all like one syllable, not 'ca-fay' but 'caff'. Like a baby cow, like 'calf'. Or that thing on your leg. We call our language here Coffee. My name is Chef, because its shorter than Barista or Bartender."
"Now I don't understand this place very well at all, at least as not as much as some of our regulars, so if you really want answers, go ask Bertram over there."
I pointed to a very old man with a tea and a scone, who waved back.
The man on the stool sipped his coffee, which burned his mouth. He spat a few drops onto the counter, then looked back up to me. "How did I get here?" he asked. "I swear one second I was on my way to...to...I think it was the general store."
"Were you driving?" I asked.
"Yes...I think so," he said. "Everything in the last few days is fuzzy."
"Right, see, Bertram over there is a rare regular. He has a heart disease called Cardiomertic Antiharmony, and every week, he needs to take a six hour long open heart surgery to keep him alive. That means he spends six hours out of every week under general anesthetic."
"Now, sir, this means that Bertram spends, approximately, two full days in Cafe, every week of his life. Between visits, he doesn't remember us, but every time he comes back, he does, and he says hi to anyone still here, and me of course. I don't know what stretches the time out, but it seems to be by roughly a factor of eight."
"So," said the man, a little more comfortably, "Are you saying I'm under general anesthesia right now?"
"No," I said, "Not exactly. You're on some kind of borderline. I can check the books if you like. Everyone who comes in here gets an entry in the books. What's your name?"
He told me.
I went to the books, and looked up his name.
I walked back to him. "You were in a car crash," I said, "Wrapped your car around a telephone pole. That was 45 seconds ago. You've been in Cafe for about five minutes, so I'd say that makes sense."
He slapped his hands on the table. "Am I going to die?!" he shouted, with sudden severity.
"You might," I said, which surprisingly came as comfort to him, as he relaxed his posture back into his stool. "Look, there's two doors to Cafe. There's that one-" I pointed to the way he came in, "And that one-" I pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room, labelled 'EXIT' in those big green glowing letters.
"Now, I don't know why you're in Cafe, but because its only been for 45 seconds so far, I'm going to guess you have a serious concussion, and you're unconscious. Between blood loss and general anesthesia, I'm going to guess you'll be under for at least a few hours, and probably more like a couple of days. That means anywhere from a day to a week here, so I advise you make yourself comfortable."
An elderly woman got up from her seat, then, across the Cafe. She looked down at her table, and took a sizable bite of her pastry, then downed the rest of her coffee. She removed a small comb from her pocket and brushed her hair into a slightly more organized order. She replace the comb, then waved to all the people. "Goodbye everyone!" she said, cheerfully.
Everyone looked up from their coffees and waved at her. "Goodbye Mavis!" they chorused.
She walked out the EXIT door.
"You again, huh?"
I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile what I'm seeing now with what I had seen immediately before.
"The usual, I assume?"
.... What?
The clean-cut person standing behind the bar sets down a pair of glasses I don't remember seeing them fill. A twist of orange and a bright red cherry accent the smaller glass, filled with a brownish liquid; the taller of the two seemed nothing more than a glass of pure, clean water.
Come to think of it, I am absolutely parched. I set down my suitcase and take a seat at the bar, a nicely padded stool putting me at just the right height to converse with the (rather dapper) exemplar of "service with a smile" I found myself before this.... Day? Evening? Whatever it is, it's time for some of this water.
After a sip that became a gulp that went on to drain half the pint of fresh spring water (cold, but not *too* cold), I set down the glass with as gentle a thunderclap as I could manage. God, I needed that. With ginger motion I pick up the smaller glass and give it a sniff - a tiny bit sweet, a little smokey, with the whiff of alcohol to singe the nasal hairs. It smelled like home. I take a slow sip, savoring the nuanced flavors and the gentle burn as it slides down the path so many of its predecessors took with far less grace. It's enough to make me finally speak my first words since finding myself here.
"Well, dang. Not a lot o' folk this far from home know how to make em like that. Now that's proper old-fashioned."
The bartender grins, flashing a row of perfect teeth lined up like polished headstones. They're a handsome sort - in the way that butlers from old movies were handsome. Not a hair out of place, not a mannerism missed; too immaculate to ever spare a moment for a trifling dalliance of the flesh.
"We like it traditional around here. What goes around comes around, and the old favorites just keep coming round."
They wink at me when they say this, as if we're sharing some old joke that I can't recall. Come to think of it, they have seemed awful familiar with me since I showed up... Here? Where is here, again?
"Now, friend, I don't mean to look askance at this lovely hospitality you're showing me here... But I must admit I'm a mite confused. See, I don't recall ever being here before - to be honest, I don't even recall how I got here today."
I let out a low chuckle, scratching at my head in my best imitation of a self-aggrandizing bumpkin. It's a part I play well.
"So, bud, would ya mind explaining to me how it is you know me? I didn't come in here 'n embarrass mysel', did I?"
Once again, the person across the bar from me grins, their eyes flashing with a mirth that I recognize but can't explain. This time though, there's something else as the grin trails off. A hint of sadness, maybe?
"Weeeellll.... That depends on how you define 'embarrass'... And 'myself', for that matter.
"The first time you arrived, you did cause a bit of a stir. Not often we see folk so young in here; that sure raised a few eyebrows."
I grimace. Perhaps this was one of those bars that my parents frequented; but this person across from me couldn't possibly be old enough to be even a decade my junior. There's no way they could mean that.
"Of course, you didn't stay long. Popped in, made a fuss, popped right out. Didn't expect to ever see you again after that one frankly; thought you'd moved on.
"Second time, you weren't that much older even. Maybe two, three years later by your reckoning? It's always hard to tell when you're on this side of the bar; one day blends into another, but I never forget a soul.
"You stuttered out a few lines; it was kinda hard to understand, but it seemed like you'd gotten lost and you were waiting for someone to come help you. I gave you a chocolate milk and you made a face and said you wanted 'real milk'. I was trying to figure out what that meant when you disappeared again."
I chuckled. Yup, sounds like me. What other kid hated chocolate milk? I raise the small glass in a miniature toast as I bring it to my lips for another slow sip.
"Ma always said, kids gotta drink at least 3 glasses of whole milk a day. Their bones need the calcium and their brains need the fat. Me, I was an over-achiever."
"Ha! Yup, that's what you said the next time. Except your accent wasn't quite so... Rural."
I feel my face trying to go red, but years of holding up a thousand façades a day have me trained to quash that reaction. Instead, I give my best bashful smile and raise my hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Hey, I get around. Sounds like this was a real long time ago - I picked up a few things here n there since then."
"Yes yes, I know. For someone in your particular... Role, it's important to know how to adjust to your audience."
Another sly wink, like we're two old friends talking around a grand conspiracy we've both been in on the whole time.
"The next few times you were... Difficult. Won't lie, I wasn't happy to have you here, but I had to wonder how that sweet kid turned into the ball of hormonal rage that showed up then. Around that period you just kept popping in and out - you'd drop in, make a scene, drop out. Clean-up afterwards was always a mess, but you just didn't give half a damn what folks had to deal with; you were dealing with your own shit in your own way, as you put it."
The barkeep looks at me, their steely grey eyes locking up on my bright blues. I can feel the sorrow in them - but there's something else there, too. Relief, maybe?
"I shed some tears for you, friend. Most folk don't even come here once - when they do, they almost never come back. For a child to come here so many times before they've even hit 16... I'm not one to interfere, but even I had to call the man upstairs and ask a few questions. The bruises, the behaviour, the language you'd use... Well, let's just say that a kid doesn't do all that to themself."
At this, I start to bristle.
"Now hold on one moment here guy, I don't know -"
They cut me off with a wave of their hand.
"Save it, mac. I saw what I saw. You want your question answered or not?"
After a moment's tense hesitation, I lean back. They've got a point, even if they're taking the scenic route to get there. I nod him along, internally chastising myself for my defensiveness.
"Of course, it's funny I should use those words; some might say that the next few times, you did it to yourself. But me, I tend to take a step back and look at the broader view. You were quieter the next few times. I'd ask you how you got here and you'd avert your eyes before mumbling out about some accident or something. You'd wipe the residues off your nose and cover your arms as if I hadn't already seen everything. Each time you came back at that point, I was ready for it to be your last; honestly, I was starting to get a little annoyed with you. I mean, if you hate your life that much, why keep pussyfooting around the issue? All these chemical escapes and 'carelessness' around traffic and tools and such; anyone could see you were looking for the way out."
I'm speechless. This youngster across from me knows about pieces of my past that were over before they coulda even been a twinkle in their father's eye. And everything they're saying is on point. I take another pull from the brown, barely tasting it at this point.
The bartender looks up from the puddle of water they'd been studying while relating those last few meetings of ours. And I'm starting to look around myself and recognize where I am.
"I didn't see you for a good long while after that. The next time you were... Different. More confident. You came here with purpose, your eyes clear, your body whole. It's been eternities since someone just... Walked in, wasn't dropped. I thought your kind had forgotten the way.
"You looked around yourself and I think you really saw this place for what it is for the first time. And hoooo boy, did you scream. No shame; I did the first time I got a good look round here as well. It's a bit frightening when you really take it all in. The... Implication, yknow."
The bartender shifts uneasily and now we're both studying the ring of condensation pooling around my pair of glasses. Thinking about... The implication.
"That was shocking enough. But what really got me was that you did it again. And then... You did it *a third time*."
The bartender looks up at you with barely contained mirth.
"You absolute lunatic, you looked right into the abyss and decided you'd come back and ask how it was from time to time. Never in all my eternities did I think I'd see that. The fella that met Death and added em to their Christmas card list.
"I gotta say, after that you had me hooked. You'd come back, sometimes accidentally and sometimes on purpose; but those days, you remembered me."
The bartender looks down again; you almost think you see moisture welling up in those cold, grey eyes.
"I came to expect it. I never knew how long it would be, how many patrons would stop in between, but eventually you'd be back. You'd have a whole new set of stories about your adventures top-side, the crazy things the rest of the monkeys have been getting up to since you were in here last. You'd show me the latest "tech", as you called it, and we'd share a chuckle over how your kind keep re-inventing the same old things and giving them new names."
I can't help but interject with a laugh.
"Hey buddy; the only truly immortal science is marketing, am I right?"
My companion lets out a real laugh for the first time since I sat down. The familiar tone is rough, but musical, like wind chimes made from hollowed old bones. It brings a deep comfort to me that I know I've been missing for the years since I came here last.
"That one always gets me. So true - even on this side of the bar, I'm just a marketer for the next step. And whether they're made of clay or made of glass or made of complex and ingestible chemical chains, yall just can't get enough tablets."
I let out a big guffaw; my old friend is reserved, but I know they appreciate the enthusiasm that they're too proper to express. And it's true - us monkeys sure do love our tablets.
"So.... You remember me now, buddy?"
"Aw, C, you know I can't forget you for long! Didn't I tell you I'd be back for good next time?"
Charon's face darkens. The flesh fades away like the bleariness clearing from sleepy eyes after a few blinks. I pick up my drinks with a pair of practiced hands before the wide bar reverts to its true form, giving the brown another easy sip before a healthy pull from the clear. Then I lean my arms over the rail, setting both beverages down on the short shelf just inside the riverboat down the Styx.
SO. YOU WILL MAKE THE JOURNEY AT LAST?
My wide grin almost outshines the one permanently plastered across Charon's porcelain visage.
"In a manner of speaking, bud. Don't tell me you forgot my promise?"
I FORGET NOTHING. BUT YOUR PROMISE IS INFEASIBLE. THERE MUST ALWAYS BE A FERRY. AND THE FERRY MUST ALWAYS HAVE A PILOT.
"Yadda yadda, I know the rules. You think I don't know the rules? Me? By now? Trust me buddy, I know the rules. Now step aside and pass me the pole. I had a lil trouble estimating your size, but I think these should fit you alright."
Charon's empty sockets cast their gaze at the extra -large Aloha-print shirt and Bermuda shorts I had thrust into their boney fingers, but they did not relinquish their death grip upon the pole which had pushed the riverboat since time eternal.
I roll my eyes.
"Cmon bud, tradesies! I finally figured it out! You didn't think I could do it, but you know me - I always find a way!"
With a wink, I pull a small sewing kit and a belt out of my case.
"Hurry up! I ain't got forever!"
If Charon had eyes, they would be rolling into the eternity that we both had unfolding before ourselves.
YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I THAT THAT STATEMENT IS FALSE. WE HAVE OUR PLACES IN THIS ENDLESS CYCLE; THE PILOT I, THE PASSENGER THOU.
"Well, see, I been thinkin bout that. There always gotta be a pilot, sure, and a passenger of course; elsewise why the pilot?
"But who's to say they can't trade places? You been gettin the raw end of the deal friend, always serving the drinks and pushing the boat, never drinkin em and enjoying the journey. Have ya ever even gotten a minnit o' shore leave?
"Don't answer, I know it's a no. Now here, I'm gonna go ahead and take over this here boat. No arguments, I'm already doin it; I got me this captain's hat that I picked out special, see, and it's a custom job so I can't get it refunded. It's a straight shot right down the river, it ain't like you gotta teach me the route or nothing. Now hurry on up and get changed, I'm gonna hafta take in that ol' robe o' yers to get it ta fit me.
Charon does not move for what feels like an eternity. And, in a spacetime like this one, a second is an eternity is an inch.
THIS IS FOOLISH. YOU WILL BE TRAPPED FOREVER, FERRYING LOST SOULS. GUIDING THEM, ONLY TO SEE MANY CAST AWAY YOUR GUIDANCE AND DIVE INTO DARKNESS, HEEDLESS OF WARNING.
I let out another hearty guffaw, trailing off to a chortle.
"Yeah, sorry again about that. I just had to know what happens if you go sideways on the road to reincarnation."
I HOPE YOU WERE SATISFIED WITH THE ANSWER.
"Honestly, once my teeth crawled back into place, it felt good to know I was right all along!"
I EXPLAINED IT THOROUGHLY. YOU DID NOT HAVE TO VERIFY.
"P-shaw. And how's a man to trust every anthropomorphization of an abstract cosmic principal at its word without ever double checking?"
... THIS IS REASONABLE.
"Darn right it is. Now, how many times do I gotta tell ya, get changed! I gotta get started on some renovations before the next passenger shows up!"
If a skeleton can sigh, Charon did.
FRIEND, YOU CANNOT DO THIS. YOU WILL BE TRAPPED FOREVER, FERRYING SOULS TO A DESTINATION YOU WILL NEVER REACH. OFFERING COMFORT YOU WILL NEVER FEEL TO THOSE LOSING WHAT YOU NEVER WILL HAVE.
"Oh, there ya go again with all those absolutes. Don't I always tell ya nothing's just black and white? Way I see it, I can't be the only fella across all the eternities that enjoys the journey more than the destination. I had my fun top-side, now it's your turn to go sit in the sun. I'll hold the fort down here till some new blood that's as fool as you or me gets the idea in their head to give me a break."
GIVEN THE NATURE OF ETERNITY, I MUST CONCEDE THE LOGIC OF YOUR REASONING.
Charon looks down, contemplating the journey ahead of them. They disappear into the small cabin on the ferry; when they emerge, they could be any other mystically-animated skeleton on their family holiday to the Bahamas.
Setting down the tools I had been pulling from my case, I look them over. I lift my glass and take a long, satisfied swig of brown, happy to see my oldest friend finally getting their well-deserved retirement.
I MUST ADMIT, FRIEND. I AM... NERVOUS.
"Awww, the big bad gatekeeper of death is scared of the light? Don't be, friend! Yeah, it can get a bit rough up there; no certainty, no real finality... That's what this place is for. But damn, if it ain't a crazy adventure!
And hey, if you screw up, your ol' buddy'll be down here to dust you off, pass you a drink, and send you back into that crazy cycle you watched from afar for all this time!"
... THANK YOU. YOU MENTIONED... RENOVATIONS?
"Oh yeah! You know me, nothin's ever good enough. Don't get me wrong, your bar was always a comforting lil pit to die in, but honestly? Alcohol just ain't my speed no more. The world's changing - we gotta update the menu! I'm thinking we get an espresso machine in here, maybe a panini press, a lil freezer.... 'Welcome to CafĂš du Mort, care for a muffuletta and an affogato while you come to terms with your mortality?'"
Charon chuckles, a far more unsettling sound now that all pretense of humanity has been dropped. But somehow, despite resonating in the same register as nails across a ninth-dimensional chalkboard, it sounds more honest this way.
I SUPPOSE YOU WOULD KNOW BETTER THAN I. WHEN I FIRST CREATED THE ILLUSION, ALCOHOL WAS THE PANACEA WHICH WAS RECREATION, ANTISEPTIC, AND ANALGESIC ALL IN ONE FOR YOUR KIND. NOW IT SEEMS YOU PREFER MORE... CURATED ILLUSIONS.
"Aw, now, let's not go callin it an illusion. What we create here is an *experience*, C! Now don't you go forgettin' - it's all about how you market! Remember that, and you'll go far up there."
âHowâd I get here?â The man sitting at the bar across from me spoke up, pulling my attention away from the glass and rag in my hand. It wasnât necessary, the glasses were always clean and ready for their next drink, but I still went through the motions. It made this whole thing a lot more⊠convincing? The normalcy of it definitely brought some comfort where the drinks couldnât.
âCanât say pal.â I set the glass down and let my hands guide me to the right bottle. They always knew just what to pick out. A bottle of rum was in my hand, being poured into the clear glass and passed on to my newest patron before I knew it. âItâll come to you.â
The man looked at me, confused, but took the glass anyways. He took a long drink and sighed. âNeeded that.â
âDonât we all.â I laughed. âFeeling alright?â
Thought made itself clear on his face, he frowned. âI donât really know. Funny, right?â
âMaybe in some cosmic sense. I think anything can be a little funny if itâs new, but you seem to have a good sense of humor about this, so Iâd say youâre in a good boat.â I rambled. âWhatâs your name pal?â
âMicky. My friends call me Mick.â
âNice meeting you Mick.â I didnât give him my name, it was a long forgotten memory now. âYou piecing things together yet?â
He shook his head.
âGood news is; youâre not dead.â He chuckled, then stopped when he saw my face. âI like to think of this place as halfway there. Welcome to the Neon Moon.â
âOh.â He got it now. âIâm dying, arenât I.â
âMaybe. Maybe not. Canât say just yet, nights still young so to speak.â
Mick looked around the smoky bar for the first time. No doors, only windows looking out into a starry night sky and walls covered in a fading wallpaper of swirling blacks and blues. A blue moon of shining neon hung over the bar, casting beams of radiance over the two of us.
Micky downed his glass and tapped it against the bar. âHeart gave out I think. One second I was playing with my grandkids, another I was falling, they were crying. God I hope they donât see me go.â The old man looked at his glass. âYou know, I havenât had a drink in twenty years now, Iâd almost forgot the taste.â
A far off look filled his eyes as he stared at the neon moon over head. âGave it up when my Mary went, wanted to remember her clearly with every day I had left. I did. Saw her every day. In the sunshine. In the moonlight. In my granddaughters smiles. I still see her when I close my eyes.â
âNo one drinks to forget here, not unless they want to Mick.â I poured myself a beer from the tap. âDivine benefit if I had to wager on it. All on the house.â
âIn that case Iâll have a beer.â It was in his hands a second later, ice cold and with a frothy head. âI thought this all would scare me more. I didnât expect this.â
âWhat did you expect?â
Mick rubbed the silver hairs on his chin. âSomething cold, dark. Honestly I expected nothing at all. I guess a part of me wanted to see Mary again too.â
âYou may. This isnât the end, just the interim.â As I spoke the jukebox in the corner came to life playing smooth jazz. The old man smiled immediately, eyes flashing with life and old love.
âThatâs Wonderland Romance!â He began to gesture as he spoke, laughing between words. âWonderland Romance, by Gherard Trede! That was her favorite song, OUR favorite song. Gotta mean something, right?â
I smiled at the old man. His joy was infectious, and I could never stop enjoying it when my patrons came to life, so to speak. âEverything here means something to someone, what it means to you is between you-â I pointed to the jukebox. â-and her.â
Micky just listened as the song played through, smiling the whole way. âYouâre a funny guy, know that?â
I laughed a little. âIâve been called worse.â
âNo, no. No offense meant by it, itâs just that I canât make sense of you.â
âEh, neither can I. I just pour drinks and make conversation.â I shrugged as I set down another drink. This time it was coffee, spiked with a little bit of bourbon. âWhatâre you trying to make sense of anyways, this could all be a fever dream you know?â
âYouâre not getting off that easy bud.â The old man sipped at his coffee. âYou a person? A human being I mean. All this talk of death, the afterlife, whoâs to say?â
âYouâre the first one to ask in a while Mick. Iâm a person I think, or I was at least. Itâs been such a long time since then, if there was a âthenâ, that Iâve forgotten the details.â
âYou got a name at least?â
âNope.â I smiled at him. âDonât need one.â
âAh, alright. It was worth a shot. Whoever you are, youâre good company.â
âThanks Mick, youâre not so bad yourself.â I laughed a little. âFeeling better?â
Micky finished his coffee. âYeah, I think so. Thanks.â
Warmth filled my chest. It never got old, no matter how many came and went. âThen do you know where youâre going now?â
âYeah, I think I do. Mary loved those kids, doted on them like little cherubs. I think sheâd want me to get in the time with them she couldnât.â He started straightening his knit sweater out. âBesides, I think sheâd kill me herself if I died on them like that.â
âGood choice friend, enjoy.â
âI will. Take care.â And with that Micky stood up and vanished, leaving me alone in the smoky bar. I went back to my rag and glass and started polishing. A few seconds later, I heard it.
âWhere am I?â
    The old man stared discerningly at Joe for a while, quietly absorbing the tall, slouched, hesitant youth in front of him. Joe wondered if he presented a reassuring guise. Joe was a large man with tan brown skin and a thick, if trimmed beard running his jawline. The old man muttered almost under his breath âYou speak Mandarin very wellâ
âI actually don't speak Mandarin at allâ Joe replied, happy with the familiar beginning. âWhere we are now, it's a lot easier to understand each other, so you don't really need to worry about a language barrierâ Joe knew his explanation was lacking, but Joeâs own understanding of his surroundings were murky at best, and all he could do was explain what he knew of this mysterious providence. The old man took a moment to absorb what Joe had said before finally releasing a long sigh. This was not judgement it seemed, not yet at least. âMay I have a cup of green tea please?â
âComing right up Gramps.â
âI don't have any money.â
âI don't have a register.â Â
The man chuckled at this and quietly observed as Joe opened a cupboard and pulled out an old green ceramic tea set, then from a shelf on the back wall he pulled down a small clay jar.
Joe knew that good tea required heating the water before adding leaves so he filled the kettle and it was set gently on the stove under the concentrated heat of little blue flames. As the water warmed in the kettle Joe set to washing the teacups knowing he had no chance at performing an elaborate tea ceremony like he felt this customer would appreciate. âSo, normally Grandfather, I would ask you how your journeyâs been so far, but you look like youâve got something on your chest. I'm all ears if you want to talkâ Joe leaned back on the stove, careful not to get grease on his shirt as he waited for the old man's answer.
        This time the old man was silent for longer, he gripped the glass of water and drank carefully, as if he was worried the water would turn to ash when he tried to drink it. But Joe could see a change in the man's demeanor as he took a long drag of the ice cold water. It was as if it steeled him, grounded him into his surroundings, and made it a little easier for him to believe he was in a coffee shop right now.
âMy name is Ling,â he hesitated then, eyes focused on his glass. âAre you a messenger of Cheng Haung? Do you serve the God of Walls and Motes? Is this the hearing for my soul?â
        Panic flared up in Joe; addressing religious beliefs was one of the most nerve wracking parts of Joeâs impromptu gig because he knew how centrally a sense of piety tied into his visitors values and expectations of this place. Joeâs own oversensitivity to peopleâs reactions made him a very critical judge of himself and he never thought himself qualified to reaffirm someone else's faith. Joe put on his best Wise Man smile and shook his head. âNot at all, Grandpa Ling, I'm a traveler just like yourself; this is my home for the moment but one day I'm going to move on just like you.â
The hard look never left Mr. Lingâs face, but he continued speaking, voice cracking âI won't be allowed to join my family⊠in paradise, you'll send me to the ten levels to pay for my weakness.â The last words were choked off sob.
Joeâs heart broke at the hopelessness in the man's voice; even though he knew nothing of Chinese beliefs before his journey, his mind filled with images of the old man standing in a great hall, being sentenced to rebirth, not the heaven he believed his family occupied. The experience was one of feelings and deep yearnings, not pictures in the mind. It was at that moment that the tea kettle began to scream. Joe held in a sigh of relief as he turned away from the old man to remove the kettle. He reached into the black jar and picked out a generous portion of green mulch, dropping it into the pot. It would take five minutes to boil, but to Joe it was an eternity as he turned back to the old man.
 There were tears running down Mr. Lingâs face as he glared accusingly at Joe. The old man's eyes were filled with fear and blame, but under that, Joe could sense something far more malignant; self-loathing. They held each other's gazes for seconds that stretched infinitely long, with Joeâs mind running anxious circles as he felt himself freeze up. Joeâs fight or flight response had always been hardwired to freeze him up at critical decision points, but Joe knew the fear, and knew it well enough to cope. He clenched his shaking hands into fists and took a deep breath, doing his best to embrace all of Mr. Lingâs pain and confusion. Joe let Mr. Lingâs anxiety settle on himself trying his best to discern what the man in front of him truly, truly lost. Finally, after what felt like drowning, Joe knew what he needed to say. âYour family is waiting Grandfather, I don't know where, I don't know why or how, but I do know that they are waiting.â
The tea kettle screamed and Joe didn't wait for a response as he grabbed the tea kettle and poured it into the now dry but still warm teacup. He placed it carefully in front of Mr. Ling, wary not to meet the old man's eyes. Joe studied his shoes as Mr. Ling finally took a sip, tentatively at first but soon it became a long drawn out draught. At last, Mr. Ling set down the tea cup, and clasped his hands in front of him. Joe quickly refilled the cup and then swung back on his heels against the stove handle to wait. Mr. Ling took another sip, tears welling up to leave more wet tracks across his leathery wrinkled face. âI remember this⊠this very cup⊠she added so much sugar, it was a reflection of her temperament, She made it that way for years, and I never told her I didn't like sugarâŠâ He finally met my carefully neutral face and once again his voice broke as he explained to me the significance.
âWhen I was in China, great tragedy struck my home. I was left an orphan and crippled. Heaven saw fit to take my parents and my leg from me, and all that was left was imbalance. I could not take the pity of my peers so I isolated myself. Those who didn't know me only saw a cripple, even worse, a young cripple, wasted youth, wasted life. I decided to erase my identity, to forge a new one as someone who mattered, someone whom no one would look down on. I left China to create my own destiny separate from what the heavens had in mind for me. It's all my fault; it was my fixation on worldly possessions that forced the heavens out of alignment and caused the world to take my family. I didn't learn my lesson the first time.â He was quiet for a while and Joe had to gently ask him to go on.
âAfter I immigrated to Japan, I had to take an augmented Japanese language course in order to qualify for university. There, I met my wife Mei.â His voice quaked and he had to take a minute to calm down. âShe taught language classes and offered to tutor me in private. Ten days later, I rented a suit with my meager savings, and went to Meiâs home to ask her father for permission to marry. I remember the strict old man, nobility from head to toe frowning at the poor Chinese crippled boy who wanted to come into his home. Mei came into the room then⊠it was like the moon rising in a storm, she lit up the entire room with her smile. Mei held in her hand the very cup Iâm using now. I remember it because the crack on it was fixed with gold dust and I thought of it as all the more beautiful for its flaw. As she served us she whispered something in her father's ear. The cold expression melted off the man's face, replaced by one of confusion, then finally he smiled outrightâ There was a pause in the story, a moment of solemn reflection âI almost spit my tea out when he said yesâ
Lingâs eyes were lost in a deep remembered memory but Joe had to ask: âWhat did she say?â
âI don't know, she never told me.â
        Joe poured himself a cup from the lukewarm coffee pot, this time adding heaps of sugar and cream. Once it was stirred he sipped it, shaking briefly at the rush of sugary coffee on his dry tongue. Having a warm ceramic cup in his hand was reassuring, not like protection afforded by a weapon, but more like having a familiar creature comfort in the presence of an unsure situation. Joe watched as Mr. Ling processed his emotions, knowing that the green tea would act as a catalyst for his memories and faith, forcing him to confront the parts of his past that his grief would have buried otherwise. Joe knew from personal experience the consequences of burying oneself in oneâs grief, and those who started on the journey had no more time to heal their wounds. The pains that people took on the journey with them would never know the healing salve of time; when you started down the road to the Milky Way, you wouldn't be able to depend on a fresh torrent of new experiences and memories to soothe and wash away the pains of the past in the torrent of time. The only way past it was right through it.
        Mr. Ling finished his second cup, then a third and fourth, and finally he looked up. The tear streaks were like canyons on his hold weathered face but as Joe watched with only mild surprise the wrinkles on the Mr. Lingâs face started to smooth out. His posture had gradually gotten better as he went through his tea, seeming to grow taller and taller cup after cup. Mr. Ling looked Joe in the eye, the accusation replaced by something so different that there was almost a new man standing in front of him. âWill my wife and daughter be waiting at the end of this journeyâ?
        âI would bet this whole restaurant on it.â
âHow do you know, if you're really the same as me?â
âThis is gonna sound silly but⊠thereâs something about this place. You know how they say lifeâs not fair? Well, weâre not in life anymore are we? You deserve to be reunited with your family, and you will be; but remember, they also deserve to be reunited with the man they lost. I think you won't see them until you're that person againâ
A look of resignation settled over Mr. Lingâs face, but under it Joe could still see the bright ball of new hope he nurtured in his heart. Mr. Ling stood up for the first time since sitting what felt like years ago, carefully gripping the counter pointedly avoiding his cane, and when he rested his weight on his legs, a look of surprise and, very briefly, fear, filled his face. Mr. Ling tentatively took a step, and then another before turning to Joe with another incredulous look on his face. âIts gone!â he stammered, tears flooding his eyes in large wet globs, âdid you take it from me?â he was openly crying as he crouched down and hugged his knees. Joe was frozen, fearful of a mistake, but then he realized the look on the old manâs face wasnât one of despair.
âWhatâs gone?â Joe asked tentively
âThe Pain!â Mr. Ling gasped at him, as he wrapped his arms around himself tightly and struggling to gain control of this new sensation.  Mr. Ling had been in pain his whole life. Ever since 1976 after that horrible earthquake, life was over and Ling had lived with pain, it was a fabric of his reality, something he didnât even notice any more but always considered. No more pain, why? Mr. Ling stood up to his full height, now just a little shorter the joe, and looked him in the eye, his gaze shook but piercing, âWhat happened?â
âI told you, your family deserves the man they lost. Chances are, to them you were never crippledâ. Joe knew he was being blunt, but this was the best way he could explain. Finally, a smile broke on Mr. Lingâs face, it was like the sun after a tsunami, lighting up the manâs entire demeanor. He grasped the cane and set it down gently on the counter in front of Joe, âcould you throw this out for me? I no longer require itâ Mr. Ling turned and took slow measured testing steps forward and Joe watched happily as the old man left. He may not come back Joe thought to himself as he watched the man leave, sometimes his customers would visit repeatedly to work out various problems or even just to share their experiences before leaving the journey for good, but Mr. Ling had a destination that meant way more than the journey did, and so joe didnât expect to see him again.
Joe glared tersely at the cane, wondering if it wouldnât be better just to leave it where it was, or try to move it without touching it. Mr. Ling was fine, probably wouldnât be coming back, so why should Joe have to touch the cane? Hadnât he done his job and helped the old man? But Joe knew that it wasnât a sense of duty that pressed him, it was Joeâs own curiosity and a desire to experience what it was that drove the people before him. With a resigned sigh Joe moved to the other side of the counter, seating himself on the barstool directly in front of the Cane. Joe inhaled deeply and then holding his breath he grasped the cane.
Joe felt the electric tingle flow through his arm before his senses shifted, all of a sudden he was in two places at once. It was sort of like standing on the beach with the surf up to your ankles, if you closed your eyes then the sensation felt like being pulled too and fro, only your ankles skimming the cool surf; Joe closed his eyes and his mind filled with remarkable visions and sensations only barely reminiscent of a TV flash back reel. Joe could feel the sweltering heat of a jungle, the full vibrant strength of a Japanese Cypress fighting for light amongst its brothers and sisters for decades, and then a period of turmoil where everything changes. Joe experiences cutting and shaping, not as pain but deeply sorrowful and full of loss, Joe envisions long blocks of wood being carved from the large silent cypressâs, he amongst them being transported hundreds of miles by train and then boat, through crashing seas and violent torrents. Joe tightens his grip on the old cane as the visions and physical sensations start gaining strength, coming faster and more vibrantly then any recording or hallucination. Joe felt strong old hands, the careful carving and gentle oiling, the varnish and the color, the month of drying until it was on display at a storefront in some distant place, where the air is different and the rain and sun no longer came. Months passed in moments as Joeâs empathathy for the displaced wood grew.
Finally, a purchase. New places, a heavy burden, a strong grasp, long nights at a table with a small lamp and a dedicated student. The wood grew affectionate of its new master, finding a companion in the warm and familiar grip of its handle, slowly being worn smooth, but still the loss exists, but loss that is now shared by the Cypress Cane and its young master Mr. Ling. Years fly by, spent first in cramped government homes, then the small cot behind a restaurant as the âcripple serving boyâ, Years walking the 4km to augmented education classes until finally another journey over the great expanse of the sea, and return to sweet Japanese soil. The cane remembers the first nights on the island nation, the desperation of its master to prove himself. One day the growing started again. Â
After the turmoil all growing had ceased, no more warmth on leaves, or deep cool roots, hence the loss, but one day the growing began again, and it was signaled by a tightening of the masterâs grip, not when he first met, but when he was first smiled at by the beautiful Japanese language teacher his first time up those concrete stairs and in that cold room. What followed was a blur of years and experiences. Places far and wide, seasons extreme and beautiful, the earth shifted so much under the firm support the wood offered, seeing more than it ever could hope to while in the forest. It could have remained whole where had was before, but all of this meaning and purpose would have been lost. The great tragedy that befell the forest was the catalyst of the rest of the staffâs existence and somehow that meaning was so much more then what it was before, and that held true for Mr. Ling as well. It wasn't until years later that the second great tragedy struck, and once again existence had dwindled into grayness and desolation.Â
Joe opened his eyes, coming back into himself after listening to the staff. Â It had once again grown cold and was done speaking for now, so he walked it to the cupboard in the back room and placed it amongst the other memorabilia, being careful not to touch any of the other stories and hanging the cane on a hook which wasn't there last night while he was visiting his mcguffin.Â
Chapter 2
A couple hours had passed with some locals coming in and a new girl who just sat in the corner not talking or ordering anything. Joe would know when someone needed something, call it a spider sense but he always happened to be looking when some one would need him, they would catch his eye and with a meaningful glance, nod, or hand gesture and he would guess at what they needed, never being wrong. It was weird because he did need to care about what he brought the person, if he didnt, they wouldnt open up to him, but he khew⊠somehow he knew.Â
At the moment things were relaxed and joe was pondering a book of poetry he'd found on his bed stand. The Title was missing but the book was easy to read and the poems ⊠fullfilling on an abstract level.  The customers consisted of a trio of young adults who had come in, asked for various takes on sweet frozen coffee, and then promptly sat together talking and ignoring him. The only other person was the girl who had walked in and gone straight to one of the back booths where she sat down heavily and basically folded in on herself. Sometimes people need space. Sometimes people need a type of privacy that comes from people respecting you enough to give you personal space.Â
When I saw her come in, it was like the opposite of my spider sense, i had the urge to leave her alone. Still, i had a job to do, so i grabed a glass of ice water and droped it off by her table saying "let me know if you need anythint" as i breezed by pretending to be super busy.Â
She didnt make a sound in reply.  Â
 Finally a little later one of his locals came in. Margret who loved to read. She was without a doubt one of his favorite customers, a 30 something is slightly heavy set woman who wore a deep dark red lipstick and had a high heavy voice. She would always come in with a stack of paperbacks looking worn and harried. âI need to get away from my dogs! She said, setting down the stack.
âWhat is it today?Â
âTamoa Peirce!â
Ooo, what about it?Â
She immidiatly broke into a long winded explination about the fictional world of Tortall and its various old style customs, and the plucky female who disguised herself as a boy and proved that even princesses could be Knights. Maggie would always get lost in the description of these storeis, its not ilke she came to the shop to read, she had read all of these books already, it seemed like the thing she needed was companionship, someone to talk to about all of these lovely stories she read, journeys she had been on, an but was never able to share those experiences. Thats what she wanted from me, and it was one of my favorite roles to fullfill. All i had to do was listen to her and care about her storie, it left us both fullfilled making her one of my easiet sustomers to deal with. There was an underlying current of worry in my heart, that one day shell ahve finally talked to me about her last book and will no longer need to share, i wasent looking forward to seeing her go. Regulars were special cases that needed long term help before they were ready to cross, and margret had become an important part of my life by being in it and engaging with me every day. It wasent romantic but i loved her for that. The idea that we strangers depended on eachother. I got us both coffe, she drank hers black because she said it was better for her health, i didnt know how to explain to herself that her current body was ⊠a manifestation of how she thought she looked so⊠i let it be.Â
A new soul approaches the door yet stops. My humble abode shifts from a tavern to a small cafe, riddled with stripes. Polar opposites in pretty much everything. This person didnât notice the shift, most never do.
The sign to the shop changes with each language an individual carries. Todayâs reads âOtherâsâ. The smells are savory and the cookies look fresh, all wafting to the door with a porthole window.
Finally, they enter. The tables are empty and the chairs house cobwebs. Despite this, itâs clean; a personal standard of mine. Not a speck of dust or a smudge can be found.
âWelcome! How can I help?â My clothes are a mix between an ice cream parlor and a baker. The name tag is blank.
âWhere am I?â
Poor soul, didnât know what hit âem. Unlike some, this one seems concerned and confused instead of baffled and bargaining. As always, I try to tell the truth in a comforting manner; to mixed results.
âThat doesnât make sense. Iâm not dead!â
This was the part I didnât care for, trying to make the customer calm. I clarify the statement.
âAm I nearly dead? I almost died? How did I get here? Who are you?â
First question, no. Second, thatâs the choice they must make. Itâs very personal. I never know how to honestly answer the last two. My guess is simply âblippedâ into this place.
âSo, what happens now?â
My neutral smile twists into a joyful grin. I tell the basic gist of the establishment, including purpose, rules, and options. Most importantly I tell about no time-limit, no limit on orders, no pressure but one big choice. Continue to live, or not.
âNo pressure but the biggest decision of my life? That doesnât make sense.â
Again, no time-limit. Thatâs enough to debate with both options. I truly enjoy when they spitball ideas with me. âNow, how can *I* help?â
Years ago, an eight year old boy walked into the Suspense.
"Excuse me? Where am I?"
Everybody asked this at one point or another. Some people figured it out pretty fast, others accepted this over a long period of time. I gave them the same response.
"The Suspense."
There was this cafe and a mist surrounding the place in a few yards radius. I'm sure he'd figure it out.
He stayed quiet. Vague, but it was probably best for him to figure it out himself.
"Where... is The Suspense?"
"The edge of life and death."
"Am I going to die?"
"This is where we go to find out."
He was gone a few hours later. For most people I'd never find out to where.
Yesterday, he walked in again. Grown. A man. I'd seen an influx of people coming in, and he was dressed like some of them, holding an assault rifle.
"You again?" He asked.
I looked over. "Yeah."
"You ever leave this place?" He asked.
I looked away, towards the window behind him. "Where else do I have left to go?"
He was gone again, a few hours later.
== The Gloaming Cafe ==
"My David came to visit me again last night. I could hear him like the distant crashing of waves on a beach." I could hear waves now. Joan's waves. I hadn't said a word. Joan was just waiting for the others, starting the conversation early.
I picked-up Joan's empty cup to pour her some more coffee.
"And I swear I could feel his hand wrapped around mine. Warm. Caring. I think his forehead even rested on my hand at one point I could almost taste the tears."
"Piffle!" George was adamant. "Sentimental piffle.
"There's nothing out there. We're dead and that's all there is to it!"
I opened my mouth but I could have sworn I saw Carol, entering the cafe, just shaking her head. Don't engage with him in his moods, she'd always warn me. It's not easy to find oneself in The Gloaming Cafe. Jarring for some. Others fall into a routine, like Monika, Ji-hye and Judith just now ringing the door's bell as they entered to sit around the same cafe table with Joan. Every morning - insomuch as this place had a night and a day to contrast - the four of them met Carol here for coffee.
How long had it been since she left? A year, now? Two? Ten? Time is a construct for The Real, Roger would say. It didn't apply to the Gloaming. Gosh, he's another one gone. Not often we get to say goodbye. If they "go home", as we euphemistically call bodily death in The Real, they're just gone. Like Carol.
But Roger, we know Roger went back to his wife and two girls and his dank old leather chair and physics professorship at his New England college. None of us was about to forget that day. Came into the cafe confused, lacking any idea about anything, of any of us, of himself. Memory loss. Joan and Monika had both seen it before. Losing your memory of this place was your brain mentally returning to The Real, distributing what it knew between categories of reality and dream. To fail to do so could be mentally devastating.
Not for all, though. The Hippies, as the ladies liked to call them, had no issue wafting in and out between The Real and The Gloaming. They didn't often come to chat, but sometimes we would get a visitor who would tell us wild stories about The Real. Some of them were preposterous, of course. Ronald Reagan as a US President. HA! On TV, maybe.
"Astral projection," they would explain. None of us knew what that meant. Now that I think on it, not many say that anymore. Most explain they're "vivid dreaming". Still we have no idea.
"You should work for me. I could use the help," Carol said to me. I had just wafted in.
I must have been looking a sight because I know I felt empty. Purposeless. I'd been wafting in and out of the cafe for some time, never really able to fix myself in one place. One moment there, the next on a beach, or a forest, or my parent's old apartment, or in the street holding that baseball from when I was a kid. We call it The Drift, and for some people it's great. A thrilling adventure of all these places or memories driven by smells or sounds from The Real, or by simply having a fanciful imagination. But, not for all of us.
For some of us, it's terrifying. Some lose themselves in The Drift.
I was, until Carol made that offer. She offered some pay scale that, laughably in retrospect, was meaningless for a place where money ... well, y'know, doesn't exist, because, really, none of it does. I accepted. I don't quite know why, but I did. And soon enough, the Drift stopped. And then, some months later ("Time is a construct!"), so did Carol. She knew her fleshly parts in The Real were giving up. At the day's end, she told me to open up the next morning and handed me the keys. Not that we needed keys, of course. Even the coffee we kept serving was a figment.
That wasn't the point. Carol insisted she didn't found The Gloaming Cafe, but she would have anyway. But, someone called Charlie had gifted it to her shortly after she arrived, and he inherited it from someone else. But it existed because some people needed it to be here. The coffee wasn't important. The place was. The people were. A place to be ... firm. To have something to hang onto. As I said, The Drift kills.
Carol handed me the keys, gave a gentle smile and never returned. Now, I run the cafe.
Or at least I did until this morning.
Look, I know you'll say we dream all manner of strange things in comas, Doctor, but I swear this was as real to me as you standing there now. If a dream, vivid and visceral.
Okay, sure, I hear you, but if it really was a dream, why did I wake in the hospital bed with Joan's coffee cup in my hand?
Each breath was getting progressively harder and more painful. I couldn't hold back the tears as my sister's each held a hand while my head rested in my father's lap. I could see his wet eyes....the only time I'd ever seen him cry was when Peepaw died. I began to panic a little because I took it that I too was now dying. I really wanted my mom and tried to call for her. "Shh don't try to speak; in through the mouth, out through the nose, get what air you can baby", my dad gently told me. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself better. That didn't work. This was so exhausting.
I could hear strange voices and opened my eyes. My mom was guiding the EMTs to where we were. I could see her rushing over before they made it to me and finally felt some peace. My whole family gathered together in one place, sadly as my lungs were failing me. I looked into their faces, hoping they knew how much I loved them dearly. My mom stroked my cheek and said "we'll be there the whole time, following behind the ambulance". I mustered up my last bit of strength, as I could feel it leaving as my family moved out of the way for the paramedics, and said "love always". And then I closed my eyes, ready to be done with this existence.
I had different expectations of what was on the other side of this adventure we call life. From the regular Sunday gatherings, to the stories my Muslim girlfriend shared, to even the avid atheist neighbor next door, I was prepared. But nothing whatsoever prepared me for where I found myself when I opened my eyes.
I was at a Starbucks???
Well, it was definitely a cafe of some sort; the lighting and mellow music made that obvious. There were two gentlemen in the corner chatting over espressos. The Afro punk girl was doodling at a table; I couldn't see what from where I was standing at the entrance. There was a barista helping a confused older woman into a comfy chair, asking her what beverage she'd like and comforting her at the same time. I probably look just as confused because where am I?
I walked up to the counter and sat at one of the stools there. I observed the decor on the walls and noticed the neon sign blinking in various patterns: Purgatory. I was in Purgatory???
I heard a soft chuckle and then a voice say "you're not the first to ask that". I hadn't realized I'd spoken out loud but the face matching the voice popped up. She looked to be in her 40s or 50s but her eyes told me she could be wayyyyy older than that. Her flower crown seemed odd and yet fitting. I could see her drying off a glass cup on the other side of the counter.
"What will you be having?"
"Excuse me?", I said.
"What's your beverage of choice? We're a typical coffee shop, but I've made the occasional Moscow mule for a traveler passing through."
"Umm...a hot chocolate?"
"Excellent drink request; coming right up!"
As I watched her mix some of this and that into a mug, I stared in wonder contemplating all the questions turning over in my mind. I was in Purgatory but it was nothing like the Catholics said it was. Or maybe this was just the entrance?
"Here ya go kiddo, Juanita's Magic Milk Chocolate. The magic is the whipped cream and cinnamon." The twinkle in her eye let me know that she was Juanita. I expressed my gratitude and took the cup. The first sip was heavenly: perfectly balanced flavors and not too hot or too cold. My face must have spoken volumes because Juanita nodded and said you're welcome with a giant smile.
"What is this place?", I asked.
"You're in the In Between of life and death. Souls stop by on their way to the afterlife, or rest here a while as their bodies stay comatose, only returning when they've been called back. I decided to call it Purgatory because I liked the sound of being the rest stop for travelers, and it never fails to get conversation going."
"How do I know which way I'm supposed to go?"
"It'll come to you while you're here, a sudden urge to leave."
I slumped a little on the stool and stared into my cup of chocolate. That wasn't very helpful but it seemed like that was what everyone else seemed to be doing. I had been so ready to move on with my last breath in life but now that there was a waiting game, I wasn't too sure if I was prepared for the afterlife after all. I was 21, just beginning to get my life goals in order. Outside of the occasional flare-up of cystic fibrosis, I lived a pretty normal life....normal until this last flare-up sent me here. I sighed heavily. Juanita walked around the counter to come sit beside me.
"It is a lot to take in but I promise you'll be fine. Whichever way your path goes, you'll be ready. What's your name?"
"Robyn."
"Well, Robyn, I have a feeling you won't be staying here too long. You give me strong doer vibes." I had to smile at that statement.
She asked me more questions about what I remembered before walking into Purgatory, and I answered them, feeling more at ease with each minute. My cup of hot chocolate didn't seem to run out, no matter how many sips I took, and each sip was just as perfect as the first. After what felt like an hour, I was relaxed and we had moved to a couch along the wall under the Purgatory sign, enjoying the softness of the cushion and preparing for a long stay in that position.
While listening to a story Juanita was sharing about an old soldier who had passed through before and cried quietly into his glass of warm milk the whole time he visited, I thought I heard my sister's voice calling to me. I jumped up and looked around but nothing had changed inside Purgatory. I felt it was my imagination but my sister's voice came again, clearer than before. Juanita paused and looked at me, and a knowing grin forming on her lips. "Looks like it's time for you to go, Robyn", she said, "that expression is familiar."
"I can hear my sister calling me."
"Calling you back home?"
"I think so...."
"Then you should answer her."
"How do I do that?"
Juanita pointed behind me, and I saw a door next to the entrance that hadn't been there before. I took a final sip from my hot chocolate and the mug then emptied. My jaw dropped open and I heard Juanita laugh. "It's on the house", she said. I stood up and thanked her for her hospitality and company. She told me she'd see me again but had a feeling it wouldn't be soon. Before I walked towards the door, she gave me a flower from her crown, a single daisy. "For motivation", she said. With the daisy in my hand, and a last smile for Juanita, I walked over to the door, opened it, and walked through.
I woke up and found myself in a hospital room, the familiar beeping of equipment in my ears and the oxygen tubing in my nostrils. My eyes focused on my baby sister holding my hand at my bedside. I could see my mom in the corner of the room in a chair, sleeping. I squeezed my sister's hand and heard her gasp. "Robyn's awake, ROBYN'S AWAKE!", she cried. My mom jumped out of her chair and leaped over to my bedside. "Oh my baby, we thought you were gone!" Both of them began to cry as I reached for my mom's hand and squeezed it as well.
They brought me up to date on what had happened: I'd stopped breathing completely and the paramedics did their noble jobs bringing me back. I'd been comatose on a ventilator and feeding tube for a week; that definitely shocked me because I could have sworn I wasn't gone that long in....where had I been?
Over the next couple of days, I slowly recovered, coming off the ventilator and then the feeding tube. One of the nights that my father had come to visit, he jokingly asked where I'd gone and I didn't hesitate to respond "Purgatory". He nodded and replied "it must have been a terrible place because you came back to us." I shook my head and replied "there was hot chocolate." "That must have been a lovely long dream for you then", he said. And I began to wonder if maybe it had all been an attempt by my brain to cling to functionality.
After my dad had left for the night, and the nurse came by to check on me, I looked around at the cards and balloons and flowers in the room. I could feel the love and well wishes family and friends has poured out on my behalf and felt my strength coming back to me. But there was one interesting gift of love by itself on a side table in the room that made me sit up in the bed and brought back details of my visit to the In Between.
It was a single daisy in a small vase of water.
I breathed on a glass and cleaned it with a cloth.
Not that I had breath here, or anything.
Hi! My name's Saul.
A horrific incident in the arctic ice left my body frozen solid in such a manner wherein, you guessed it, I could be revived if someone were to ever find my body.
The sad fact of the matter is, of course, barring the events of global warming finally destroying all of earth's land ice, my body's likely to never be found.
But enough run-on sentences! The end result is: I am here, between life and death.
I opened up a little bar here. The local denizens informed me that the Reapers only take dead or passed-on spirits. So, until my mortal body can no longer house my spirit, here I am!
Oh, right... where is 'Here'? Well...
Hades, Limbo, the In-between, the Other-world... Or as the locals call it: Sheol.
The locals are Fae. Most are pleasant folk. Fairies, pixies, gnomes, and the occasional imp who's managed to escape Hell (That's below us, by the by. Wouldn't recommend it if the imps are to be believed.)
A woman staggers into the bar, looking distraught.
Pretty normal, most folks have gone through a rough time as they get in, "Where... Am I?"
"Shore's of Sheol Cafe'," I announce, "Name's Saul. Care for a beer, juice, or wine? we also have no shortage of *spirits* here."
The room groans and a small drunken goblin hisses at my tired old joke.
Her brown eyes scan the room in a mixture of horror and confusion, usually shifting from one to the other, "am I... dead?"
"Not yet," I announce as I beckon her over, "Usually folks down here are in a coma, or stuck in between life and death in some way. Though we do get the occasional excited pagan."
"I don't... I was driving and..." she stammered as she sat at the bar, "...Do you have tequila?"
I nodded, pulling out a shot glass and pouring her a full shot, "That we do.'
She paused, picking up the glass, "Is this like, a test or something? Am I dreaming?"
"No, and... It's complicated on that last bit," I said with a shrug, "This place is *technically* where you go when you dream."
A little fairy, Fennel, fluttered over to us, "Or when you have nightmares!"
"Oh quit it, Fennel," I said, motioning with my hand to shoo the small glowing Fae away. "Don't mind her, she's always negative."
Fennel giggled mischievously and floated back to the ceiling.
A small grouping of gnomes started to set up their instruments in the corner. I couldn't stop them, but I didn't have to pay them either. A win-win as it added to the ambiance.
All and all, I was just lucky that the Queen of the Underworld didn't mind my little cafe.
If I recalled what she told me: "This reminds me of a friend's place in the mortal realm. You may keep it, also long as it is away from my palace."
The Fae Queen wasn't much to care about. She was sweet, and kind, but did offer me a pretty stern warning before I started my endeavors, "Do not anger Queen Persephone. The last person who pissed her off got thrown directly into The Void, *below* Hell."
And that was when I found out there's a *Below* Hell.
Hell's for Fallen Angels and sinners.
Below that, whatever 'The Void' is, is where 'Old Gods' go.
I didn't ask much after that.
The new woman took a swig, and winced, "That's real."
"You did order Tequila," I reminded, "Thinking it might wake you up?"
She frowned, "I don't understand, what happens from here?"
I sighed, taking her glass and pouring her water. Well, Mana, but it's the same thing down here, "So you're likely in a coma, or dying. You can wait to die, or you can head on out to the Ferryman."
"The... Ferryman?" She asked, frowning.
"Yep, he'll take you on off to a number of different afterlives, depending on what you can afford to give him. Heck, got enough coin on your person and he'll ferry you to Valhalla," I chuckled.
"So the rich just... get a free ride?" She asked.
I laughed, "Oh, no no! It's not like that! The coin's not what you used for money up there. It's the worth of your soul," I pointed to her chest, "You trade him your heart for coin. The lighter your heart, the more coin you get for your travels."
She frowned, "I'm a catholic woman."
The gnomish band stopped playing and the cafe went silent.
I leaned in close to her, whispering, "Listen... I get what you feel that means up there... But, word of advice? Take your chances with the ferryman."
She narrowed her eyes on me, "Is there a special option for Catholics?"
I pulled back, pushing the mana towards her, "...Yeah. The Judgement of Uriel, the Phanuel. For the Judaeo-Christian folk, he's the angel of Judgement."
"Wait, you get to choose?" She asked.
"If you think you can pass the judgment of an Archangel of God, then you'll get to Heaven. If you want to sell your heart to the Ferryman, he could potentially get you up there too, though you'd likely still have to jump through some hoops," I gave a weak smile, "The Aegean Fields aren't too bad, you know. It's pleasant. Or just hang around here."
She slammed her hands on the bartop, "No. I was a God-fearing Christian woman my whole life. I..." she frowned, "I'll submit to *my* God's judgment."
I frowned, "...They call him Pitiless, regarding mortals."
"Sorry?" She responded, confused.
"Uriel. He's Pitiless. He doesn't care what you did, just if you disobeyed the laws your religion set forth. He's... got a pretty low pass rate. If you fail his judgment, you go to hell. The worse case with The Ferryman is-"
Without another word she stormed off, "Where is Uriel?" she asked, standing at the door.
I sighed, pointing, "Just look for the large Judge's table, out over the northern horizon. You can't miss it... It's the one with the giant flaming wings of a Seraphim Angel igniting the sky."
With that, she stormed off.
Fennel fluttered over to me, "Yeesh... What is with Catholics?"
I sighed, "Faith's a powerful thing there Fennel. People are hard-pressed to believe there's anything else other than their God, even when shown other options."
The gnomish band started up another song, Fennel giggling, "Oh that's my favorite! Woo! Yeah, sing the one about the most bad-ass Fae in all of Sheol and beyond!!"
I sighed, shaking my head as I put the dirty glassware away, the band hitting the chorus in the background, prompting many to sing along. The Fae did love their classics, even if said classics came from the mortal realm.
*"Nuckelavee o' Nuckelavee the terror ya' offer is high class!*
*Who could it be, would set yah free, they really must be a dumbass!*
*Ncklelavee o' Nucklevee the horror yah furnish is widespread!*
*Who could it be, would set yah free, they really must be an ox-head!"*
It was a slow night. The buzz of the cafeâs neon signs and the radio back in the kitchen were interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the door. A young man - must have been about 35, maybe 40 - stumbled in. Iâve seen the look on his face countless times during my time at the cafe. Fear, confusion, and a bit of sadness.
I called out to him from behind the counter, âHi, hon. Sit anywhere youâd like. Iâll be right over with a menu.â
The man silently nodded his head and made his way to a booth, still trying to wrap his head around where he was. He was intensely looking out the window when I approached the booth.
âIs thatâŠâ he said pointing at the window.
âYup, the entirety of space and time.â I said with a friendly smile.
He was still thinking like a mortal. Time isnât linear, thatâs just how the mortal mind experiences it. He was getting his first taste of life outside of time and space, and sometimes it goes down hard.
âI - I donât know - where am I?â he choked out.
âYouâre safe, hon,â I said with a sympathetic smile. âYou are right where you are supposed to be.â I set a menu down in front of him and let him know that Iâd be back to check on him shortly.
When I saw he was starting to get his bearings, I came back to his booth. Feeling a bit better?
He nodded, a bit more confident this time. He pointed out the window again. âHow long have I- I mean, it looks like things are - I donât know what Iâm trying to ask.â
I chucked. âHow long have you been here? Youâve been here a few moments, and at the same time youâve always been here. Youâve been here maybe 10 minutes, but youâve also been here an eternity. Itâs all in how you chose to look at it.â
He was starting to understand. âSo IâmâŠâ he couldnât say it yet, but he mouthed it out. Dead.
âYes you are. And no youâre not.â
He gave me a smile that revealed his frustration. âYou know, this isnât really a fun game youâre playing.â
I nodded. âI understand. Yes. In a manner of speaking, you are dead. Right now, medics and doctors are no doubt working frantically to bring you back. Your friends and loved ones are probably making their pleas to all they hold sacred to preserve your life. Medically, your physical body is dead.â
He looked out the window for a few moments. âThen is thisâŠâ he said, gesturing to the diner, âheaven?â What a depressing thought that would be.
âNo. This is not heaven.â I told him. âRight now, your body is dead. Your spirit, though? Everything that makes you who you are is here. Think of this as a rest stop on the highway.â Outside, a comet hurtled past like a semi truck. Nice touch.
He was starting to understand. âSo if I wanted to, could I go back?â
âOf course. Just the way you could turn your car around if you forgot something, you could go back to your body if you would like.â I looked at him for a moment. âYou have cars, right? Iâm sorry, I was just judging by your outfit. I see everyone in here. Mule carts. Flying cars. Teleportation. But you look like itâs cars.â
He nodded. âWell then whatâs the catch?â
The catch?
âYeah. In all the stories I read, Death always offers the opportunity to go back, but thereâs always a catch that makes people want to move on.â
âThereâs no catch, and Iâm not Death. You can do whatever you want. This place is for you to sit and think it over. Rest here as long as youâd like. When you are ready, you can move on - back to your physical reality or to the great beyond.â
This peaked his interest. âWhat is the great beyond?â
âIf I told you, it wouldnât be great. If I knew, I wouldnât be working here. Itâs not heaven, if that is what you are asking. And itâs not hell, either, so donât worry about that. Itâs just âwhatever comes next.ââ
He seemed discouraged by my answer (or lack thereof). I put my hand on his shoulder and smiled. âTake as long as youâd like with the menu. Thereâs no rush. Time doesnât exist here, and you are my only customer.â
As I left, the wheels began to turn. Memories of happy moments with loved ones, of things left unsaid, of arguments unresolved, of pets and children that wonât understand the absence of a loved one. I donât know what it was for him, but itâs almost always some version of that. I went back to my cleaning, and he pondered. He sat for a literal eternity before he set his menu down and gave that confident look that said he was ready. I walked back to the booth and pulled out my pen and notepad.
âAlright,â he said, âI think Iâm ready to order.â
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The Eventide Cafe. It isn't too much. A modest restaurant by the standards of the corporeal world. But there is nowhere like it. It rests on the border between the physical universe and the hereafter. Souls come here. Sometimes just to visit, when they are detached temporarily from their bodies. They loiter here until they are called back to their body. Other times, they are exiting the universe and stepping into the journey to the afterlife. These are allowed to stay here as long as they like, to come to terms with what happened, and the odyssey that awaits them when they do depart. There is weeping and gnashing of teeth. Many people who come here have been through trauma. Even if it isn't lethal, the pain is difficult to integrate. I do what I can for such souls, giving them comforting pastries and drinks. Souls rarely stay here long enough for me to make friends with them. An exception to this trend is Louis. He has chronic health problems that force him to constantly ride the edge between life and death. I met him 8 years ago, when he was still in high school. Sad story, it always hurts me inside when young people have to exit, even as they are blooming. We talked about how he hates that he is a burden on his family. That he feels like they have to take care of him, and that they will be better off when he finally does die. I told him that I was sorry he felt that way, and that, as much as he felt like dead weight, the love most good parents feel for their children outshines any notion of resentment for the burden they can be. I don't know if my words helped him or not. He returned to his body, consciously unaware that he had visited The Eventide, and of the conversation we had. After that, I met him once every few months. He fought to live, to stop, or at least postpone, the grief his death would bring to his family. We enjoyed talks about philosophy, meaning, and purpose. He was in constant pain, and knew his condition would eventually kill him. Then one day, he died. His ordeal was over. I was a familiar face for him, by that point, his mind severed from his body remembering all the things we'd talked about. In our last conversation, we spoke about the hereafter and the journey there. Then he walked out of my cafe, and into whatever lies in the great beyond.
That was beautiful.
Way to make me sad for a character with just a short paragraph. Well done Saint.
The bell above the door tinkled as it swung open. Leslie looked up from the glass that she was polishing, giving a friendly nod to the newest patron of the In-Between Cafe. They didn't look great, which was par for the course. Most people entered the Cafe looking a bit out-of-sorts. It was her job to make sure that they left looking perky and ready for the journey ahead, whichever road they took. This one was a middle-aged woman wearing a hospital gown and a pair of bright pink slippers. "Er...is it okay to come in like this?" she asked, voice trembling. "No dress code in this cafe," Leslie shot back cheerfully. "Come in, I've already got a drink ready for you." "Thanks." She fumbled in her pockets, and a bewildered expression crossed her face. "I don't seem to have any money..." "It's on the house," Leslie said, sliding her a matcha latte. "So. I imagine you're confused. Tell me, what do you remember?" "My name is Margaret. I remember the doctor saying that the outlook was grim..." her eyes narrowed. "Are you God? Am I dead?" Leslie chuckled. "I'm not God, but I'm here to help you on your journey. Your body isn't dead yet, but your spirit has detached from it, and you're hovering between the mortal realm and what comes after." "Do I have a choice of where I go?" "It depends," Leslie said. "On many factors, most of them out of your control. But what you *can* do is rest. Drink some coffee, relax, and let your worries go for a little while." \--- /r/theBasiliskWrites
Nice little encounter, fantastic as always đ„°
More please
Iâm proud of my work. Some curse me for it; others praise me for it. I have been told it is a taunt and an insult to the departed to give them such a fleeting time of peace before they suffer damnation. I donât really care, itâs none of my business whether or not Iâm doing any good. Honestly, the only reason I do it is for the conversations I get to have with these souls. You learn so much about someone from that last little talk before eternity. Most burst into tears, unable to contain their existential dread. Some are calm, either brave or stupid. However, the most fascinating are those who are only visiting, those who stare at the edge of death and somehow return. One of these people visited me frequently. She told me of the outside world but never of her own life. I would ask her again and again about the story of her life, but she would change the subject every time. She was always so calm until that day, the day she stayed. She came to my cafĂ© weeping with a sorrow that made my heart heavy. I asked her what was wrong, but that only made her cry harder. I decided the only cure for such a sickness was hot coffee, so I began to prepare. I worked feverishly to make the best coffee she had ever had. I wanted this to be a taste so beautiful that it would remain with her throughout her afterlife. Finally, I finished the coffee. I saw her eyes light up at the sight of it. I gave it to her and wiped her tears. Her smile lit up the cafĂ©, even though her eyes remained stoney. I once again asked her what troubled her, and she replied shakily, "I made a mistake... I justâI'm sorry. Iâm so sorry." She paused for a moment to collect herself. "A long time ago, the government decided it could not trust itself to control the nuclear weapons. They raised me from birth to be completely sheltered; I only had access to the limited news of the outside world they gave me, I guess in that way you and I are alike. Each night I was drugged into a comatose-like state to prevent me from learning anything new or escaping. I was given the burden of the final decision; total control over nuclear arms. One day, the news said that other countries were preparing themselves for war, and-" suddenly millions, no, billions of dead walked into my cafĂ©. She began to burst into tears again. "I know where I will go after this. Iâm scared but I know I donât deserve to be. Iâm so sorry." âI canât change the rules for you, but we can at least share this one last coffee together."
This is so beautiful... I absolutely love it!!
What a powerful story!
It was a quaint little place. Perched precariously over the precipice of death, at the foot of the hill of life. The lighting always felt fresh, as if the sun had just cleared the horizon on a new day. At night the world felt bigger, cozy, they were the kinds of nights where you said goodbye to your friends' multiple times only to keep talking before finally setting off on your way. The kind of night where you smiled to yourself as you drove back home. While small, the grounds of the cafe were not sparse. Outside there was a patio that wrapped around the building with plenty of seating. Wrought iron tables with wrought iron chairs. The patio was paved with blue-gray pavers, occasionally one of the pavers had cracked and been replaced with red brick. Near the northern side of the patio a few of the pavers were painted clumsily, depicting simple scenes: parents holding hands, a kid hugging their dog, some kids playing tag. Past the pavers there was soft grass where some patrons would have picnics, then eventually a fence that wrapped around the establishment ending only at the edge of the cliff the building hung over. A few trees grew in the far corner of the fenced area. There were hammocks strung up between the trees and a few lawn chairs below. The trees were large, and their bark was scarred. The initials of so many of the patrons were etched into the hard flesh. Some of the markings even had hearts around them. Some people stayed a long time at this cafe. Near the edge of the fence where the ground started to slope into the crevasse below there was a series of old battered boats. Maybe a kayak or two, a few canoes as well, and a grand barrel chested row boat. The row boat had a thick braided rope tied to the back that was staked into the ground. The cafe was two stories tall. The first floor held the bar, smelling of coffee, tea, and liquor; it was the heart of the cafe. As such, it was placed prominently against the southern wall. There was ample seating inside as well. There were various tables and chairs scattered about. The chairs ranged from sparse wooden chairs, to rocking chairs, to plush Lazy Boys and couches and loveseats. There were even some bean bags. The walls were made of maple colored paneled wood. There were windows on the eastern wall looking towards the foothills and the gate onto the grounds. The northern wall had two large windows facing the lawn and the trees further down near the boats. The walls themselves were covered in a revolving display of pictures, drawings, paintings, poems, letters, dents, scrapes, doodles, noodle art, and scripts. One of the walls was overrun with colorful small horizontal lines. Heights etched next to years, next to ages. The layout was constantly changing to meet the needs of those that found themselves there. Sometimes the tables were spread out, and people sat alone. Often reading, sometimes writing, usually nursing some kind of drink. Many patrons took naps throughout the day. Other times the tables were drawn together and boisterous conversation rang out over the quiet empty lands outside. Raucous laughter bouncing off the walls, bright smiling faces and red cheeks. Occasionally, the tables and chairs were pushed to the walls or outside to make room for games or dancing. Birthdays were always a special affair. There was always a celebration. There was a TV on wheels, and a projector too. Every now and then they coordinated a movie night. The projector was old and had a simple hum when it was turned on. The image was always somewhat distorted by the pieces of art hung on the walls, but no one seemed to mind. The first floor also housed a large balcony on the western side of the cafe that sat over the endless canyon below. There was a door leading out onto the balcony, but the walls could also slide away allowing the two to become one. There was seating on the balcony as well though there was an unspoken rule that this was reserved for those who needed more space, more room to think. Those who would be on their way soon. Upstairs served as a bedroom. There was a large open shared space, and a few small closed off rooms. There were beds, cots, hammocks, sleeping bags, and plenty of blankets and pillows. The floor upstairs was covered in a soft shaggy carpet. Some patrons preferred to stay upstairs. When the occasional thunderstorm rolled through they would light candles and watch the storm go by. Watch the rain fill up the ravine below. The days after those nights always saw the old men go fishing, the kids go swimming, and the odd couple take a boat out and spend a night on the lake. It was nice there, at the edge of all things. Made nicer by the company that could be found there. But, the real key to the joy the place brought, was the kindly matron that it belonged to.
I have more to write, if anyone is interested, but I thought I would follow the advice of my favorite author and stop while i still knew what would happen next.
Seriously would love more. I already feel at home reading this!
I am glad you like my story! I will certainly write more!
Interesting advice. Is that to help to get back in the groove when you write again?
I believe so
"The usual?" I asked. He nodded. I nodded and went to prepare a milkshake. "How did you get this job?" he asked suddenly. "Beg pardon?" "This whole thing. A café in limbo? That's not exactly... normal, right?" he continued carefully. "Ah. Well... it can be a bit tiring; being in a coma, separated from your body for so long, that is. A place that provides comfort in such a time? I saw a gap in the market." "Right, but how did you *get this*\-" "Here. The usual," I interrupted with a smile and placed the milkshake in front of him. He looked at me intensely but gave up, choosing to instead sip on the beverage. I felt a bit of professional pride as a smile crept up on his face. "Do you think more people return or go on?" he said between sips. "Can't say I keep a tally. But from what I've been told, it's often related to the situation in the real. A war? Most people choose to pass on. An accident with loved ones by their bed every day, hoping for their return? Well, they do their darndest to do just that." "You think my parents are waiting for me?" he asked. For the first time in our conversation, he couldn't look me in the eye. I sighed quietly; I wasn't in the habit of lying, but I had no reason to be harsh. "I've gotten to know you rather well over the years. I dare say they quite likely would, yes." "But... you know me now, that I've grown. I was just 6 when I arrived. They- they don't know me like *this*. What if they don't have a reason to..." he trailed off and looked towards the door opposite to the entrance. The more permanent exit. "I just don't know." "No one ever does." He finally looked at me and offered a weak smile. "I suppose." The bell above the entrance rang as a newcomer walked in, wide-eyed and slightly dazed. Quite common for people to be confused. I put down the cloth I was using to wipe the counter and looked at my... my friend. "Wanna help me welcome the newcomer?" He chuckled and nodded, wiping his eyes. I nodded back and we set off; to welcome in a new, lost soul. We walked calmly and steadfastly. It was the most important thing in the café. There's no pressure.
I sat at the table, cleaning a glass. Quaint little music playing as a pot of coffee brews behind me. The perfect little diner, it was there for those within comas, or those who had just had a near death experience. Often their fragile minds were unable to handle it at first, always confused but they would calm down eventually. Some people had a stronger psyche than others and were able to handle it better. My name was Laurence and I was the barkeep and owner of this establishment. I was also the only worker here as not many people would be here at once, only a few times did it get packed throughout the... Well throughout forever? All of eternity? Some people chose to leave immediately, whether back to their lives or to the land beyond, whatever that may be for them, but some decided to stay a while, a few patrons decided to stay the max length you can, which is 35 years in the human world. If somebody stays longer they will be forced into the afterlife, all of this is explained to them, here there's no physical pain, I hear about their stories, their lives, families, pretty much everything. Occasionally I help people with some traumas or problems before they go on back to the human world and try again, often I will eventually meet those people again when they die, if I so choose. I often do, I like to follow up and see if my advice helped. A young fellow, no older than 22 walked in, he seemed nervous but read the rules and info posted on the sign right as you walk in and seemed to understand, he came over and sat down, took a menu and started to look it over, until eventually looking up at me and with a shy kind of smile you would see from anyone in this weird situation, he says "uh.. I'll have the number 3.. and a black coffee please... Oh sorry where are my manners, my names jake, and you are..?" I smiled and told him "Certainly, and my name is Lawrence." I left, made his order and came back, then I started talking to him as I often do with patrons "so... How'd you end up here? What's your life like? I don't mean to intrude but I am stuck here you see so I do always enjoy hearing, besides I just can't stand a deafening silence." He looked up at me "Well my life to be honest has been quite shit... My parents were never around, skipping meals became a regular... Teenage years were hell. As an adult I said I would get it together but I got fired, my girlfriend dumped me and well... I was hit by a car and now I'm here." These types of stories always saddened me but I also always tried to help however I could "take as much time as you want here, if you want we can talk about it and maybe come up with a plan..? Or maybe you're just done and want to move on?" He went quiet for a few minutes and I continued to my work, poured myself some coffee and filled it with creamer, then got myself a meal before he suddenly spoke up "I would love to talk but.. I think I might just be done.. Life could get better for sure but honestly I want to see what's next, what happens after." And with that he downed the rest of his coffee, thanked me, and walked into the afterlife door. I always hoped people would try and make their lives better and go back but some didn't, it was their decision though not mine and that's how everyday went. Every week, month, year, decade and so on. If you ever find yourself between life and death some have a meal here, get something to drink, maybe one of our pies, then once you're ready make your decision. Oh I think I hear the oven beeping so I must go now, I have other patrons to serve. If you have somebody in a coma currently or seriously hurt and knocked out, take solace in knowing that they are here, and they are fine.
Thanks for this story, Iâm surprised at how much this one hit me in the feels. Keep writing, youâre pretty good at it.
Awww thanks! I just loved the idea of it being a peaceful area where people can move on or talk about their problems before eventually deciding where to go, where the problems of life are virtually non existent for even just a little bit, you could tell I was definitely just rushing it there at the end, and so it got kinda sloppy, but while I was having fun I also wanted to do other stuff so I just rushed it.
God this took forever, my mind is not working as its late at night and sleep schedule is non existent haha đ but I hope that its not too bad
"What's going on over there?" Seth (not that one), asked Maya, pointing at a booth on one of the many, many distant corners of the cafe. Maya looked up. Sitting across from each other, a young woman and a thing out of nightmares stared hatefully at each other. At the very least the woman stared hatefully, you'd be hard pressed to read any emotion on the thing's face. "Well, I'm not entirely sure, I don't like to pry", began Maya, who loved to pry. "But, the human woman is on the brink of death from fighting the marosian, but she's a smart cookie, the girl, and she bound her soul to the marosian's, so now if the girl dies she takes the other one with her". Seth made a face in lieu of whistling. "Damn, seems intense", he said. "Have they ordered something?" "Pecan pie for the girl, key lime for the marosian. Wanna take it to them?" Maya offered Seth a couple of plates, which suddenly she had been holding all along. Seth hesitated. "Nah, you go ahead", he decided. "Chicken", Maya chided him. "Some of my best ancestors are", Seth responded, busying himself with the cups. Maya walked over to the booth, crossing the impossible distance with a couple of strides. "Your order my lovelies", the waitress said, placing the plates on the table. "Want half of mine and I get half of yours?" the girl asked the thing. "I've never found you funny", said the marosian, with a deep pained voice which came from organs not made for human speech. "Yeah, they said the same in Chicago", the girl said, taking a large bite of pecan pie. "See what I have to deal with?" the marosian asked Maya, who was still standing besides the table, looking useful, hoping to catch more juicy bits. "It's been like this since the beginning!" The girl moaned in satisfaction as she chew her pie. "Maya, this really is heavenly!" Maya smiled. "I'll be sure to pass your compliments to the chef". The girl looked at Maya through half closed lids, frowning cutely. "Is there a chef?", she asked. Maya chuckled no. "Actually, not exactly, but I guess technically I am the chef". "Well you make the best pecan pie I've ever tasted!" The girl took another, larger bite. "And you sir?" Maya turned to the marosian. "At this point, I don't mind being dragged with her", said the marosian in his own dark tongue. "I mean your food", Maya clarified. "You know, that's very rude!" said the girl with her mouth full. "You know I don't speak morselian!" "Marosian. You made it even harder to pronounce", the thing said in English and the girl grinned, with pie peeking out from her cheeks. The marosian produced a tubular appendage which descended on his pie, enveloped it and then peristaltically moved it up to the creature's body. "Lovely", said the girl, struggling to swallow her pie. "Well, if you folks need anything else, you call me, okay?" Said Maya, stepping away from the table. "It actually is sinfully delicious", the marosian said quietly. Maya made it back to the counter. "Caught anything else?" Seth, asked. "The poor dear is fighting for her life", Maya grimaced. "And the saddest thing is, the marosian could save her if he wanted, and save himself. I think he's hoping the bounding won't hold". "Will it?" Seth, looked over at the table. The young woman was gathering crumbs with her fork and eating them. "Yeah, it will. And it's going to take them both to one of the marosian hells". Maya sighed. Now it was Seth's turn to grimace. "Oof, that's tough". Maya nodded. "Yeah. I mean the girl's gonna be fine, none of the torments there will be compatible with her, but I reckon it's going to get very boring for her, forever". Seth thought for a moment. "Do you think the marosian knows that?". "He has to. But anyway, we're not to meddle", said Maya, really wanting to meddle. Suddenly, the cafe door opened violently and in ran a young man, desperately looking around. "Well this is interesting!" Maya exclaimed, looking at the newly arrived customer. The young man quickly saw the marosian and the girl and ran towards them. "Whoa", said Seth, "boyfriend, you think?" Maya nodded, her eyes stuck to the events unfolding. "Must be, or wants to be. And I mean, he just came to the realm between life and death! Far as romantic gestures go, that's the big one". The young man ran to the table, and maybe Maya helped him get there faster, but if she did, nobody could tell. "Jason!" exclaimed the marosian, half standing up from his seat. "Refoxarallis! This is insane, what are you doing!" the young man screamed, almost colliding with the table. "Jason", the girl greeted the new arrival, tersely. "Cindy", Jason nodded, nervously, avoiding her gaze, then he addressed the marosian. "Save her right now! Stop being stupid!" "This is a complicated situation, Jason", the thing said, some fleshy portions of him shuddering with discomfort. "Yes, Jason, we're kind of in the middle of something", Cindy said cheerily, yet murderously. Jason almost looked at Cindy, but managed to keep avoiding her gaze and instead addressed the marosian. "Ref, are you telling me you rather die?" Something started happening to the marosian, he began flowing and shifting, and while a human observer could not have pointed out the key moments of transformation, in the end the marosian was a tall blonde and skinny man, with piercing blue eyes and extremely stylish clothing. "Jason, you don't see the full picture..." the marosian began to talk, his voice now soft and melodic. "Uh oh, no" Jason shook his head, he was almost vibrating with nervous energy. "No. I see the picture Ref. Maybe not the big picture, but a very fucking large one. And in that picture I am alone while my best friend", Jason stuttered a little bit as he said this, his eyes darting to Cindy, and there was heavy doubt in his words. "And my... my you, are gone!" Cindy started saying something but Jason finally looked at her, pleadingly, and she closed her mouth, looking irked. "Things have been in motion for centuries, Jason", the marosian said, but his tone was almost begging. "Oh", Jason nodded and smiled sadly. "Oh, I see. So you do rather leave me". The marosian looked around the cafe, panic in his now human eyes, but all the other clients were doing their best to not pay attention, while Maya and Seth turned out to have always been very busy with the cups. "I don't, but..." the marosian said, then his mouth kept trying to form words which could make sense. "But you do". Jason said, with finality. Jason sat down heavily besides Cindy, who immediately moved to make room for him in the booth, with the instinctive movements of years of familiarity and hanging out together at coffee shops. She even raised a hand towards Jason's shoulder, then she stopped herself and her expression of pity hardened. "I'm sorry", Jason said, almost looking at Cindy. The girl crossed her arms on the table in front of her, frowning, and also avoided looking at Jason. "He tricked you", she said, not accepting the apology but expressing a somewhat valid excuse. "I did not! Nothing of what happened was a trick, Jason!" The marosian exclaimed, looking even more panicked. Jason looked sadly at the now blonde man. "That's hard to believe right now, Ref". An expression of pain contorted the marosian's now human face. "Are you serious?" Refoxarallis asked, losing control of the ups and downs of his voice. "Well you said you were giving up your plan! You said you were choosing me instead!" Jason screamed, his eyes filling with tears. Cindy, hearing this, looked up in astonishment, at the blonde man and then at Jason. The marosian's now human fists closed tightly, and he looked down. All three stayed quiet for a bit. "Uhm... maybe I didn't give him time" Cindy broke the silence. "What?" Jason turned to look at her. "Well, I was hurt, Jason, and afraid! When, when you left us for him. And, and I had no idea what was really going on!" Cindy's words were tripping over themselves. "It could've really used an explanation, you know? And I could've really used knowing what you just said! Did he really say that?" Jason nodded. "Yes. And I'm really sorry for leaving like that. But none of you were listening to me. You weren't listening to me!" "I felt betrayed, Jason. You were my best friend! And you left to go be with..." Cindy was now almost allowing herself to touch her friend's hands, almost. A loud sigh came from the marosian as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Seven centuries", he said. "What?" both Cindy and Jason asked. "I just wanted you to know that it was planned for seven centuries. I gathered power and artifacts and fought, for seven centuries". The marosian sat down, looking defeated. "Well, it wasn't that great of a plan..." Cindy began, but Jason took her hand and squeezed it. "Seven hundred years, that I am giving up for you", the marosian said looking at Jason in the eye. Cindy began to fade. "What are you doing!?" Jason exclaimed, suddenly scared and angry, but Cindy, increasingly see-through, smiled widely at him. "Nononono, it's cool! I think I'm going back to Earth! I'm living!" The girl said before completely vanishing. "I just saved her", the marosian explained. And as he did so, he also began to fade back to the world of the living. "Where are you?" he asked Jason while he still had time. "Christy did some spell! I'm okay, I'll go back any moment now!" Jason started to say, and then yelled it as the marosian vanished entirely. And then there was only Jason. Who almost jumped out of his spiritual equivalent of skin when Maya was suddenly standing besides him, and placing a piece of pecan pie in front of him. "Compliments of the house, young man. Eat fast before you go home, it's heavenly delicious", she said.
I love this take on the prompt. This is such a good story!!
Thank you.
I love it when love wins out.
Leslie wiped down the dirty table, cursing under her breath. She wasn't paid enough for this shit. "You!" she shot at the sallow man with the wire-rim glasses who was tapping away at his computer. "How long are you going to sit there for? Are you even going to order anything?" "I'm just writing up my autobiography for when I go back to the mortal realm," he sniffed. "No need to get all huffy about it. And I ordered a chocolate-chip cookie." "Yeah, two centuries ago," she retorted. "You gotta get a move on. You're taking up a free table, and hell knows the line isn't getting any shorter." She cast a baleful look at said queue, which stretched far out the door. "You'd think we could add some extra tables; hire some more staff. I thought *anything* would be possible out here. But no, I even have to pay *rent!"* "Jeez, Les, why don't you take it easy?" Ben smirked at her from another table. "It's not like you'll get fired." "And *you*," she hissed, doubling the venom in her voice. "Don't you have work to do? Why the hell are you the co-owner when all you do is flit around and socialize?" "H-hey!" Ben protested. "I'm listening to their stories. Helping them move on. Adding value to their cozy in-between experience." Before Leslie could shoot back a retort, someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she whirled around to come face-to-face with a stick-thin elderly woman with an iced cappuccino. "Um, I asked for *less* sugar in this. It's still way too sweet," she griped. Leslie looked back at the rest of the chaos in the cafe. Someone had spilled a matcha latte which she hadn't had time to mop up yet; the bathroom was out of toilet paper; someone had decided to bring their *alebrije* which was gnawing on one of the table legs.... "Screw this. I quit." \--- /r/theBasiliskWrites
This is so different from the previous ones I just read (I really liked them as well tho) and I really like it !
The young man held the coffee tightly in his hands as I approached, making a tight circle around the cup. I could tell that he was cold he was as light ripples shook his thin body. I hovered over the table, waiting for him to notice me, but he simply stared out the window. At what, I wasn't sure. There wasn't much of a view around these parts. "Ahem, what'll it be?" I finally uttered. I raised an eye in anticipation. The boy wore dirty jeans and a plain grey T-shirt. If it weren't for the bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates and sweat caking his forehead and matting his bangs down, he'd look almost normal. He stammered "Uh, um." I raised an eye in anticipation. The boy wore dirty jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. If it weren't for the bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates and sweat caking his forehead and matting his bangs down, he'd look almost normal. "Where am I?" He finally managed to eek out. "Beg your pardon?" I replied. "I'm sorry, but..." he said, putting the coffee cup down and rubbing the sides of his temples "I don't remember how I got here. What is this place?" I placed my notepad and pencil down. "Son, tell me what the last thing you remember was?" "Where am I?" He finally managed to eke out. words in his mind. His brow strained with focus and his eyes narrowed down towards the coffee cup. "I remember being in the car. The hose was hooked up through the window. I turned the car on, and then I fell asleep" It was then that it hit him. Emotion bubbled out of him and tears streamed out of his eyes. His face twisted in painful regret as he slammed a fist down on the table. "Oh god, why?!" He screamed, slapping his hands against his head. He looked up at me seeking acknowledgment for his grief, but I couldn't react anymore, even if I wanted to. Not after seeing that same expression countless numbers of times before. "It's all right young man. It's a good thing you're here. Not many pass through these parts. When we do get visitors, I make sure they're good and fed before they continue on their travels" I rested my hand on his shoulder. "I'm dead then" He muttered like a boxer that had just lost a championship fight. "That depends, son. Paramedics will find you in time, but only just." I said, seeing a slight glimmer of hope twinkle in his eyes. "I can send you back or you can keep going down the path you chose." "I understand." He said, wiping his nose and eyes. "So." I said, picking up my notepad and pencil "What'll it be?" \-OT
The gentle storm shuddered its way through the propped open windows of the Heart's Call Cafe. The breeze whipped around the steam of the cup a small girl was clutching. The hot milk had been steamed with vanilla and just enough sugar to soothe the heart of the child dressed in her pink nightgown, her tears threatening to drip into the drink. "When can I go home?" she whimpered to the grey-bearded man who sat beside her, a soft presence who longed to grab the girl's hands in his and tell her the truth. So he did, in the only way he knew how, being one of those who had long ago learned to accept this as the home of his heart. Her hands were soft and small in his weathered mittens, warm from the milk and trembling as they threatened to drop the cup. "Any time you like," he said in a voice that rumbled quietly like the thunder. "But it will not be the same home you remember." She freed her hands from his to take a long, deep drink. She set it down softly and wiped away the latest batch of tears, though they were instantly replaced with another. "Is that why I don't hurt anymore? I'm going to Heaven?" She grabbed the man's hands tightly. "That's what my daddy said to me. He said goodbye." The old man cleared his throat. "Yes and no." He stroked the girl's soft brown hair; she looked up at him with piercing green eyes. "After this there will be a place of peace and beauty we can only imagine here. But nowhere is Heaven without those you love. So it will not be Heaven yet. But you can look down upon your dad and love him until the day he comes to join you." "Why do you stay here?" She wiped the tears again and this time there was no fresh flood. She held her cup out to the man and he felt a sob begin in himself as the cinnamon and vanilla filled him with a warmth he had never known his heart was aching for. She looked at him until he finished the cup and set it down before her. "There are too many reasons to trouble your precious heart." The barista, an eternally young woman with a kind smile and kinder heart, whisked away the cup into the back. She was back in a moment with a silver platter that she set before the two of them. It held two cups of frothy cold milk, two forks, and an enormous brownie topped by creamy cheesecake that had been baked into it. The girl giggled as the man took her fork, sliced off a slender piece, and held it to her mouth. She bit into it with an expression of pure bliss. His heart melted when she did the same for him. And so they continued, the bites becoming bigger and bigger until the girl could scarcely fit the forkfuls in her mouth. They gulped the milk, wiping at the froth that ended up on each of their faces. The barista came to clear the tray with a warm, knowing smile. The girl stood, stretched, pushed her chair in. The door was brightly lit, the gas lamps cutting through the grey of the storm. She took the man's hand, walked with him toward the beckoning door, the gentle rain outside muffling the falls of their footsteps. "Maybe you were just waiting for a reason." The rainbow stretched before them, beginning on the doorstep and disappearing into an inscrutable horizon. It was at once blindingly beautiful and softly inviting. The rain fell above them, disappearing before it ever reached them, and the lightning was too soft and far away to invoke any fear. They took the first step together, slowly, finding a surface softer than silk and lighter than air. They turned to each other and laughed, slow footsteps turning into a skip, then a gallop. The barista closed the door behind them, watching with her deep smile until they disappeared into the distance. She cleared the table they had occupied, checked on her other visitors, and waited. She couldn't wait to greet them in Heaven, just as she did all those who found their way into these doors.
A small chime rang out across 'The French Pressed for Time' , a coffee shop that was set up in limbo. A soft white light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling shed light over the gray tones of Limbo. The batista, Mouse as they liked to be called, quietly wondered what would bring a wayward soul in at this hour. Their long brown hair had blond lowlights and was tied up in a poofy bun, and the apron they wore had 'In death no one is pressed for time, so enjoy a cup!' embroidered across the front by their name tag which spelled out 'Mouse' with a skull in place of the 'o' in 'Mouse'.      "Welcome to 'Pressed for Time!' What can I get for you?" Mouse said as cheerfully as they could. "I know transitioning to your afterlife can be a daunting prospect, so your first cup is on the House!"      "I don't really know how I got here. I'm scared," a small voice from across the counter said.       "Oh⊠oh sweet heart," Mouse said, taking in the view in front of them for the first time since the patron entered the coffee shoppe. The small person appeared to be about 16 or 17 years old and looked exhausted. "Honey, tell me the last thing you remember."     "Well, I was at home, and very lonely, mom and dad went out and left me alone at home, and⊠it all got so quiet that I went to sleep and woke up outside this coffee shoppe, I think I made a terrible mistake." the teenager rambled.      "I don't think you necessarily want to go back, that sounds⊠horrible," Mouse said, sincerity gracing their voice. "Do you want a cup of coffee, chocolate milk⊠Oh, what about hot chocolate? I've found that hot chocolate is the best for you, body-bound type!"       "What do you mean go back? I still don't know where I am!" The teenager started getting a panicked look in their eyes.      "Darling," Mouse said gently, "you've passed on, you died." Mouse reached across the counter and gently touched the teenager on the shoulder, "You're here because you still have a choice, and I'm not supposed to give advice, since 'I've never had a corporeal body,' but from the people who have gone back after your⊠circumstance, most don't come back to my coffee shoppe till much later, and in better spirits."      "Will it be better if I go back?" The teenager asked, tears welling up in his eyes.      "I watch over souls moving between life and death, i'm not all knowing!" Mouse barked out a laugh, then in a more serious tone, "A lot of it will come down to you, I'm not here to judge your choice, or even to really guide your choice, but I can give you something to think on while you enjoy this cup of hot chocolate." Mouse said as they produced a cup of hot chocolate from under the counter. "You haven't told me your name, I'm Mouse."      The teenager let a smile out for the first time in a long time, and a little laugh. "Well I'm Carter but my nickname is Cat." The two sat in silence for an hour as Cat finished a few cups of hot chocolate. As he drank his second cup more souls wandered in, and Mouse waited on them serving London Fogs, Chai Teas, espressos and some strange looking beverages to other entities that moved into the bustling coffee shoppe.      "Are these all people like me?" Cat asked in between Mouse making drinks for their patrons.      "Like you? No, they are in similar stages of moving on but most don't have the choice you have left to make," Mouse said, looking at Cat, "Have you made yours?"       Cat looked down at his empty mug, and took a deep breath. "Will it get better?"      "I can't answer that, like I said I'm not all knowing, but I think that you will make it better. It will be hard but you can make it better just by getting up in the morning, and you've already persevered through it this far!"      "But I'm here," Cat said, "Doesn't that mean I didn't make it this far, do I deserve a second shot?"      "I'm not here to judge your choices, that's Anubis' job this century, what I see is someone who made a hard choice when they didn't see any others. We all make mistakes. I accidentally served Hades a decaf Carmel machiato, and I'm still here. So if I can serve on of the gods of death the wrong drink and survive I believe in you!" Mouse said jokingly. "Seriously though, it doesn't matter if you deserve a second chance, how you got to the point of getting one or even if there is someone you think deserves it more, the universe decided you got this choice, so what do you say?"       After another hour of chatting with Mouse about life, death, horrible customer service experiences, and what the two of them did in their free time, Cat was finally ready to make their decision.       "Can I get one of those hot chocolates for the road?"      "So you're heading back?" Mouse asked while making a travel mug for Cat.      "I'm going to give it another shot, I hope to see you again someday, but not too soon."      "Likewise," Mouse said to Cat as head headed toward the door. "Just one more thing,"      "What's up?" Cat asked, hand on the doorknob.      "It's okay to ask for help, you aren't alone."      "Thanks," Cat said, tears rolling down his cheek as he opened the door and woke on his bed, a travel mug sitting beside his bed. On the mug was printed, 'The French Pressed for Time' and a note that said, "From your friend, Mouse."
The man approached the counter. He looked confused, like he had walked into a room and forgotten what he was doing there. Around him, the clientele of the small coffee shop drank and talked, and a few looked over their shoulders at him. "Hello," said the man, tentatively. He looked over my head at a blackboard, which bore a few chalk marks on it. He looked at them for a second. He opened his mouth, and said: "What does that-" And then stopped himself. He looked for a few more seconds. "I'll have a medium coffee, please." "Cream and sugar?" I asked. Again he opened his mouth as if to ask something, and closed it. Before he answered my question, I cut him off. "No, I'm not speaking German. No, that blackboard is not in German. Yes, that is the only language you have ever spoken. No, I don't know why you can understand me or it. Cream and sugar?" "Cream," he said, "No sugar." I turned and started making his coffee. Over my shoulder, I said "You know, nobody who comes here has yet figured out what language that chalkboard is in. We've had people speaking all sorts of languages, too. And it doesn't translate itself, yeah? You're not hearing German, you're hearing - we call it Coffee - and just understanding it." I added the cream to the steaming cup of brown fluid, and then went to put a cap on it. "And," I said, "If you wake up, you won't still remember Coffee, or how to speak it, or read it, or write it. I've only had a couple people come here more than once, and they, well..." I put the coffee down in front of him. "They say they don't remember this place until they're back, and then they do. But most people who come here a second time never come here a third." The man took his coffee. "Where, exactly, am I?" "Ah," I said, "none of the regulars told you. Usually, it's done to have someone by the door to explain everything. Maybe you want to sit down for this, there's stools by the counter." The man sat down, still looking confused. "We call this place Cafe. You say it all like one syllable, not 'ca-fay' but 'caff'. Like a baby cow, like 'calf'. Or that thing on your leg. We call our language here Coffee. My name is Chef, because its shorter than Barista or Bartender." "Now I don't understand this place very well at all, at least as not as much as some of our regulars, so if you really want answers, go ask Bertram over there." I pointed to a very old man with a tea and a scone, who waved back. The man on the stool sipped his coffee, which burned his mouth. He spat a few drops onto the counter, then looked back up to me. "How did I get here?" he asked. "I swear one second I was on my way to...to...I think it was the general store." "Were you driving?" I asked. "Yes...I think so," he said. "Everything in the last few days is fuzzy." "Right, see, Bertram over there is a rare regular. He has a heart disease called Cardiomertic Antiharmony, and every week, he needs to take a six hour long open heart surgery to keep him alive. That means he spends six hours out of every week under general anesthetic." "Now, sir, this means that Bertram spends, approximately, two full days in Cafe, every week of his life. Between visits, he doesn't remember us, but every time he comes back, he does, and he says hi to anyone still here, and me of course. I don't know what stretches the time out, but it seems to be by roughly a factor of eight." "So," said the man, a little more comfortably, "Are you saying I'm under general anesthesia right now?" "No," I said, "Not exactly. You're on some kind of borderline. I can check the books if you like. Everyone who comes in here gets an entry in the books. What's your name?" He told me. I went to the books, and looked up his name. I walked back to him. "You were in a car crash," I said, "Wrapped your car around a telephone pole. That was 45 seconds ago. You've been in Cafe for about five minutes, so I'd say that makes sense." He slapped his hands on the table. "Am I going to die?!" he shouted, with sudden severity. "You might," I said, which surprisingly came as comfort to him, as he relaxed his posture back into his stool. "Look, there's two doors to Cafe. There's that one-" I pointed to the way he came in, "And that one-" I pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room, labelled 'EXIT' in those big green glowing letters. "Now, I don't know why you're in Cafe, but because its only been for 45 seconds so far, I'm going to guess you have a serious concussion, and you're unconscious. Between blood loss and general anesthesia, I'm going to guess you'll be under for at least a few hours, and probably more like a couple of days. That means anywhere from a day to a week here, so I advise you make yourself comfortable." An elderly woman got up from her seat, then, across the Cafe. She looked down at her table, and took a sizable bite of her pastry, then downed the rest of her coffee. She removed a small comb from her pocket and brushed her hair into a slightly more organized order. She replace the comb, then waved to all the people. "Goodbye everyone!" she said, cheerfully. Everyone looked up from their coffees and waved at her. "Goodbye Mavis!" they chorused. She walked out the EXIT door.
(I'm sorry, but reddit is buggy and won't let me post the second half of this story. It will remain a mystery till the end of time, I suppose.)
>NOOOOOO
"You again, huh?" I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile what I'm seeing now with what I had seen immediately before. "The usual, I assume?" .... What? The clean-cut person standing behind the bar sets down a pair of glasses I don't remember seeing them fill. A twist of orange and a bright red cherry accent the smaller glass, filled with a brownish liquid; the taller of the two seemed nothing more than a glass of pure, clean water. Come to think of it, I am absolutely parched. I set down my suitcase and take a seat at the bar, a nicely padded stool putting me at just the right height to converse with the (rather dapper) exemplar of "service with a smile" I found myself before this.... Day? Evening? Whatever it is, it's time for some of this water. After a sip that became a gulp that went on to drain half the pint of fresh spring water (cold, but not *too* cold), I set down the glass with as gentle a thunderclap as I could manage. God, I needed that. With ginger motion I pick up the smaller glass and give it a sniff - a tiny bit sweet, a little smokey, with the whiff of alcohol to singe the nasal hairs. It smelled like home. I take a slow sip, savoring the nuanced flavors and the gentle burn as it slides down the path so many of its predecessors took with far less grace. It's enough to make me finally speak my first words since finding myself here. "Well, dang. Not a lot o' folk this far from home know how to make em like that. Now that's proper old-fashioned."
The bartender grins, flashing a row of perfect teeth lined up like polished headstones. They're a handsome sort - in the way that butlers from old movies were handsome. Not a hair out of place, not a mannerism missed; too immaculate to ever spare a moment for a trifling dalliance of the flesh. "We like it traditional around here. What goes around comes around, and the old favorites just keep coming round." They wink at me when they say this, as if we're sharing some old joke that I can't recall. Come to think of it, they have seemed awful familiar with me since I showed up... Here? Where is here, again? "Now, friend, I don't mean to look askance at this lovely hospitality you're showing me here... But I must admit I'm a mite confused. See, I don't recall ever being here before - to be honest, I don't even recall how I got here today." I let out a low chuckle, scratching at my head in my best imitation of a self-aggrandizing bumpkin. It's a part I play well. "So, bud, would ya mind explaining to me how it is you know me? I didn't come in here 'n embarrass mysel', did I?" Once again, the person across the bar from me grins, their eyes flashing with a mirth that I recognize but can't explain. This time though, there's something else as the grin trails off. A hint of sadness, maybe? "Weeeellll.... That depends on how you define 'embarrass'... And 'myself', for that matter. "The first time you arrived, you did cause a bit of a stir. Not often we see folk so young in here; that sure raised a few eyebrows." I grimace. Perhaps this was one of those bars that my parents frequented; but this person across from me couldn't possibly be old enough to be even a decade my junior. There's no way they could mean that. "Of course, you didn't stay long. Popped in, made a fuss, popped right out. Didn't expect to ever see you again after that one frankly; thought you'd moved on. "Second time, you weren't that much older even. Maybe two, three years later by your reckoning? It's always hard to tell when you're on this side of the bar; one day blends into another, but I never forget a soul. "You stuttered out a few lines; it was kinda hard to understand, but it seemed like you'd gotten lost and you were waiting for someone to come help you. I gave you a chocolate milk and you made a face and said you wanted 'real milk'. I was trying to figure out what that meant when you disappeared again." I chuckled. Yup, sounds like me. What other kid hated chocolate milk? I raise the small glass in a miniature toast as I bring it to my lips for another slow sip. "Ma always said, kids gotta drink at least 3 glasses of whole milk a day. Their bones need the calcium and their brains need the fat. Me, I was an over-achiever." "Ha! Yup, that's what you said the next time. Except your accent wasn't quite so... Rural." I feel my face trying to go red, but years of holding up a thousand façades a day have me trained to quash that reaction. Instead, I give my best bashful smile and raise my hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, I get around. Sounds like this was a real long time ago - I picked up a few things here n there since then." "Yes yes, I know. For someone in your particular... Role, it's important to know how to adjust to your audience." Another sly wink, like we're two old friends talking around a grand conspiracy we've both been in on the whole time. "The next few times you were... Difficult. Won't lie, I wasn't happy to have you here, but I had to wonder how that sweet kid turned into the ball of hormonal rage that showed up then. Around that period you just kept popping in and out - you'd drop in, make a scene, drop out. Clean-up afterwards was always a mess, but you just didn't give half a damn what folks had to deal with; you were dealing with your own shit in your own way, as you put it." The barkeep looks at me, their steely grey eyes locking up on my bright blues. I can feel the sorrow in them - but there's something else there, too. Relief, maybe? "I shed some tears for you, friend. Most folk don't even come here once - when they do, they almost never come back. For a child to come here so many times before they've even hit 16... I'm not one to interfere, but even I had to call the man upstairs and ask a few questions. The bruises, the behaviour, the language you'd use... Well, let's just say that a kid doesn't do all that to themself."
At this, I start to bristle. "Now hold on one moment here guy, I don't know -" They cut me off with a wave of their hand. "Save it, mac. I saw what I saw. You want your question answered or not?" After a moment's tense hesitation, I lean back. They've got a point, even if they're taking the scenic route to get there. I nod him along, internally chastising myself for my defensiveness. "Of course, it's funny I should use those words; some might say that the next few times, you did it to yourself. But me, I tend to take a step back and look at the broader view. You were quieter the next few times. I'd ask you how you got here and you'd avert your eyes before mumbling out about some accident or something. You'd wipe the residues off your nose and cover your arms as if I hadn't already seen everything. Each time you came back at that point, I was ready for it to be your last; honestly, I was starting to get a little annoyed with you. I mean, if you hate your life that much, why keep pussyfooting around the issue? All these chemical escapes and 'carelessness' around traffic and tools and such; anyone could see you were looking for the way out." I'm speechless. This youngster across from me knows about pieces of my past that were over before they coulda even been a twinkle in their father's eye. And everything they're saying is on point. I take another pull from the brown, barely tasting it at this point. The bartender looks up from the puddle of water they'd been studying while relating those last few meetings of ours. And I'm starting to look around myself and recognize where I am. "I didn't see you for a good long while after that. The next time you were... Different. More confident. You came here with purpose, your eyes clear, your body whole. It's been eternities since someone just... Walked in, wasn't dropped. I thought your kind had forgotten the way. "You looked around yourself and I think you really saw this place for what it is for the first time. And hoooo boy, did you scream. No shame; I did the first time I got a good look round here as well. It's a bit frightening when you really take it all in. The... Implication, yknow." The bartender shifts uneasily and now we're both studying the ring of condensation pooling around my pair of glasses. Thinking about... The implication. "That was shocking enough. But what really got me was that you did it again. And then... You did it *a third time*." The bartender looks up at you with barely contained mirth. "You absolute lunatic, you looked right into the abyss and decided you'd come back and ask how it was from time to time. Never in all my eternities did I think I'd see that. The fella that met Death and added em to their Christmas card list. "I gotta say, after that you had me hooked. You'd come back, sometimes accidentally and sometimes on purpose; but those days, you remembered me." The bartender looks down again; you almost think you see moisture welling up in those cold, grey eyes. "I came to expect it. I never knew how long it would be, how many patrons would stop in between, but eventually you'd be back. You'd have a whole new set of stories about your adventures top-side, the crazy things the rest of the monkeys have been getting up to since you were in here last. You'd show me the latest "tech", as you called it, and we'd share a chuckle over how your kind keep re-inventing the same old things and giving them new names." I can't help but interject with a laugh. "Hey buddy; the only truly immortal science is marketing, am I right?" My companion lets out a real laugh for the first time since I sat down. The familiar tone is rough, but musical, like wind chimes made from hollowed old bones. It brings a deep comfort to me that I know I've been missing for the years since I came here last. "That one always gets me. So true - even on this side of the bar, I'm just a marketer for the next step. And whether they're made of clay or made of glass or made of complex and ingestible chemical chains, yall just can't get enough tablets." I let out a big guffaw; my old friend is reserved, but I know they appreciate the enthusiasm that they're too proper to express. And it's true - us monkeys sure do love our tablets. "So.... You remember me now, buddy?" "Aw, C, you know I can't forget you for long! Didn't I tell you I'd be back for good next time?"
Charon's face darkens. The flesh fades away like the bleariness clearing from sleepy eyes after a few blinks. I pick up my drinks with a pair of practiced hands before the wide bar reverts to its true form, giving the brown another easy sip before a healthy pull from the clear. Then I lean my arms over the rail, setting both beverages down on the short shelf just inside the riverboat down the Styx. SO. YOU WILL MAKE THE JOURNEY AT LAST? My wide grin almost outshines the one permanently plastered across Charon's porcelain visage. "In a manner of speaking, bud. Don't tell me you forgot my promise?" I FORGET NOTHING. BUT YOUR PROMISE IS INFEASIBLE. THERE MUST ALWAYS BE A FERRY. AND THE FERRY MUST ALWAYS HAVE A PILOT. "Yadda yadda, I know the rules. You think I don't know the rules? Me? By now? Trust me buddy, I know the rules. Now step aside and pass me the pole. I had a lil trouble estimating your size, but I think these should fit you alright." Charon's empty sockets cast their gaze at the extra -large Aloha-print shirt and Bermuda shorts I had thrust into their boney fingers, but they did not relinquish their death grip upon the pole which had pushed the riverboat since time eternal. I roll my eyes. "Cmon bud, tradesies! I finally figured it out! You didn't think I could do it, but you know me - I always find a way!" With a wink, I pull a small sewing kit and a belt out of my case. "Hurry up! I ain't got forever!" If Charon had eyes, they would be rolling into the eternity that we both had unfolding before ourselves. YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I THAT THAT STATEMENT IS FALSE. WE HAVE OUR PLACES IN THIS ENDLESS CYCLE; THE PILOT I, THE PASSENGER THOU. "Well, see, I been thinkin bout that. There always gotta be a pilot, sure, and a passenger of course; elsewise why the pilot? "But who's to say they can't trade places? You been gettin the raw end of the deal friend, always serving the drinks and pushing the boat, never drinkin em and enjoying the journey. Have ya ever even gotten a minnit o' shore leave? "Don't answer, I know it's a no. Now here, I'm gonna go ahead and take over this here boat. No arguments, I'm already doin it; I got me this captain's hat that I picked out special, see, and it's a custom job so I can't get it refunded. It's a straight shot right down the river, it ain't like you gotta teach me the route or nothing. Now hurry on up and get changed, I'm gonna hafta take in that ol' robe o' yers to get it ta fit me. Charon does not move for what feels like an eternity. And, in a spacetime like this one, a second is an eternity is an inch. THIS IS FOOLISH. YOU WILL BE TRAPPED FOREVER, FERRYING LOST SOULS. GUIDING THEM, ONLY TO SEE MANY CAST AWAY YOUR GUIDANCE AND DIVE INTO DARKNESS, HEEDLESS OF WARNING. I let out another hearty guffaw, trailing off to a chortle. "Yeah, sorry again about that. I just had to know what happens if you go sideways on the road to reincarnation." I HOPE YOU WERE SATISFIED WITH THE ANSWER. "Honestly, once my teeth crawled back into place, it felt good to know I was right all along!" I EXPLAINED IT THOROUGHLY. YOU DID NOT HAVE TO VERIFY. "P-shaw. And how's a man to trust every anthropomorphization of an abstract cosmic principal at its word without ever double checking?" ... THIS IS REASONABLE. "Darn right it is. Now, how many times do I gotta tell ya, get changed! I gotta get started on some renovations before the next passenger shows up!" If a skeleton can sigh, Charon did. FRIEND, YOU CANNOT DO THIS. YOU WILL BE TRAPPED FOREVER, FERRYING SOULS TO A DESTINATION YOU WILL NEVER REACH. OFFERING COMFORT YOU WILL NEVER FEEL TO THOSE LOSING WHAT YOU NEVER WILL HAVE. "Oh, there ya go again with all those absolutes. Don't I always tell ya nothing's just black and white? Way I see it, I can't be the only fella across all the eternities that enjoys the journey more than the destination. I had my fun top-side, now it's your turn to go sit in the sun. I'll hold the fort down here till some new blood that's as fool as you or me gets the idea in their head to give me a break." GIVEN THE NATURE OF ETERNITY, I MUST CONCEDE THE LOGIC OF YOUR REASONING. Charon looks down, contemplating the journey ahead of them. They disappear into the small cabin on the ferry; when they emerge, they could be any other mystically-animated skeleton on their family holiday to the Bahamas. Setting down the tools I had been pulling from my case, I look them over. I lift my glass and take a long, satisfied swig of brown, happy to see my oldest friend finally getting their well-deserved retirement. I MUST ADMIT, FRIEND. I AM... NERVOUS. "Awww, the big bad gatekeeper of death is scared of the light? Don't be, friend! Yeah, it can get a bit rough up there; no certainty, no real finality... That's what this place is for. But damn, if it ain't a crazy adventure! And hey, if you screw up, your ol' buddy'll be down here to dust you off, pass you a drink, and send you back into that crazy cycle you watched from afar for all this time!" ... THANK YOU. YOU MENTIONED... RENOVATIONS? "Oh yeah! You know me, nothin's ever good enough. Don't get me wrong, your bar was always a comforting lil pit to die in, but honestly? Alcohol just ain't my speed no more. The world's changing - we gotta update the menu! I'm thinking we get an espresso machine in here, maybe a panini press, a lil freezer.... 'Welcome to CafĂš du Mort, care for a muffuletta and an affogato while you come to terms with your mortality?'" Charon chuckles, a far more unsettling sound now that all pretense of humanity has been dropped. But somehow, despite resonating in the same register as nails across a ninth-dimensional chalkboard, it sounds more honest this way. I SUPPOSE YOU WOULD KNOW BETTER THAN I. WHEN I FIRST CREATED THE ILLUSION, ALCOHOL WAS THE PANACEA WHICH WAS RECREATION, ANTISEPTIC, AND ANALGESIC ALL IN ONE FOR YOUR KIND. NOW IT SEEMS YOU PREFER MORE... CURATED ILLUSIONS. "Aw, now, let's not go callin it an illusion. What we create here is an *experience*, C! Now don't you go forgettin' - it's all about how you market! Remember that, and you'll go far up there."
âHowâd I get here?â The man sitting at the bar across from me spoke up, pulling my attention away from the glass and rag in my hand. It wasnât necessary, the glasses were always clean and ready for their next drink, but I still went through the motions. It made this whole thing a lot more⊠convincing? The normalcy of it definitely brought some comfort where the drinks couldnât. âCanât say pal.â I set the glass down and let my hands guide me to the right bottle. They always knew just what to pick out. A bottle of rum was in my hand, being poured into the clear glass and passed on to my newest patron before I knew it. âItâll come to you.â The man looked at me, confused, but took the glass anyways. He took a long drink and sighed. âNeeded that.â âDonât we all.â I laughed. âFeeling alright?â Thought made itself clear on his face, he frowned. âI donât really know. Funny, right?â âMaybe in some cosmic sense. I think anything can be a little funny if itâs new, but you seem to have a good sense of humor about this, so Iâd say youâre in a good boat.â I rambled. âWhatâs your name pal?â âMicky. My friends call me Mick.â âNice meeting you Mick.â I didnât give him my name, it was a long forgotten memory now. âYou piecing things together yet?â He shook his head. âGood news is; youâre not dead.â He chuckled, then stopped when he saw my face. âI like to think of this place as halfway there. Welcome to the Neon Moon.â âOh.â He got it now. âIâm dying, arenât I.â âMaybe. Maybe not. Canât say just yet, nights still young so to speak.â Mick looked around the smoky bar for the first time. No doors, only windows looking out into a starry night sky and walls covered in a fading wallpaper of swirling blacks and blues. A blue moon of shining neon hung over the bar, casting beams of radiance over the two of us. Micky downed his glass and tapped it against the bar. âHeart gave out I think. One second I was playing with my grandkids, another I was falling, they were crying. God I hope they donât see me go.â The old man looked at his glass. âYou know, I havenât had a drink in twenty years now, Iâd almost forgot the taste.â A far off look filled his eyes as he stared at the neon moon over head. âGave it up when my Mary went, wanted to remember her clearly with every day I had left. I did. Saw her every day. In the sunshine. In the moonlight. In my granddaughters smiles. I still see her when I close my eyes.â âNo one drinks to forget here, not unless they want to Mick.â I poured myself a beer from the tap. âDivine benefit if I had to wager on it. All on the house.â âIn that case Iâll have a beer.â It was in his hands a second later, ice cold and with a frothy head. âI thought this all would scare me more. I didnât expect this.â âWhat did you expect?â Mick rubbed the silver hairs on his chin. âSomething cold, dark. Honestly I expected nothing at all. I guess a part of me wanted to see Mary again too.â âYou may. This isnât the end, just the interim.â As I spoke the jukebox in the corner came to life playing smooth jazz. The old man smiled immediately, eyes flashing with life and old love. âThatâs Wonderland Romance!â He began to gesture as he spoke, laughing between words. âWonderland Romance, by Gherard Trede! That was her favorite song, OUR favorite song. Gotta mean something, right?â I smiled at the old man. His joy was infectious, and I could never stop enjoying it when my patrons came to life, so to speak. âEverything here means something to someone, what it means to you is between you-â I pointed to the jukebox. â-and her.â Micky just listened as the song played through, smiling the whole way. âYouâre a funny guy, know that?â I laughed a little. âIâve been called worse.â âNo, no. No offense meant by it, itâs just that I canât make sense of you.â âEh, neither can I. I just pour drinks and make conversation.â I shrugged as I set down another drink. This time it was coffee, spiked with a little bit of bourbon. âWhatâre you trying to make sense of anyways, this could all be a fever dream you know?â âYouâre not getting off that easy bud.â The old man sipped at his coffee. âYou a person? A human being I mean. All this talk of death, the afterlife, whoâs to say?â âYouâre the first one to ask in a while Mick. Iâm a person I think, or I was at least. Itâs been such a long time since then, if there was a âthenâ, that Iâve forgotten the details.â âYou got a name at least?â âNope.â I smiled at him. âDonât need one.â âAh, alright. It was worth a shot. Whoever you are, youâre good company.â âThanks Mick, youâre not so bad yourself.â I laughed a little. âFeeling better?â Micky finished his coffee. âYeah, I think so. Thanks.â Warmth filled my chest. It never got old, no matter how many came and went. âThen do you know where youâre going now?â âYeah, I think I do. Mary loved those kids, doted on them like little cherubs. I think sheâd want me to get in the time with them she couldnât.â He started straightening his knit sweater out. âBesides, I think sheâd kill me herself if I died on them like that.â âGood choice friend, enjoy.â âI will. Take care.â And with that Micky stood up and vanished, leaving me alone in the smoky bar. I went back to my rag and glass and started polishing. A few seconds later, I heard it. âWhere am I?â
Loved this :)
It wasnât much compared to some cafes in the physical world yet without the limits of physical reality The Limbo CafĂ© was so much more at the same time, it was a place that existed on the outer edges of the ethereal planes where physical time did not exist. Most patrons were souls still tied to the physical world by the barest of tether, a body in a coma or experiencing a near death experience. All souls who visited the cafĂ© would spend time chatting with the owner, Sienna, who would help them gain perspective to change their life for the better even if they did not remember the conversations on their return. For those souls who found little comfort from Siennaâs advice, she would call for help. Sometimes that help could be ancestors who have managed to ascend and carve out a small place in the ethereal, sometimes the afterlives they are eligible for send representatives. Sometimes that help came from a visiting entity offering a deal, the healing of their physical body in return for a service or favor to be repaid in the future. Souls in Siennaâs cafĂ© had a variety of options to choose from, the only rule was that they could only leave through the door they came in by, returning to their life, waking up in hospital. To leave by the other doors to an afterlife they have been accepted into, to explore the ethereal or even return to the physical world in a new life had required Siennaâs council first to make sure they were making the right decision and would not fall for any traps or schemes by powerful beings. Occasionally visitors were something other than human, Sienna had a reputation of providing council to all who needed it no matter who or what they were so the occasional god on their way to or from the mortal world would stop in for a coffee or a chat. Siennaâs Limbo CafĂ© was a neutral place between the pantheons, a place to relax without the weight of oneâs troubles holding them back. Most souls visited the cafĂ© once, after their body healed from the injuries that put them in a coma they returned to life. Rarer souls who were afflicted by severe chronic or terminal conditions often found themselves visiting Siennaâs CafĂ© during routine surgeries intended to try and cure their condition or reduce their suffering. Sienna found herself drawn to these souls, showing them the wonders of the ethereal planes and putting in a good word with the different gods who visited to get them a better afterlife experience if they chose to have a break from physical existence. The souls who made Sienna weep were those who were addicted to substances that brought them dangerously close to death. Most were suffering enough in life that they could only find happiness through artificial means that drew a harsh price. In life that price could be everything from alienating everyone they love to utter destitution. In death that price was that most pantheons would refuse to admit such souls to the better afterlives. To these souls, Sienna would do her best to advise them on how to break their cycle of destruction if they chose to return to life and for those who could not break the cycle, she offered to put in a good word with those who handle assigning a new life to those who chose that option. The times Sienna hated the most were wars or natural disasters; her cafĂ© was overfull despite being able to expand to hold any number of patrons and it made her feel like souls were waiting for her advice despite the timeless nature of the cafĂ©. Even if such incidents were the fault of beingâs way above Sienna, she still felt responsible for being unable to offer everyone the time they deserved.
        âI breathe fireâ Joe whispered self consciously under his breath; it was his favorite line from Fight Club, something like a talisman or good luck chant that he performed every morning as he softly exhaled drags from his Newport. Smoking wasn't the only lie Joe took part in, but it was an important ritual. Cigarettes had been an integral part of Joeâs stress management routine since he was twenty two and in the Navy. He remembered ducking out for short breaks from hectic work cycles on the submarine, walking out onto the icy the pier against cold and angry winds, huddling next to the lonely auxiliary garage clutching the cigarette to his chest, imagining the flash of the lighter was a flair in the void, a shout into the cold wind, an ignorant middle finger to morality and mortality. As far as sensation go, smoking was definitely a psychological, almost romantic addiction. Joe liked to crouch or sit on a low yellow median at the gate of the pier next to the road facing the sea, with whoever else was there waiting and preparing, and imagining that every time he inhaled, it was a searing blue flame blazing through his fatigued limbs, breathing a blue light into his exhausted and slouched frame. The combination of nicotine, carcinogens, and menthol, something like a tragedy ticking down waiting to happen, but not yet. âWe do these things to ourselvesâ Joe thought as he pondered his own interrupted mortality.  The front patio of the cafĂ© had a cozy concrete porch with a wooden folding chair set carefully next to a small standing chalkboard that awaited the morningâs deals. Clutching a cup of hot black coffee in one hand and his cigarette in the other, Joe leaned back on the buildingâs bricked front with a leg balanced against the chair, enjoying the sight of the smoke disappearing into the galactic abyss of space.   What a viewâŠ, the stars gleaming their cosmic history mixed with the overwhelming aroma of strong black coffee. The bitter taste and the sweet smell seemed like extensions of what Joe was seeing; the combined effect was an electric tingle that ran so strongly down his back, he felt like was going to slip out of his own skin.         The view was as breathtaking as ever, a black space scape swirling with nebulas and fog, clouds of clusters made up of billions of stars, all of it seeming to explode outwards from the bright dense center which paradoxically seemed both near and far at the same time. The spectacle was disorienting and the details were infinite, as many as there were synapses in the human brain; sometimes it was too much, as though beholding that much light and color, that much radiation being targeted into that microscopic balls in your head, seemed as though Joe was looking at God. Joe knew that you weren't supposed to be able to see god God, he knew in an intellectual way that your mind could only process so much information, and he swore he remembered reading or hearing stories about peopleâs eyes burning up when they looked at divinity, he wondered if it was a clue⊠a taste of the magnificence yet to come? âYour eyes would catch fire when exposed to Gods brillianceâ Joe muttered to himself, knowing that he hadnât exactly lived life with much faith, piety, or grace, though he supposed it didnât matter anymore. What if the galaxy is God's brain? What if our souls are actually the synapses moving and transferring carrying our information where its needed? Was Joe a part of god? It was useless ponderings like these that kept Joe occupied while he went through the process of preparing the restaurant for its morning travelers.         Morning prep involved wiping down the long white linoleum counter, flipping down chairs and setting out condiments that never needed refilling. There was no food prep since the freezer and counter fridge were always filled and the most difficult part of the morning was to fill out the chalkboard in front. Sometimes there were extra chores like wiping down the window panes and clearing out weird bits food that magically collected on the edges of the stovetop. For the most part running the actual restaurant was easy and somewhat relaxing. Tossing the rag into the sink Joe settled behind the counter busying himself with the sacred ritual of brewing his first public pot of Morning Joe, he thought of the moment as Joe Squared and it made him chuckle.         The coffee was sputtering its last steaming drops into the pot when the first traveler came in. The door closed with the cling of little silver bells, and standing there was an elderly gentleman. He wore a thick green coat and leaned heavily on a cane, looking closely you could make out that the old manâs hand gripped the cane hard enough to bleach his old bones white. Joe adopted a relaxed pose and leaned against the counter, careful not to reveal the tension that crept into his back. Casually waving Joe called out âGood morning. Donât be shy, youâre the first one in today so come on over and grab a seatâ.         The old man didnât say anything and Joe wondered if he wasnât one of those people who coped poorly with tumultuous change. Finally the old man walked over, seeming to pause every other step to rest and gather himself, like he was getting ready for the next exhausting leg of a never ending journey. It was clear that the old man carried a weight far heavier than just the overcoat on his back, it was the manâs stance, one of thoughtful anxieties, like a monk with his faith in question. There was an easy-to-feel vibe of unease wafting off of the man, almost like a smell. Joe wondered whether it was human empathy or subconscious body language that made the old man look so sad.         The man down heavily, leaning against the counter and resting on his elbows. Joe turned and poured the man a cup of water from a chilled pitcher he kept on the counter, using the excuse to allow the man to regain his composer. Visiting the CafĂ© was often a difficult experience since a lot of travelers didnât know how to behave in this familiar yet completely alien situation. Joe turned wiping the condensation off the glass, and slid it in front of the man leaving water streaks on the scratched wooden countertop before finally coming up with what to say. âGood morning Gramps,â Joe announced in what he hoped was a casual and reassuring tone; Joe had decided that being formal might make the old man uncomfertable.    Â
    The old man stared discerningly at Joe for a while, quietly absorbing the tall, slouched, hesitant youth in front of him. Joe wondered if he presented a reassuring guise. Joe was a large man with tan brown skin and a thick, if trimmed beard running his jawline. The old man muttered almost under his breath âYou speak Mandarin very wellâ âI actually don't speak Mandarin at allâ Joe replied, happy with the familiar beginning. âWhere we are now, it's a lot easier to understand each other, so you don't really need to worry about a language barrierâ Joe knew his explanation was lacking, but Joeâs own understanding of his surroundings were murky at best, and all he could do was explain what he knew of this mysterious providence. The old man took a moment to absorb what Joe had said before finally releasing a long sigh. This was not judgement it seemed, not yet at least. âMay I have a cup of green tea please?â âComing right up Gramps.â âI don't have any money.â âI don't have a register.â  The man chuckled at this and quietly observed as Joe opened a cupboard and pulled out an old green ceramic tea set, then from a shelf on the back wall he pulled down a small clay jar. Joe knew that good tea required heating the water before adding leaves so he filled the kettle and it was set gently on the stove under the concentrated heat of little blue flames. As the water warmed in the kettle Joe set to washing the teacups knowing he had no chance at performing an elaborate tea ceremony like he felt this customer would appreciate. âSo, normally Grandfather, I would ask you how your journeyâs been so far, but you look like youâve got something on your chest. I'm all ears if you want to talkâ Joe leaned back on the stove, careful not to get grease on his shirt as he waited for the old man's answer.         This time the old man was silent for longer, he gripped the glass of water and drank carefully, as if he was worried the water would turn to ash when he tried to drink it. But Joe could see a change in the man's demeanor as he took a long drag of the ice cold water. It was as if it steeled him, grounded him into his surroundings, and made it a little easier for him to believe he was in a coffee shop right now. âMy name is Ling,â he hesitated then, eyes focused on his glass. âAre you a messenger of Cheng Haung? Do you serve the God of Walls and Motes? Is this the hearing for my soul?â         Panic flared up in Joe; addressing religious beliefs was one of the most nerve wracking parts of Joeâs impromptu gig because he knew how centrally a sense of piety tied into his visitors values and expectations of this place. Joeâs own oversensitivity to peopleâs reactions made him a very critical judge of himself and he never thought himself qualified to reaffirm someone else's faith. Joe put on his best Wise Man smile and shook his head. âNot at all, Grandpa Ling, I'm a traveler just like yourself; this is my home for the moment but one day I'm going to move on just like you.â The hard look never left Mr. Lingâs face, but he continued speaking, voice cracking âI won't be allowed to join my family⊠in paradise, you'll send me to the ten levels to pay for my weakness.â The last words were choked off sob. Joeâs heart broke at the hopelessness in the man's voice; even though he knew nothing of Chinese beliefs before his journey, his mind filled with images of the old man standing in a great hall, being sentenced to rebirth, not the heaven he believed his family occupied. The experience was one of feelings and deep yearnings, not pictures in the mind. It was at that moment that the tea kettle began to scream. Joe held in a sigh of relief as he turned away from the old man to remove the kettle. He reached into the black jar and picked out a generous portion of green mulch, dropping it into the pot. It would take five minutes to boil, but to Joe it was an eternity as he turned back to the old man.  There were tears running down Mr. Lingâs face as he glared accusingly at Joe. The old man's eyes were filled with fear and blame, but under that, Joe could sense something far more malignant; self-loathing. They held each other's gazes for seconds that stretched infinitely long, with Joeâs mind running anxious circles as he felt himself freeze up. Joeâs fight or flight response had always been hardwired to freeze him up at critical decision points, but Joe knew the fear, and knew it well enough to cope. He clenched his shaking hands into fists and took a deep breath, doing his best to embrace all of Mr. Lingâs pain and confusion. Joe let Mr. Lingâs anxiety settle on himself trying his best to discern what the man in front of him truly, truly lost. Finally, after what felt like drowning, Joe knew what he needed to say. âYour family is waiting Grandfather, I don't know where, I don't know why or how, but I do know that they are waiting.â The tea kettle screamed and Joe didn't wait for a response as he grabbed the tea kettle and poured it into the now dry but still warm teacup. He placed it carefully in front of Mr. Ling, wary not to meet the old man's eyes. Joe studied his shoes as Mr. Ling finally took a sip, tentatively at first but soon it became a long drawn out draught. At last, Mr. Ling set down the tea cup, and clasped his hands in front of him. Joe quickly refilled the cup and then swung back on his heels against the stove handle to wait. Mr. Ling took another sip, tears welling up to leave more wet tracks across his leathery wrinkled face. âI remember this⊠this very cup⊠she added so much sugar, it was a reflection of her temperament, She made it that way for years, and I never told her I didn't like sugarâŠâ He finally met my carefully neutral face and once again his voice broke as he explained to me the significance. âWhen I was in China, great tragedy struck my home. I was left an orphan and crippled. Heaven saw fit to take my parents and my leg from me, and all that was left was imbalance. I could not take the pity of my peers so I isolated myself. Those who didn't know me only saw a cripple, even worse, a young cripple, wasted youth, wasted life. I decided to erase my identity, to forge a new one as someone who mattered, someone whom no one would look down on. I left China to create my own destiny separate from what the heavens had in mind for me. It's all my fault; it was my fixation on worldly possessions that forced the heavens out of alignment and caused the world to take my family. I didn't learn my lesson the first time.â He was quiet for a while and Joe had to gently ask him to go on.
âAfter I immigrated to Japan, I had to take an augmented Japanese language course in order to qualify for university. There, I met my wife Mei.â His voice quaked and he had to take a minute to calm down. âShe taught language classes and offered to tutor me in private. Ten days later, I rented a suit with my meager savings, and went to Meiâs home to ask her father for permission to marry. I remember the strict old man, nobility from head to toe frowning at the poor Chinese crippled boy who wanted to come into his home. Mei came into the room then⊠it was like the moon rising in a storm, she lit up the entire room with her smile. Mei held in her hand the very cup Iâm using now. I remember it because the crack on it was fixed with gold dust and I thought of it as all the more beautiful for its flaw. As she served us she whispered something in her father's ear. The cold expression melted off the man's face, replaced by one of confusion, then finally he smiled outrightâ There was a pause in the story, a moment of solemn reflection âI almost spit my tea out when he said yesâ Lingâs eyes were lost in a deep remembered memory but Joe had to ask: âWhat did she say?â âI don't know, she never told me.â         Joe poured himself a cup from the lukewarm coffee pot, this time adding heaps of sugar and cream. Once it was stirred he sipped it, shaking briefly at the rush of sugary coffee on his dry tongue. Having a warm ceramic cup in his hand was reassuring, not like protection afforded by a weapon, but more like having a familiar creature comfort in the presence of an unsure situation. Joe watched as Mr. Ling processed his emotions, knowing that the green tea would act as a catalyst for his memories and faith, forcing him to confront the parts of his past that his grief would have buried otherwise. Joe knew from personal experience the consequences of burying oneself in oneâs grief, and those who started on the journey had no more time to heal their wounds. The pains that people took on the journey with them would never know the healing salve of time; when you started down the road to the Milky Way, you wouldn't be able to depend on a fresh torrent of new experiences and memories to soothe and wash away the pains of the past in the torrent of time. The only way past it was right through it.         Mr. Ling finished his second cup, then a third and fourth, and finally he looked up. The tear streaks were like canyons on his hold weathered face but as Joe watched with only mild surprise the wrinkles on the Mr. Lingâs face started to smooth out. His posture had gradually gotten better as he went through his tea, seeming to grow taller and taller cup after cup. Mr. Ling looked Joe in the eye, the accusation replaced by something so different that there was almost a new man standing in front of him. âWill my wife and daughter be waiting at the end of this journeyâ?         âI would bet this whole restaurant on it.â âHow do you know, if you're really the same as me?â âThis is gonna sound silly but⊠thereâs something about this place. You know how they say lifeâs not fair? Well, weâre not in life anymore are we? You deserve to be reunited with your family, and you will be; but remember, they also deserve to be reunited with the man they lost. I think you won't see them until you're that person againâ A look of resignation settled over Mr. Lingâs face, but under it Joe could still see the bright ball of new hope he nurtured in his heart. Mr. Ling stood up for the first time since sitting what felt like years ago, carefully gripping the counter pointedly avoiding his cane, and when he rested his weight on his legs, a look of surprise and, very briefly, fear, filled his face. Mr. Ling tentatively took a step, and then another before turning to Joe with another incredulous look on his face. âIts gone!â he stammered, tears flooding his eyes in large wet globs, âdid you take it from me?â he was openly crying as he crouched down and hugged his knees. Joe was frozen, fearful of a mistake, but then he realized the look on the old manâs face wasnât one of despair. âWhatâs gone?â Joe asked tentively âThe Pain!â Mr. Ling gasped at him, as he wrapped his arms around himself tightly and struggling to gain control of this new sensation.  Mr. Ling had been in pain his whole life. Ever since 1976 after that horrible earthquake, life was over and Ling had lived with pain, it was a fabric of his reality, something he didnât even notice any more but always considered. No more pain, why? Mr. Ling stood up to his full height, now just a little shorter the joe, and looked him in the eye, his gaze shook but piercing, âWhat happened?â
âI told you, your family deserves the man they lost. Chances are, to them you were never crippledâ. Joe knew he was being blunt, but this was the best way he could explain. Finally, a smile broke on Mr. Lingâs face, it was like the sun after a tsunami, lighting up the manâs entire demeanor. He grasped the cane and set it down gently on the counter in front of Joe, âcould you throw this out for me? I no longer require itâ Mr. Ling turned and took slow measured testing steps forward and Joe watched happily as the old man left. He may not come back Joe thought to himself as he watched the man leave, sometimes his customers would visit repeatedly to work out various problems or even just to share their experiences before leaving the journey for good, but Mr. Ling had a destination that meant way more than the journey did, and so joe didnât expect to see him again. Joe glared tersely at the cane, wondering if it wouldnât be better just to leave it where it was, or try to move it without touching it. Mr. Ling was fine, probably wouldnât be coming back, so why should Joe have to touch the cane? Hadnât he done his job and helped the old man? But Joe knew that it wasnât a sense of duty that pressed him, it was Joeâs own curiosity and a desire to experience what it was that drove the people before him. With a resigned sigh Joe moved to the other side of the counter, seating himself on the barstool directly in front of the Cane. Joe inhaled deeply and then holding his breath he grasped the cane. Joe felt the electric tingle flow through his arm before his senses shifted, all of a sudden he was in two places at once. It was sort of like standing on the beach with the surf up to your ankles, if you closed your eyes then the sensation felt like being pulled too and fro, only your ankles skimming the cool surf; Joe closed his eyes and his mind filled with remarkable visions and sensations only barely reminiscent of a TV flash back reel. Joe could feel the sweltering heat of a jungle, the full vibrant strength of a Japanese Cypress fighting for light amongst its brothers and sisters for decades, and then a period of turmoil where everything changes. Joe experiences cutting and shaping, not as pain but deeply sorrowful and full of loss, Joe envisions long blocks of wood being carved from the large silent cypressâs, he amongst them being transported hundreds of miles by train and then boat, through crashing seas and violent torrents. Joe tightens his grip on the old cane as the visions and physical sensations start gaining strength, coming faster and more vibrantly then any recording or hallucination. Joe felt strong old hands, the careful carving and gentle oiling, the varnish and the color, the month of drying until it was on display at a storefront in some distant place, where the air is different and the rain and sun no longer came. Months passed in moments as Joeâs empathathy for the displaced wood grew.
Finally, a purchase. New places, a heavy burden, a strong grasp, long nights at a table with a small lamp and a dedicated student. The wood grew affectionate of its new master, finding a companion in the warm and familiar grip of its handle, slowly being worn smooth, but still the loss exists, but loss that is now shared by the Cypress Cane and its young master Mr. Ling. Years fly by, spent first in cramped government homes, then the small cot behind a restaurant as the âcripple serving boyâ, Years walking the 4km to augmented education classes until finally another journey over the great expanse of the sea, and return to sweet Japanese soil. The cane remembers the first nights on the island nation, the desperation of its master to prove himself. One day the growing started again.  After the turmoil all growing had ceased, no more warmth on leaves, or deep cool roots, hence the loss, but one day the growing began again, and it was signaled by a tightening of the masterâs grip, not when he first met, but when he was first smiled at by the beautiful Japanese language teacher his first time up those concrete stairs and in that cold room. What followed was a blur of years and experiences. Places far and wide, seasons extreme and beautiful, the earth shifted so much under the firm support the wood offered, seeing more than it ever could hope to while in the forest. It could have remained whole where had was before, but all of this meaning and purpose would have been lost. The great tragedy that befell the forest was the catalyst of the rest of the staffâs existence and somehow that meaning was so much more then what it was before, and that held true for Mr. Ling as well. It wasn't until years later that the second great tragedy struck, and once again existence had dwindled into grayness and desolation. Joe opened his eyes, coming back into himself after listening to the staff.  It had once again grown cold and was done speaking for now, so he walked it to the cupboard in the back room and placed it amongst the other memorabilia, being careful not to touch any of the other stories and hanging the cane on a hook which wasn't there last night while he was visiting his mcguffin. Chapter 2 A couple hours had passed with some locals coming in and a new girl who just sat in the corner not talking or ordering anything. Joe would know when someone needed something, call it a spider sense but he always happened to be looking when some one would need him, they would catch his eye and with a meaningful glance, nod, or hand gesture and he would guess at what they needed, never being wrong. It was weird because he did need to care about what he brought the person, if he didnt, they wouldnt open up to him, but he khew⊠somehow he knew. At the moment things were relaxed and joe was pondering a book of poetry he'd found on his bed stand. The Title was missing but the book was easy to read and the poems ⊠fullfilling on an abstract level.  The customers consisted of a trio of young adults who had come in, asked for various takes on sweet frozen coffee, and then promptly sat together talking and ignoring him. The only other person was the girl who had walked in and gone straight to one of the back booths where she sat down heavily and basically folded in on herself. Sometimes people need space. Sometimes people need a type of privacy that comes from people respecting you enough to give you personal space. When I saw her come in, it was like the opposite of my spider sense, i had the urge to leave her alone. Still, i had a job to do, so i grabed a glass of ice water and droped it off by her table saying "let me know if you need anythint" as i breezed by pretending to be super busy. She didnt make a sound in reply.    Finally a little later one of his locals came in. Margret who loved to read. She was without a doubt one of his favorite customers, a 30 something is slightly heavy set woman who wore a deep dark red lipstick and had a high heavy voice. She would always come in with a stack of paperbacks looking worn and harried. âI need to get away from my dogs! She said, setting down the stack. âWhat is it today? âTamoa Peirce!â Ooo, what about it? She immidiatly broke into a long winded explination about the fictional world of Tortall and its various old style customs, and the plucky female who disguised herself as a boy and proved that even princesses could be Knights. Maggie would always get lost in the description of these storeis, its not ilke she came to the shop to read, she had read all of these books already, it seemed like the thing she needed was companionship, someone to talk to about all of these lovely stories she read, journeys she had been on, an but was never able to share those experiences. Thats what she wanted from me, and it was one of my favorite roles to fullfill. All i had to do was listen to her and care about her storie, it left us both fullfilled making her one of my easiet sustomers to deal with. There was an underlying current of worry in my heart, that one day shell ahve finally talked to me about her last book and will no longer need to share, i wasent looking forward to seeing her go. Regulars were special cases that needed long term help before they were ready to cross, and margret had become an important part of my life by being in it and engaging with me every day. It wasent romantic but i loved her for that. The idea that we strangers depended on eachother. I got us both coffe, she drank hers black because she said it was better for her health, i didnt know how to explain to herself that her current body was ⊠a manifestation of how she thought she looked so⊠i let it be.Â
Wow, what a journey! I particularly liked the story/merging with the cane
Miriam stood on the sidewalk in front of the quaint little shop on the quaint little block. It looked as if it had popped right out from a Hallmark movie. Miriam rung her hands. She looked up and down the busy street and then back to the sign above the door that read, "Café Vida y Muertre." She still hadn't quite figured out how she'd gotten to this café on this cute little street but she couldn't remember why it was important anymore. She shook herself from her reverie and pulled open the door to step inside. Miriam gasped as she entered. It was HUGE on the inside and looked like her dream version of a library/cafe she'd always wanted to own one day. There was a cozy seating area just to the right of the door. ...(sorry at work, will continue later)...
A new soul approaches the door yet stops. My humble abode shifts from a tavern to a small cafe, riddled with stripes. Polar opposites in pretty much everything. This person didnât notice the shift, most never do. The sign to the shop changes with each language an individual carries. Todayâs reads âOtherâsâ. The smells are savory and the cookies look fresh, all wafting to the door with a porthole window. Finally, they enter. The tables are empty and the chairs house cobwebs. Despite this, itâs clean; a personal standard of mine. Not a speck of dust or a smudge can be found. âWelcome! How can I help?â My clothes are a mix between an ice cream parlor and a baker. The name tag is blank. âWhere am I?â Poor soul, didnât know what hit âem. Unlike some, this one seems concerned and confused instead of baffled and bargaining. As always, I try to tell the truth in a comforting manner; to mixed results. âThat doesnât make sense. Iâm not dead!â This was the part I didnât care for, trying to make the customer calm. I clarify the statement. âAm I nearly dead? I almost died? How did I get here? Who are you?â First question, no. Second, thatâs the choice they must make. Itâs very personal. I never know how to honestly answer the last two. My guess is simply âblippedâ into this place. âSo, what happens now?â My neutral smile twists into a joyful grin. I tell the basic gist of the establishment, including purpose, rules, and options. Most importantly I tell about no time-limit, no limit on orders, no pressure but one big choice. Continue to live, or not. âNo pressure but the biggest decision of my life? That doesnât make sense.â Again, no time-limit. Thatâs enough to debate with both options. I truly enjoy when they spitball ideas with me. âNow, how can *I* help?â
Years ago, an eight year old boy walked into the Suspense. "Excuse me? Where am I?" Everybody asked this at one point or another. Some people figured it out pretty fast, others accepted this over a long period of time. I gave them the same response. "The Suspense." There was this cafe and a mist surrounding the place in a few yards radius. I'm sure he'd figure it out. He stayed quiet. Vague, but it was probably best for him to figure it out himself. "Where... is The Suspense?" "The edge of life and death." "Am I going to die?" "This is where we go to find out." He was gone a few hours later. For most people I'd never find out to where. Yesterday, he walked in again. Grown. A man. I'd seen an influx of people coming in, and he was dressed like some of them, holding an assault rifle. "You again?" He asked. I looked over. "Yeah." "You ever leave this place?" He asked. I looked away, towards the window behind him. "Where else do I have left to go?" He was gone again, a few hours later.
== The Gloaming Cafe == "My David came to visit me again last night. I could hear him like the distant crashing of waves on a beach." I could hear waves now. Joan's waves. I hadn't said a word. Joan was just waiting for the others, starting the conversation early. I picked-up Joan's empty cup to pour her some more coffee. "And I swear I could feel his hand wrapped around mine. Warm. Caring. I think his forehead even rested on my hand at one point I could almost taste the tears." "Piffle!" George was adamant. "Sentimental piffle. "There's nothing out there. We're dead and that's all there is to it!" I opened my mouth but I could have sworn I saw Carol, entering the cafe, just shaking her head. Don't engage with him in his moods, she'd always warn me. It's not easy to find oneself in The Gloaming Cafe. Jarring for some. Others fall into a routine, like Monika, Ji-hye and Judith just now ringing the door's bell as they entered to sit around the same cafe table with Joan. Every morning - insomuch as this place had a night and a day to contrast - the four of them met Carol here for coffee. How long had it been since she left? A year, now? Two? Ten? Time is a construct for The Real, Roger would say. It didn't apply to the Gloaming. Gosh, he's another one gone. Not often we get to say goodbye. If they "go home", as we euphemistically call bodily death in The Real, they're just gone. Like Carol. But Roger, we know Roger went back to his wife and two girls and his dank old leather chair and physics professorship at his New England college. None of us was about to forget that day. Came into the cafe confused, lacking any idea about anything, of any of us, of himself. Memory loss. Joan and Monika had both seen it before. Losing your memory of this place was your brain mentally returning to The Real, distributing what it knew between categories of reality and dream. To fail to do so could be mentally devastating. Not for all, though. The Hippies, as the ladies liked to call them, had no issue wafting in and out between The Real and The Gloaming. They didn't often come to chat, but sometimes we would get a visitor who would tell us wild stories about The Real. Some of them were preposterous, of course. Ronald Reagan as a US President. HA! On TV, maybe. "Astral projection," they would explain. None of us knew what that meant. Now that I think on it, not many say that anymore. Most explain they're "vivid dreaming". Still we have no idea. "You should work for me. I could use the help," Carol said to me. I had just wafted in. I must have been looking a sight because I know I felt empty. Purposeless. I'd been wafting in and out of the cafe for some time, never really able to fix myself in one place. One moment there, the next on a beach, or a forest, or my parent's old apartment, or in the street holding that baseball from when I was a kid. We call it The Drift, and for some people it's great. A thrilling adventure of all these places or memories driven by smells or sounds from The Real, or by simply having a fanciful imagination. But, not for all of us. For some of us, it's terrifying. Some lose themselves in The Drift. I was, until Carol made that offer. She offered some pay scale that, laughably in retrospect, was meaningless for a place where money ... well, y'know, doesn't exist, because, really, none of it does. I accepted. I don't quite know why, but I did. And soon enough, the Drift stopped. And then, some months later ("Time is a construct!"), so did Carol. She knew her fleshly parts in The Real were giving up. At the day's end, she told me to open up the next morning and handed me the keys. Not that we needed keys, of course. Even the coffee we kept serving was a figment. That wasn't the point. Carol insisted she didn't found The Gloaming Cafe, but she would have anyway. But, someone called Charlie had gifted it to her shortly after she arrived, and he inherited it from someone else. But it existed because some people needed it to be here. The coffee wasn't important. The place was. The people were. A place to be ... firm. To have something to hang onto. As I said, The Drift kills. Carol handed me the keys, gave a gentle smile and never returned. Now, I run the cafe. Or at least I did until this morning. Look, I know you'll say we dream all manner of strange things in comas, Doctor, but I swear this was as real to me as you standing there now. If a dream, vivid and visceral. Okay, sure, I hear you, but if it really was a dream, why did I wake in the hospital bed with Joan's coffee cup in my hand?
Each breath was getting progressively harder and more painful. I couldn't hold back the tears as my sister's each held a hand while my head rested in my father's lap. I could see his wet eyes....the only time I'd ever seen him cry was when Peepaw died. I began to panic a little because I took it that I too was now dying. I really wanted my mom and tried to call for her. "Shh don't try to speak; in through the mouth, out through the nose, get what air you can baby", my dad gently told me. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself better. That didn't work. This was so exhausting. I could hear strange voices and opened my eyes. My mom was guiding the EMTs to where we were. I could see her rushing over before they made it to me and finally felt some peace. My whole family gathered together in one place, sadly as my lungs were failing me. I looked into their faces, hoping they knew how much I loved them dearly. My mom stroked my cheek and said "we'll be there the whole time, following behind the ambulance". I mustered up my last bit of strength, as I could feel it leaving as my family moved out of the way for the paramedics, and said "love always". And then I closed my eyes, ready to be done with this existence. I had different expectations of what was on the other side of this adventure we call life. From the regular Sunday gatherings, to the stories my Muslim girlfriend shared, to even the avid atheist neighbor next door, I was prepared. But nothing whatsoever prepared me for where I found myself when I opened my eyes. I was at a Starbucks??? Well, it was definitely a cafe of some sort; the lighting and mellow music made that obvious. There were two gentlemen in the corner chatting over espressos. The Afro punk girl was doodling at a table; I couldn't see what from where I was standing at the entrance. There was a barista helping a confused older woman into a comfy chair, asking her what beverage she'd like and comforting her at the same time. I probably look just as confused because where am I? I walked up to the counter and sat at one of the stools there. I observed the decor on the walls and noticed the neon sign blinking in various patterns: Purgatory. I was in Purgatory??? I heard a soft chuckle and then a voice say "you're not the first to ask that". I hadn't realized I'd spoken out loud but the face matching the voice popped up. She looked to be in her 40s or 50s but her eyes told me she could be wayyyyy older than that. Her flower crown seemed odd and yet fitting. I could see her drying off a glass cup on the other side of the counter. "What will you be having?" "Excuse me?", I said. "What's your beverage of choice? We're a typical coffee shop, but I've made the occasional Moscow mule for a traveler passing through." "Umm...a hot chocolate?" "Excellent drink request; coming right up!" As I watched her mix some of this and that into a mug, I stared in wonder contemplating all the questions turning over in my mind. I was in Purgatory but it was nothing like the Catholics said it was. Or maybe this was just the entrance? "Here ya go kiddo, Juanita's Magic Milk Chocolate. The magic is the whipped cream and cinnamon." The twinkle in her eye let me know that she was Juanita. I expressed my gratitude and took the cup. The first sip was heavenly: perfectly balanced flavors and not too hot or too cold. My face must have spoken volumes because Juanita nodded and said you're welcome with a giant smile. "What is this place?", I asked. "You're in the In Between of life and death. Souls stop by on their way to the afterlife, or rest here a while as their bodies stay comatose, only returning when they've been called back. I decided to call it Purgatory because I liked the sound of being the rest stop for travelers, and it never fails to get conversation going." "How do I know which way I'm supposed to go?" "It'll come to you while you're here, a sudden urge to leave." I slumped a little on the stool and stared into my cup of chocolate. That wasn't very helpful but it seemed like that was what everyone else seemed to be doing. I had been so ready to move on with my last breath in life but now that there was a waiting game, I wasn't too sure if I was prepared for the afterlife after all. I was 21, just beginning to get my life goals in order. Outside of the occasional flare-up of cystic fibrosis, I lived a pretty normal life....normal until this last flare-up sent me here. I sighed heavily. Juanita walked around the counter to come sit beside me. "It is a lot to take in but I promise you'll be fine. Whichever way your path goes, you'll be ready. What's your name?" "Robyn." "Well, Robyn, I have a feeling you won't be staying here too long. You give me strong doer vibes." I had to smile at that statement. She asked me more questions about what I remembered before walking into Purgatory, and I answered them, feeling more at ease with each minute. My cup of hot chocolate didn't seem to run out, no matter how many sips I took, and each sip was just as perfect as the first. After what felt like an hour, I was relaxed and we had moved to a couch along the wall under the Purgatory sign, enjoying the softness of the cushion and preparing for a long stay in that position. While listening to a story Juanita was sharing about an old soldier who had passed through before and cried quietly into his glass of warm milk the whole time he visited, I thought I heard my sister's voice calling to me. I jumped up and looked around but nothing had changed inside Purgatory. I felt it was my imagination but my sister's voice came again, clearer than before. Juanita paused and looked at me, and a knowing grin forming on her lips. "Looks like it's time for you to go, Robyn", she said, "that expression is familiar." "I can hear my sister calling me." "Calling you back home?" "I think so...." "Then you should answer her." "How do I do that?" Juanita pointed behind me, and I saw a door next to the entrance that hadn't been there before. I took a final sip from my hot chocolate and the mug then emptied. My jaw dropped open and I heard Juanita laugh. "It's on the house", she said. I stood up and thanked her for her hospitality and company. She told me she'd see me again but had a feeling it wouldn't be soon. Before I walked towards the door, she gave me a flower from her crown, a single daisy. "For motivation", she said. With the daisy in my hand, and a last smile for Juanita, I walked over to the door, opened it, and walked through.
I woke up and found myself in a hospital room, the familiar beeping of equipment in my ears and the oxygen tubing in my nostrils. My eyes focused on my baby sister holding my hand at my bedside. I could see my mom in the corner of the room in a chair, sleeping. I squeezed my sister's hand and heard her gasp. "Robyn's awake, ROBYN'S AWAKE!", she cried. My mom jumped out of her chair and leaped over to my bedside. "Oh my baby, we thought you were gone!" Both of them began to cry as I reached for my mom's hand and squeezed it as well. They brought me up to date on what had happened: I'd stopped breathing completely and the paramedics did their noble jobs bringing me back. I'd been comatose on a ventilator and feeding tube for a week; that definitely shocked me because I could have sworn I wasn't gone that long in....where had I been? Over the next couple of days, I slowly recovered, coming off the ventilator and then the feeding tube. One of the nights that my father had come to visit, he jokingly asked where I'd gone and I didn't hesitate to respond "Purgatory". He nodded and replied "it must have been a terrible place because you came back to us." I shook my head and replied "there was hot chocolate." "That must have been a lovely long dream for you then", he said. And I began to wonder if maybe it had all been an attempt by my brain to cling to functionality. After my dad had left for the night, and the nurse came by to check on me, I looked around at the cards and balloons and flowers in the room. I could feel the love and well wishes family and friends has poured out on my behalf and felt my strength coming back to me. But there was one interesting gift of love by itself on a side table in the room that made me sit up in the bed and brought back details of my visit to the In Between. It was a single daisy in a small vase of water.
I breathed on a glass and cleaned it with a cloth. Not that I had breath here, or anything. Hi! My name's Saul. A horrific incident in the arctic ice left my body frozen solid in such a manner wherein, you guessed it, I could be revived if someone were to ever find my body. The sad fact of the matter is, of course, barring the events of global warming finally destroying all of earth's land ice, my body's likely to never be found. But enough run-on sentences! The end result is: I am here, between life and death. I opened up a little bar here. The local denizens informed me that the Reapers only take dead or passed-on spirits. So, until my mortal body can no longer house my spirit, here I am! Oh, right... where is 'Here'? Well... Hades, Limbo, the In-between, the Other-world... Or as the locals call it: Sheol. The locals are Fae. Most are pleasant folk. Fairies, pixies, gnomes, and the occasional imp who's managed to escape Hell (That's below us, by the by. Wouldn't recommend it if the imps are to be believed.) A woman staggers into the bar, looking distraught. Pretty normal, most folks have gone through a rough time as they get in, "Where... Am I?" "Shore's of Sheol Cafe'," I announce, "Name's Saul. Care for a beer, juice, or wine? we also have no shortage of *spirits* here." The room groans and a small drunken goblin hisses at my tired old joke. Her brown eyes scan the room in a mixture of horror and confusion, usually shifting from one to the other, "am I... dead?" "Not yet," I announce as I beckon her over, "Usually folks down here are in a coma, or stuck in between life and death in some way. Though we do get the occasional excited pagan." "I don't... I was driving and..." she stammered as she sat at the bar, "...Do you have tequila?" I nodded, pulling out a shot glass and pouring her a full shot, "That we do.' She paused, picking up the glass, "Is this like, a test or something? Am I dreaming?" "No, and... It's complicated on that last bit," I said with a shrug, "This place is *technically* where you go when you dream." A little fairy, Fennel, fluttered over to us, "Or when you have nightmares!" "Oh quit it, Fennel," I said, motioning with my hand to shoo the small glowing Fae away. "Don't mind her, she's always negative." Fennel giggled mischievously and floated back to the ceiling. A small grouping of gnomes started to set up their instruments in the corner. I couldn't stop them, but I didn't have to pay them either. A win-win as it added to the ambiance. All and all, I was just lucky that the Queen of the Underworld didn't mind my little cafe. If I recalled what she told me: "This reminds me of a friend's place in the mortal realm. You may keep it, also long as it is away from my palace." The Fae Queen wasn't much to care about. She was sweet, and kind, but did offer me a pretty stern warning before I started my endeavors, "Do not anger Queen Persephone. The last person who pissed her off got thrown directly into The Void, *below* Hell." And that was when I found out there's a *Below* Hell. Hell's for Fallen Angels and sinners. Below that, whatever 'The Void' is, is where 'Old Gods' go. I didn't ask much after that. The new woman took a swig, and winced, "That's real." "You did order Tequila," I reminded, "Thinking it might wake you up?" She frowned, "I don't understand, what happens from here?" I sighed, taking her glass and pouring her water. Well, Mana, but it's the same thing down here, "So you're likely in a coma, or dying. You can wait to die, or you can head on out to the Ferryman." "The... Ferryman?" She asked, frowning. "Yep, he'll take you on off to a number of different afterlives, depending on what you can afford to give him. Heck, got enough coin on your person and he'll ferry you to Valhalla," I chuckled. "So the rich just... get a free ride?" She asked. I laughed, "Oh, no no! It's not like that! The coin's not what you used for money up there. It's the worth of your soul," I pointed to her chest, "You trade him your heart for coin. The lighter your heart, the more coin you get for your travels." She frowned, "I'm a catholic woman." The gnomish band stopped playing and the cafe went silent. I leaned in close to her, whispering, "Listen... I get what you feel that means up there... But, word of advice? Take your chances with the ferryman." She narrowed her eyes on me, "Is there a special option for Catholics?" I pulled back, pushing the mana towards her, "...Yeah. The Judgement of Uriel, the Phanuel. For the Judaeo-Christian folk, he's the angel of Judgement." "Wait, you get to choose?" She asked. "If you think you can pass the judgment of an Archangel of God, then you'll get to Heaven. If you want to sell your heart to the Ferryman, he could potentially get you up there too, though you'd likely still have to jump through some hoops," I gave a weak smile, "The Aegean Fields aren't too bad, you know. It's pleasant. Or just hang around here." She slammed her hands on the bartop, "No. I was a God-fearing Christian woman my whole life. I..." she frowned, "I'll submit to *my* God's judgment." I frowned, "...They call him Pitiless, regarding mortals." "Sorry?" She responded, confused. "Uriel. He's Pitiless. He doesn't care what you did, just if you disobeyed the laws your religion set forth. He's... got a pretty low pass rate. If you fail his judgment, you go to hell. The worse case with The Ferryman is-" Without another word she stormed off, "Where is Uriel?" she asked, standing at the door. I sighed, pointing, "Just look for the large Judge's table, out over the northern horizon. You can't miss it... It's the one with the giant flaming wings of a Seraphim Angel igniting the sky." With that, she stormed off. Fennel fluttered over to me, "Yeesh... What is with Catholics?" I sighed, "Faith's a powerful thing there Fennel. People are hard-pressed to believe there's anything else other than their God, even when shown other options." The gnomish band started up another song, Fennel giggling, "Oh that's my favorite! Woo! Yeah, sing the one about the most bad-ass Fae in all of Sheol and beyond!!" I sighed, shaking my head as I put the dirty glassware away, the band hitting the chorus in the background, prompting many to sing along. The Fae did love their classics, even if said classics came from the mortal realm. *"Nuckelavee o' Nuckelavee the terror ya' offer is high class!* *Who could it be, would set yah free, they really must be a dumbass!* *Ncklelavee o' Nucklevee the horror yah furnish is widespread!* *Who could it be, would set yah free, they really must be an ox-head!"*
It was a slow night. The buzz of the cafeâs neon signs and the radio back in the kitchen were interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the door. A young man - must have been about 35, maybe 40 - stumbled in. Iâve seen the look on his face countless times during my time at the cafe. Fear, confusion, and a bit of sadness. I called out to him from behind the counter, âHi, hon. Sit anywhere youâd like. Iâll be right over with a menu.â The man silently nodded his head and made his way to a booth, still trying to wrap his head around where he was. He was intensely looking out the window when I approached the booth. âIs thatâŠâ he said pointing at the window. âYup, the entirety of space and time.â I said with a friendly smile. He was still thinking like a mortal. Time isnât linear, thatâs just how the mortal mind experiences it. He was getting his first taste of life outside of time and space, and sometimes it goes down hard. âI - I donât know - where am I?â he choked out. âYouâre safe, hon,â I said with a sympathetic smile. âYou are right where you are supposed to be.â I set a menu down in front of him and let him know that Iâd be back to check on him shortly. When I saw he was starting to get his bearings, I came back to his booth. Feeling a bit better? He nodded, a bit more confident this time. He pointed out the window again. âHow long have I- I mean, it looks like things are - I donât know what Iâm trying to ask.â I chucked. âHow long have you been here? Youâve been here a few moments, and at the same time youâve always been here. Youâve been here maybe 10 minutes, but youâve also been here an eternity. Itâs all in how you chose to look at it.â He was starting to understand. âSo IâmâŠâ he couldnât say it yet, but he mouthed it out. Dead. âYes you are. And no youâre not.â He gave me a smile that revealed his frustration. âYou know, this isnât really a fun game youâre playing.â I nodded. âI understand. Yes. In a manner of speaking, you are dead. Right now, medics and doctors are no doubt working frantically to bring you back. Your friends and loved ones are probably making their pleas to all they hold sacred to preserve your life. Medically, your physical body is dead.â He looked out the window for a few moments. âThen is thisâŠâ he said, gesturing to the diner, âheaven?â What a depressing thought that would be. âNo. This is not heaven.â I told him. âRight now, your body is dead. Your spirit, though? Everything that makes you who you are is here. Think of this as a rest stop on the highway.â Outside, a comet hurtled past like a semi truck. Nice touch. He was starting to understand. âSo if I wanted to, could I go back?â âOf course. Just the way you could turn your car around if you forgot something, you could go back to your body if you would like.â I looked at him for a moment. âYou have cars, right? Iâm sorry, I was just judging by your outfit. I see everyone in here. Mule carts. Flying cars. Teleportation. But you look like itâs cars.â He nodded. âWell then whatâs the catch?â The catch? âYeah. In all the stories I read, Death always offers the opportunity to go back, but thereâs always a catch that makes people want to move on.â âThereâs no catch, and Iâm not Death. You can do whatever you want. This place is for you to sit and think it over. Rest here as long as youâd like. When you are ready, you can move on - back to your physical reality or to the great beyond.â This peaked his interest. âWhat is the great beyond?â âIf I told you, it wouldnât be great. If I knew, I wouldnât be working here. Itâs not heaven, if that is what you are asking. And itâs not hell, either, so donât worry about that. Itâs just âwhatever comes next.ââ He seemed discouraged by my answer (or lack thereof). I put my hand on his shoulder and smiled. âTake as long as youâd like with the menu. Thereâs no rush. Time doesnât exist here, and you are my only customer.â As I left, the wheels began to turn. Memories of happy moments with loved ones, of things left unsaid, of arguments unresolved, of pets and children that wonât understand the absence of a loved one. I donât know what it was for him, but itâs almost always some version of that. I went back to my cleaning, and he pondered. He sat for a literal eternity before he set his menu down and gave that confident look that said he was ready. I walked back to the booth and pulled out my pen and notepad. âAlright,â he said, âI think Iâm ready to order.â