When I recently went back to re-read Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber, it is so clear to me how much he inspired me, that this one short piece that I wrote feels more like fan fiction than anything original. Still, I love it and I hope you enjoy it as well.
Coffee is Spelled with a K
Long swirling folds of black leather, captured, like a flag, by the wind, whispers of autumn leaves and plump pregnant pumpkins. But he notices this not. The weather’s not important to him, draped in cloak of black leather . . . the kind of cloak that would be easy to get lost in. No, the weather’s not important. It’s the moon. The bright blue-white moon, hiding behind the clouds. Shifting phases, aloofly marching to a background dance with the seasonal waltz of mother Gaia.
Light raindrops splatter against scruffy hard set face. Got somewhere to go, an’ ah’m gonna get there. Green eyes comb the streets, alert for danger . . or prey. Pray for a peaceful transition and an end to The Hunt. Hunter is hunting, is hunted by yet another hunted hunter . . . hunting. Oh, these games they play. We play. But wait . . .
Brisk foot shuffle. Stops. Eyes unfocus to give room to nose’s smell. Ears prick forward, uncannily. Head cocked to one side . . footsteps behind, thirty/forty feet. Sniff. Smell of adrenaline-soaked sweat and the scythe scent of silver. Golden flecks of fear in his eyes, washed away by a cold green wave. Determination. A smile, razor edged. Shuffle forward. A wave and a whisper of black leather, cloak and muffle the closing footsteps . . . kicking a stone forward to match the click of the cocking gun . . and shift
. . . away
. . . change. Snow drifting lazily down, and noone’s following. Everything’s fine. Two feet of snow, but a path has been cleared. Weather’s not important, the key is in the moon, brightening the white snow with blue tinged light. Moon feels good in the cold.
Neon blue screams, “Joe’s Coffee and Donuts” across the street to the left. Cross the street, enter. Sniff. Sweet dough. Grinds and stale cigarettes, under a numb ever-present stench of flowing humanity. A large rotund face, framed in bushy white beard, buried in a paper, coffee mug half-raised, half-lowered, getting cold. A hostess in grease stained uniform, “Joe’s Coffee and Donuts” in white on blue, chews gum through a smile. “What kin ah get ya, mistah?”
Glance up at the menu board — COFFEE 50 cents — sit in a corner stool, facing the door. “Coffee.”
She brings a warm mug of dry bean soaked water. Reach deep into an empty pocket. Two quarters. Draw out, clink two quarters on the counter top. “Refills are free, ” she says through a bubble gum bubble pop. Dish wash wrinkled hands wave across the counter and the quarters disappear into the click clang ring of the cash register. Shrug, and sip black coffee.
Cold snow scratched draft sneaks though front door. Bubble gum bubble pop. “Can ah help ya, mistah?” Sniff. Definitely scent of silver under rain mixed with snow. The new arrival brushes red and gold autumn leaves out of muddy blonde hair. He winks at the hostess in blue uniform and reaches deep into a brown/beige coat.
Autumn leaves? Danger! Hunted hunter hunting. He’s good, better than presumed. Muddy blonde hair pulls out a long black and silver gun, with scope. His green eye looms huge through the sight. Stare through him, over a coffee mug that says “Joe’s Coffee and Donuts.”
Coffee is spelled with a ‘K’ and runs for a buck fifty.
Muddy blonde hair and gun are gone. Put down the mug of coffee that says “Jay’s Kauphey and Doughnuts” in bright pink against beige. Smile. Amateurs.
“Can I help you, mister?” Raise eyebrow at pretty waitress in pink uniform. No more bubble gum bubble pop.
“Yeah. ‘Nother kauphey’d be nice.”
“That’ll be another dollar and a half.” Reach into empty pocket, two dollars, slap down two green bills with red borders.
“Keep the change.”
© 1990, 1996 Samir Malak
Imagine Anew 