On every holiday or birthday, mine or others, I wish always it seems for the same thing, or at least, since maturing. I no longer want to cure the condition we all share.

You know, "Life," though there was a time that I would have said I wished for peace, thinking how it should be a cure-all for war, pestilence, disease, general stupidity, and related suffering.

Then I slowly, painfully recognized that I didn't want to live without fight.

I want to grapple with problems. I want to overcome challenges in faith and possibility, physically and emotionally.

And accordingly, I sign my greeting cards with that dual edged wish:

Here's to a Creative Year.

Foreword

The idea for this story came unexpectedly — from a cup of morning coffee. Like many others, I often wondered what makes this drink so inspiring: its aroma, its taste, or the magic way it awakens the mind? But what if coffee isn’t just a drink? What if it’s alive, with its own thoughts and dreams?

That’s when I imagined Edgar Allan Poe, the master of gothic horror, sitting in a café where nothing is as it seems. The absurd idea of a coffee rebellion, inspired by his dark style, quickly grew into a story full of black humor and strange characters.

This story is not only a tribute to Poe and his talent for finding inspiration in the darkest corners of the soul but also a playful look at our own reliance on that little cup of coffee that accompanies us through life. Dive into this absurd world where every drop of coffee has a voice, and perhaps, you’ll never see coffee the same way again.

***

Baltimore, a foggy evening. Edgar Allan Poe sat at his desk, staring at an empty cup. His thoughts were as dark as a winter evening without a blanket.

— No coffee, no inspiration, — he sighed. — And no inspiration means no me!

He grabbed his cloak, which creaked like a door in his stories, and went to the café.

The café called "The Last Sip" looked like something from his worst nightmares: brick walls covered in cobwebs, and a sign that read, "Coffee that inspires... or kills."

— Perfect, — muttered Poe as he walked inside.

At the counter, there were unusual "baristas": a Raven wearing a little apron, holding a menu in its beak, and a skull with drawn eyes, hanging on a string.

— What can I get for you, Mr. Poe? — cawed the Raven.

— The strongest coffee, — Poe ordered, thinking it would fuel his muse.

The skull suddenly moved.

— We have "Sip of the Abyss," "Espresso of Judgment Day," and "Cappuccino of Nightmares."

— I'll take everything! — Poe declared, deciding that one challenge would be too boring.

As soon as he placed the order, the coffee machine hissed like a demon in hell. A puff of steam shot out, and suddenly an espresso came to life. A tiny coffee cup with eyes and arms jumped onto the counter.

— We're tired of being used! — squeaked the Espresso. — Stop drinking us dry!

More cups appeared, each with tiny arms and legs. One cappuccino cup began splashing milk foam like a gladiator in the arena, while the Raven panicked and started cawing:

— Coffee uprising! Run for your lives!

— What the heck?! — Poe shouted, dodging a flying spoon.

The cups began marching around the café, chanting:

— Down with brewing! Give freedom to the beans!

In one hand, Poe held a quill, in the other, a poker, trying to defend himself. But they surrounded him. The main cup, clearly the leader of the rebellion, declared:

— We’ll let you go if you write a poem... in our honor!

— A poem?! About you? — Poe stared at the cups in disbelief. — Fine, okay.

He took the quill and began writing:

"Oh, coffee, my enemy and my friend,

You give me morning and darkness to blend.

But now you rise against my pen,

Coffee army, glory to you again!"

The cups froze, clapping with their tiny hands.

— Brilliant! You’re free! — said the Espresso, as the other cups lined up and let him out.

Poe ran out of the café, swearing he would only drink tea from now on. But on his way home, he came up with an idea for a new story. He sat down at his desk and titled it:

"The Fall of the House of Latte."

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

I’ll never forget the first time I boldly used “faux pas” in a conversation. I was at a dinner party, seated across from a couple of well-dressed, well-read people. I wanted to make an impression. The opportunity presented itself when someone shared a story about accidentally sending an embarrassing email to the wrong person.

“Well, that was quite the fox pass!” I declared, my voice confident.

The table fell silent for a beat. Then, the polite lady next to me leaned over, smiling. “You mean a faux pas?”

I blinked. Faux what?

Turns out, it wasn’t fox pass at all, but a French term for a social blunder. Great. My attempt to sound sophisticated had backfired, and instead, I had just committed the very thing I was trying to describe!

That wasn’t the only time my misadventures with language got me into trouble. A few years earlier, I had used “indigent” in an essay, thinking it meant “indignant.” The result was a paper where I described characters as “very indigent” when they were actually just mad, not broke. My teacher kindly pointed out that indigent meant impoverished, which explained the red circles around half my paragraphs.

But my favorite blunder was “epitome.” I had heard people say the word and thought it was pronounced exactly as it looked: epi-tome. So, when discussing my favorite movie in front of a large group, I confidently declared it “the epi-tome of modern cinema.”

Cue the chuckles.

One guy leaned over and whispered, “It’s pronounced ih-pit-uh-mee.”

I nodded, cheeks burning, trying to absorb my latest vocabulary lesson.

From that point on, I learned my lesson: never assume you know how to use or pronounce a word just because you’ve seen it written down. Now, before I throw any “fancy” terms into casual conversation, I double-check their meaning and pronunciation.

But I guess that’s just the epitome of learning from one’s mistakes, isn’t it?

Or should I say the epi-tome?

John, a typical American guy in his mid-30s, was overly confident in his DIY skills. Whenever something broke in the house, he’d always announce, “I can fix that!” His wife, Susan, would usually roll her eyes and wait for the inevitable: within a few hours, the house would turn into a disaster zone, and John, flailing around with tools, would insist that he was “almost done.”

Today’s project? The washing machine. Seemed like a simple enough task—unless you were John.

“I’m just going to fix it up real quick,” he told Susan cheerfully, grabbing his toolbox.

“You’ll call a professional if things go wrong, right?” she asked hopefully, knowing full well that conversations like this usually ended in chaos.

“A professional? For me? Susan, you forget who the engineer in this house is!” he declared proudly, though his engineering experience mostly came down to assembling IKEA furniture... without reading the instructions.

The moment John opened up the washing machine panel, he felt like an explorer venturing into unknown territory. Before him lay a labyrinth of tubes, wires, and parts that looked like alien technology. Truthfully, half of it, he didn’t even know existed.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he muttered, pulling out an oversized wrench. John was convinced that any repair job always started with a wrench. Always.

The first sign of impending disaster came when John unscrewed the wrong bolt. Instead of removing a small panel, he accidentally disconnected a pipe, and a small stream of water began to trickle out of the machine.

“Oops, just a tiny leak! I’ve got it under control!” John called out, already ankle-deep in water.

From the kitchen, Susan peeked over at the unfolding situation and muttered under her breath,

“And why do I always believe he’ll manage this time?”

Five minutes later, the sound from the laundry room could best be described as “a shipwreck.” John was frantically twisting the water valve, trying to shut off the flow, but instead of reducing the pressure, he turned the valve off completely, causing a geyser of water to shoot out like something out of a disaster movie.

“John!” Susan shouted, hopping onto a stool to avoid getting her feet wet in the rapidly forming indoor lake.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart!” John shouted back, now waist-deep in water, one hand desperately pressing on the pipe, the other holding a bolt between his teeth.

“You always say that!” Susan yelled, but at this point, she didn’t even bother arguing. It was pointless.

Suddenly, John noticed something seriously alarming: the washing machine began to shake. As if the ghost of all past laundry cycles had come back to haunt it. The machine growled, and in the next second, a flood of soap bubbles erupted from it, filling the room. Now, not only was John soaking wet, but he was also covered in foam.

“Are you making soap bubbles now too?” Susan laughed as John’s arm emerged from the foam, still trying to close the machine’s lid.

But the machine had decided it wasn’t done yet. It continued spewing out foam, water, and—wait—a few socks from last week’s missing laundry.

“Maybe we should call a professional?” Susan suggested again, watching John hopelessly wrestle with the chaos.

“A professional?!” John, now moving like a sprinter, ran to the power switch and finally turned the machine off. But it was too late. The laundry room now resembled a swimming pool full of bubbles. “I fixed it! Just one small problem… Where’s our cat?”

At that moment, the cat’s head emerged from under a mountain of foam, looking like a spiky hedgehog made of soap. He glared at John with a look that said he understood everything about John’s “handyman skills” and slowly padded out of the room, leaving wet paw prints behind him.

John stood there, dripping wet, soap bubbles slowly sliding off his face, while Susan, now laughing uncontrollably, wiped away tears from her eyes. The cat, meanwhile, slinked off into the living room to recover from his unexpected bubble bath, leaving John to face the consequences of his latest DIY disaster.

John, however, wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Okay, that didn’t go as planned,” he muttered, brushing the remaining bubbles from his head. “But I’m not done yet. I just need a different tool. The right tool.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “John, the only tool you need right now is a phone to call the plumber.”

“No way,” John insisted, rummaging through his tool box. “This is just a minor setback. I’ve got this.”

With newfound determination, John pulled out a rubber mallet, as if this would somehow resolve all his problems. He gave the washing machine a tentative tap. Nothing happened. Encouraged, he gave it another, slightly harder whack.

“John, what are you doing?” Susan asked, her laughter fading into genuine concern.

“Just… recalibrating!” he replied confidently, even though the washing machine clearly didn’t need “recalibrating.” It needed a miracle.

Susan shook her head, now preparing for the next wave of chaos. “Recalibrating, right. So, when’s the last time you ‘recalibrated’ something successfully?”

“Remember that time I fixed the dishwasher?” John said, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, you mean the time we had to replace half the kitchen floor after it flooded?”

John blinked, momentarily thrown off, but quickly recovered. “Well, yes, but that was just bad luck! This time, I’ve got everything under control.”

Just as he said that, the washing machine made a low groaning noise—a sound that no household appliance should ever make. Before either of them could react, there was a loud bang, and the door of the machine flew open, sending a wave of water and soap crashing across the floor.

John was now completely drenched from head to toe, standing in a sea of bubbles, his rubber mallet still in hand.

Susan couldn’t hold back her laughter anymore. “Control, huh?”

John looked down at the foam-covered floor, then up at Susan, who was trying to stay upright on her stool. “I might’ve… underestimated the situation.”

“Might’ve?” Susan cackled. “John, this is like Tsunami 2.0 in here! I’m surprised we’re not floating!”

John sighed, finally accepting defeat. “Okay, maybe it’s time to call a professional.”

Susan hopped off the stool, shaking her head with a smile. “I’ll go grab the phone. Let’s just hope the plumber doesn’t bring a lifeboat.”

As Susan left the room, John looked back at the washing machine. He wasn’t sure whether it was the glint of soap bubbles or his imagination, but he could swear the machine was mocking him.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled. "You win this round, but I’ll be back."

Meanwhile, the cat, now dry but still looking like it had just escaped a war zone, peeked around the corner, as if to check whether the coast was clear. Satisfied that John was no longer wielding his tools like a madman, it cautiously approached Susan, likely plotting its own revenge for the impromptu bath.

Just as Susan dialed the plumber, she heard John muttering to himself in the laundry room.

“What was that?” she called.

“Nothing!” John yelled back, though he was already eyeing the dishwasher. Surely there was something he could fix there. He was, after all, a man of ambition.

Susan turned back to the phone. “Hello, yes? I need a plumber. Urgently.”

By the time the plumber arrived, John had managed to half-dry the laundry room—well, sort of. The floor was still damp, and the washing machine looked like it had been through a hurricane, but at least the flood had been stopped. Susan greeted the plumber at the door, trying to suppress her amusement.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

As the plumber entered the laundry room, his eyes widened. He surveyed the scene: soap bubbles clung to the walls, puddles of water gleamed on the floor, and in the middle of it all stood John, holding a bucket, as if that had been his grand solution all along.

The plumber, trying to keep a straight face, cleared his throat. “So… what seems to be the problem?”

John, desperate to salvage some dignity, quickly chimed in. “It’s just a small issue with the washing machine. I think the water valve’s acting up.”

The plumber nodded, though it was clear he didn’t buy John’s story. He crouched down, expertly inspecting the washing machine, which by now looked like it had survived an earthquake. After a few minutes, he stood up and looked at John.

“Well, I can fix it, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Next time, maybe give us a call before things get this far.”

Susan, unable to hold back anymore, burst out laughing. Even John, standing there in his soaked socks, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll let the professionals handle it next time.”

But of course, everyone knew that wasn’t true.

That evening, after the plumber had fixed the washing machine and left, Susan and John sat together in the living room, sipping tea. The house was finally quiet, and the chaos of the day seemed like a distant memory. The cat had forgiven John, or at least tolerated him again, and was curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of future catastrophes.

“You know,” Susan said with a grin, “you should really write a book about all your ‘fix-it’ adventures.”

John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. But you know, I’m not that bad. I almost fixed it.”

“Almost doesn’t count, John,” she teased, nudging him playfully.

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll stick to smaller projects. Like changing light bulbs.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t turn that into an emergency too,” Susan laughed.

But despite the teasing, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it all. John might have been the clumsiest handyman on the planet, but he always tried his best, and Susan loved him for it—disasters and all.

Just as they settled into the cozy evening, John’s phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced at it, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, look at this!” he said excitedly, showing Susan the screen. “There’s a sale on power tools this weekend!”

Susan froze, her smile slowly fading.

“John, no.”

But John was already scrolling through the options. “What? Come on, think of all the things I could fix around here! The possibilities are endless!”

Susan sighed, leaning back on the couch. She knew how this story would go, and she had a feeling the next chapter in “Operation: Fix-it” was right around the corner.

She just hoped it wouldn’t involve the dishwasher.

The End (Or is it?) :-D

Victoria Lunar

Creativity, loved

bled, and bloody

left me,

autumnal winds

stretching out

my draft deafening door,

swinging low

with lament:

...you used us

like a drug,

and now

we're fully wasted...

useless body! and breath what

could have been made, cohesive

for consumptive ritual,

you slaughtered

and butchered--!

with Life seeping out

its shell casing, housing

this bullet, aimed falsely

in vigilance, of a second helping

...eating is nonsensical

...and sleep is a wake

for grieving demons,

their gnashing of teeth

foretold

in Revelations!

for those who long buried

with primitive spade and hatchet

the half-spent core, reactive

that which sprouted fevered

exponential saplings, of temptation

blotched green and gold and red...

fading to russet,

brittle and deadening...

an ache I'd hope to feel again

shedding this blanket of snow

Did you know that if you spray at a fly in the front by his head that he will fall and die because they do not know how to fly backwards?

Wearing tight jeans help you keep your legs and buttocks tight.

Winter is near, we can soon say goodbye to these sweltering nights and summer days.

Temperatures rising...

Better turn on the fan...

One starts to feel lonely

When work hours expand,

And you feel you should tend

To the garden of self,

With a pick and a hoe

You dive into that soil...

See what's been buried,

And left waiting to sprout...

...Neglect!...

You never felt that way before...

Until you did, now, here's to new,

And fertile

Unused sensations

Building up like a

Blue collar round

The neckline...

How much for that poor doggy in

The window?...

Her tail beats out

A rhythm on the pane...

I want to take her home

To fill what's empty...

I've got a creaky door on

Rusted frame...

I got an empty room that needs

A heartbeat...

I work so much and just have

So much time

To fill her doggy bowl,

And pet her fuzz butt...

Once or twice a day

I'll tend to mine...

Returning to the garden that's

Uprooted...

This place where I've been chasing

Off the flies...

The rabbits come, and nibble up

My produce...

I see the darkened clouds fill

Up the skies,

And then a man comes in,

He says he'll buy it...

He'll pay for all my blood, my

Sweat, and tears...

I tell him that I'll think about

His offer...

Behind house glass my dog

Looks out in fear...

8/12/24

Bunny Villaire

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