The only whisper of life on this snowy city street at midnight hour thrummed from the little coffeehouse sitting on the corner of This Way and That Way. Its purple neon sign glowed “Moonrise Coffeehouse” into the snow-kissed face of the night, beckoning the city’s wandering creative souls to its threshold.

 

Freya sauntered across the threshold of Moonrise, her ebony hair swinging in a tight pony-tail. She marched up to the front counter, the aroma of citrine and coco filling her nostrils, and without casting a glance at the sprawling letters in chalk on the back wall, she voiced, “Café Medici, please.” The barista gave her a slight nod, her eyes lingering for a moment on her beauty, before turning to the espresso machine.

Freya spun around to survey the room. The familiar indigo walls with their towering bookshelves and assortment of abstract paintings wrapped around her. She noticed a young man with tumbling dark curls sitting behind the grand piano in the back corner of the room, his eyes closed and body swaying as his fingers frantically danced across the keys. Across from him, nestled in a bright yellow sofa sat a young girl with pearly white skin, like a shimmering phantom, her blue eyes bright as she watched the musician. However, it was the young woman perched on the edge of her stool in the far corner of the room staring at a canvas that had Freya craving her pencils and bits of charcoal. The woman’s curly onyx hair seemed to glow like the embers of a fire in the orange lantern light of the coffeehouse. Her emerald eyes were lost in the canvas before her as if she was indeed staring into the abyss of another world entirely. Her dark features were sharp, edged and wary. Freya wanted to capture all of it with her pencil.

Freya quickly grabbed her cup of coffee, offering the barista a small smile. Making her way towards the curly-haired women, Freya found a velvet green couch facing the painter with a chipped and worn coffee table in front of it. Perfect, she thought. A moment later she had all of her supplies spread about the table. Balancing her sketchpad on her knee, she began.

Freya felt settled, comfortable. She felt this way presently and generally. Life wasn’t easy for her, but she was content. She was content watching life unfold for others from the outside. She was always on the outside looking in, watching, wondering. She learned from watching, it somehow connected her to them. So, she studied this lost soul perched in front of a canvas, and she let her pencil carry her fingers across the blank page. Freya noticed fear glimmering in the young woman’s eyes, but she also noticed something else...

A sharp ringing pulled Freya from her thoughts, her shoulders jumping slightly with surprise.

 

 

Sergio’s wild brown eyes darted from the piano keys—the music vanishing from his fingertips—and narrowed on the phone ringing. No, not ringing, screaming. He physically cringed at the sound, his gut tightening as he peered at the name flashing viciously on the screen. Anna Maria.

“Ay bendito,” he muttered to himself, his fingers pinching the skin between his brows. He grabbed one of the several espresso shots lined atop the piano, pouring the dark liquid down his throat. “Ah,” he winced, sticking his tongue out before setting down the glass and picking up the screeching phone.

“Anna Maria, mi amor,” Sergio sang into the phone, standing up and stepping over the piano bench in a series of nervous, ungraceful movements. He held his breath.

“I won’t do the show,” she snapped through the phone.

He loosed a breath. Sergio knew that tone, he could practically see the stubborn gleam in her eyes, could practically hear the fury whistling off her. “Anna Maria,” he drawled out slowly and carefully, his voice light and soft, as if he was trying to prevent a wild dog from lunging at him.

Anna Maria was his love, his amor. She was like him in so many ways. They both lived and breathed the music. It was their whole existence. He was immediately drawn to her when he witnessed her play the violin in front of a crowd of women’s rights activists in Germany. She was utterly entrancing—her music wild and untamed, thrumming with raw passion and fury. That’s what his relationship was with Anna Maria, raw passion and fury. They were like fire and ice, magical together and desolate apart.

She lunged, lashing him with her tongue. “It’s not about the music for you,” she barked. “It’s about the fame, the glory.” She stretched out every excruciating syllable of the last word. “You only serve yourself,” she spat.

Sergio straightened, despair crinkling his face. “Mi amor, why do you say these things? Me duele. Why do you say these things?” His mind was racing, a shattered reckless symphony screeching in his head.

Anna Maria breathed through the phone. He could practically see her pacing across the room of her tiny studio apartment, violin in one hand, bow in the other…and pure flame in her grey eyes. He could practically see her nostrils flaring and brows narrowing. He could practically hear the music of his heart thrashing violently against hers. He wanted to kiss her and scream at her.

“You know it’s about the music for me,” Sergio pleaded. “You know this. I serve the music, Anna Maria. Not myself,” he shook his head vigorously back and forth, now pacing the length of the coffeehouse. “Not myself.”

“No!” she snarled.

“No?” he paused. “But I need you, Anna Maria. You are an exquisite violinist. You’d make a magical soloist for the show. Mágica, Anna Maria.”

“I will not play for you and your rich men in black suits. Riches cochons bourgeois! I will not do it. I will not. That music is lifeless. Your music is lifeless, Sergio. And you are dead to me. Muerta!”

Mind spinning and blood boiling, Sergio marched to the squeaky wooden door of the coffeehouse. “Vous êtes cruel et intolérable! Tu me fais mal! La douleur que vous me causez! ” he yelled into the phone, the might of his body jumping and shaking with each word.

“I curse you!” she screeched.

Sergio wrenched open the door to the coffeehouse, a burst of icy air hitting his face, and threw the phone with all his might out into the snow.

 

 

Maizie watched the little musician hurl his phone out into the snow from where she sat on a bright yellow sofa, nestled like a curled cat between great plush sapphire and pink cushions. She watched as he turned around, a satisfied smile curling on his handsome face, and marched back to the piano. Before the musician sat down on the green wooden bench, Maizie noted the barista quietly pull the coffeehouse door closed after him. Balancing her worn leather journal on her knees, Maizie watched the musician hover his hands over the keys, something darkening in his eyes. He blinked aggressively, shaking his head, his dark curls tumbling in all directions. Finally, his fingers met the keys, a light note filling the room. But then the music stopped. It looked as if he was cringing, as if he was physically disturbed by the sound he had just made. Interesting, she thought. She imagined a dark memory haunting him, living and lurking between the keys. Taunting him with the sound of music as a familiar melody sent him back to a world of ruin and pain. She watched as he threw back a shot of espresso, closed his eyes, and let his fingers wander frantically across the keys.

Maizie sighed as the soulful music filled the coffeehouse. This is what she needed. A melodic catalyst for her thoughts. Pen in hand, her own fingers began a dance of their own across the page.

Thoughts and memories flowed and ebbed across the page like a gentle glittering river. She imagined the story behind this artist behind the piano. She imagined he existed elsewhere, not from this world. He was only just passing through this world of her own to offer his gift of music, wonderous music that made her feel both wanderlust and madness. She imagined he came from a world where music was language, where communication between other humans was so intense and intimate that each and every person could feel the unrelenting joy and sadness that emanated off of each other.

Her gentle glittering river of thoughts harshened and darkened as she remembered what drove her to Moonrise on this starry wintery night. The argument that had shattered her sparkling spirits. The words that had been little daggers that raked down her heart in cruel vicious lines.

She never fought with her sister, not really anyways. Not like this. But the storm was brewing between them ever since the death of their uncle three months ago. Oh, how the thought of him strained her heart. His gentle loving soul that seemed to embrace the souls of others with such love and compassion that it left their hearts brimming with untamed happiness. His kind eyes and crooked grin that seemed to elevate the spirits of even the most despairing creatures. Maizie could recount every moment she shared with him because each was a sparkling gem in her memory, unlike any others she had, or would ever experience. A part of her always knew he didn’t belong to this world. He shone too bright for this world. He was only a gift to this world of her own, a gem. So, when he was taken from it so devastatingly early, she imagined he returned to that world he came from—where his light was never too bright. Maizie found a tendril of peace with this thought that saved her from endless crippling tears.

Her sister, however, did not see things this way. She was angry and distraught and utterly crippled. Tear streaks down her cheeks had become a constant mark on her sister’s face. And it was from this place of anger and despair that her sister’s words speared her. You live in a world sprinkled with faerie dust, drowning in glitter. You are a child blind to the real world, Maizie. Open your fucking eyes!

Maizie’s hands halted on the page, and she stared at the poem that had unfolded before her. A tear slipped down her cheek…and she smiled.

Taking a sip of her lemonade, Maizie’s eyes wandered to where a tall beautiful dark-skinned painter with onyx hair leaned against the coffee bar.

 

 

Asha’s fingers speckled with paint, blue and black and green, left small colorful smudges on the edge of the coffee bar. She didn’t care. She didn’t care much about anything these days. She did care about getting her second cup of god-damned coffee. What was taking this barista so long? Drumming her nails on the dark mahogany wood of the bar, Asha let her eyes wander around the room. She always loved coming here to paint. Moonrise was better than any studio. It was teeming with character and quirkiness and life that made her feel settled. She never felt like that anywhere else. She also loved the colors of the place, the way they warmed her eyes. The indigo walls and dark wood floors. The velvet yellow and green and blue couches littered with pink and sapphire cushions. The golden grand piano and its long wooden-emerald bench. The glowing orange lanterns swinging from the painted ceiling. The clay colored brick that outlined the towering glass windows and ruby curtains. It all felt so wonderful to her, these colors, this combination of colors. It reminded her of more peaceful times, of lying in the deep green grass as a child, staring up at the royal blue sky and its rolling clouds. As a girl, she’d run through the dandelion riddled fields, wild and free. She’d imagine she was princess in a kingdom that she would paint into story books woven together with threads of grass. The great dragons, her beautiful creatures, taking form in the clouds above would follow her, guarding her from the evils of the world.

The barista set Asha’s iced amber-colored coffee down on the bar with a soft clunk. Asha muttered her thanks before finding her place again at the far corner of the room. After taking a sip of her coffee, the liquid icy down her throat, she set it down on the ground beside the easel holding her canvas. She then settled herself atop her stool, perched like a midnight hawk, keenly aware of the ebony-haired goddess-like woman watching her from her place on the velvet green couch across from Asha. Asha reached to the small stand beside her to grab her paint brush. She looked at the half-painted canvas before her and dipped her brush into the black paint on her pallet. Black for her was despair. The music from the small wild man behind the piano, the stares from the stunning woman with a sketchpad, and the presence of the young pearl-like girl in the corner faded. It all faded.

Asha was lying in that room again. That dark and lifeless room—so dark that even shadows ceased to exist. So lifeless that she wasn’t even sure she herself was breathing. She could feel the remnants of his hot sticky breath against her skin. She could feel every inch of where he touched her as if she’d been branded by his fingerprints. Bruises, ugly and cruel, were already beginning to bloom around her neck and wrists. She could feel the skeletal claws of fear with its death-like touch, icy and suffocating, gripping her, wrapping around her wrists, around her throat. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. The blue-sky swarming with her fire-breathing protectors no longer watched over her. They never really did. Only darkness greeted her now.

This was the darkness she poured onto the canvas, a darkness that winked the light out of her eyes, the joy from her life. She poured it all onto the canvas, every emotion dripping with despair erupting out of her. Each stroke of her brush brought a fresh tear trailing down her cheek. She let each salted drop fall.

After she finished painting the canvas black, she paused, looking up. Asha’s eyes immediately found the eyes of the stunning ebony-haired beauty staring at her. The goddess-like woman just watched her, pencil and sketch book tucked to her chest and a smile curling on her light pink lips.

“You know,” the goddess-like woman whispered, “darkness is not wholly good or bad.”

Asha gaped at the beautiful woman. “What is it then?” she found herself asking.

Twisting the ends of her ebony hair with her finger, the woman answered, a bright smile on her lips, “That part is up to you.”

Asha nodded, her shoulders sagging a bit. She didn’t know the answer. She wished she did.

“But,” the beautiful woman said, pulling Asha from her thoughts, “I see light in your darkness, like shining stars in the glittering night. You are like the face of a crescent moon, both light and dark, but the darkness makes your light shine brighter. It makes it shimmer.” The young woman pulled her sketchpad from her chest. “See, look. This is what I see.”

Asha gasped. For the charcoal drawing on the page before her by this beautiful stranger was her. It was her darkness, her light, her ugliness, and her beauty. “It’s me,” Asha whispered.

The stranger nodded, her ponytail gently swaying with the movement.

“Thank you,” Asha whispered, fresh tears brimming in her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled.

Asha turned back to her canvas, picking up her paint brush. She dipped the edges of her brush into the silver on her pallet. Silver for her was hope. She painted the young beautiful woman lounging on the couch in front of her. Asha painted her pushing a boulder up a jagged mountain, a crescent moon and stars twinkling above her. Queen Sisyphus she thought, that’s what she would title this painting…because despite the insurmountable task of pushing this boulder up the mountain to only have it fall back down again, she would do it again and again. And Asha imagined this beautiful stranger happy while doing it.

 

The energy of Moonrise Coffeehouse thrummed and buzzed with life as the vagrant artists poured entire droplets of their soul both dark and light into their work. But that energy snapped instantaneously as the light of every glowing orange lantern in the coffeehouse winked out. The old-wooden doors swung open on their hinges with a loud screech, a gust of frozen-kissed wind violently sucking the warmth from the room. Somewhere in the darkness the breaking of delicate china could be heard.

All the faces of Moonrise stared into the darkness, the whites of their eyes the only thing glowing.

 

 

Sergio trembled from where he stood in front of the piano. “Anna Maria,” he whined. “Is that you?”

The night-kissed wind swirled around him, cold as death. He shivered. “Anna Maria?” his voice fractured.

This was it, he thought. This was death coming to claim him, coming to claim his lifeless self and his lifeless music. It was only fitting that death had to come claim what was hers. He was now hers.

Oh, but he didn’t want to go. He dropped to his knees despairingly. “Anna Maria, mi amor, please,” he sobbed. “Lift your curse, please,” he whimpered.

The music in his mind had vanished, as if death herself had swallowed it from him, drinking in its lifeless entirety. He strained his ears for any whisper of sound, but only world-shattering silence screamed back.

 

 

Maizie stared into the darkness of the coffeehouse, wild wonder gleaming in her eyes. The light of the moon had spilled through the open doorway, illuminating the star-shaped flecks of snow that swirled on the currents of the untamed gusts of winds that twirled through the coffeehouse. The wind took shape in the moonlight snow-kissed penumbras, forming small whirlpools of shadow and mist.

Portals, she thought, a pearly white smile glowing on her face. A portal to call home the weeping musician kneeling on the frozen floor. And a portal to offer her uncle a momentary glimpse of her. A glimpse of her smiling, of her shining, of her sparkling. A glimpse to show him that she found peace, a peace that allowed her to glow with a glint of his light—a light that shone too bright for this world. A light that now emanated off of her.

Maizie crouched beside the cowering musician, placing a gentle pearly white hand on his golden hand. “It’s alright,” she whispered. “You can go where you must. Your music gave me life, it sung to my soul. You have contributed something beautiful to this world.”

Snow-kissed wind whipping around them and moonlight shadows dancing surrounding them, the musician loosed a guttural sob and pulled her into his embrace.

 

 

Asha peered into the darkness squatting around her and the darkness peered back. It seemed to pulse and thrum, begging to be molded. The darkness, a blanket around her, shifted like a dark veil—the colors of night-blue and smoky-grey and midnight-sapphire and charcoal-pearly swarming around her.

Asha waited for fear to swallow her, but it did not come. Asha waited for this darkness to swallow her, but it did not come for her either. Instead it seemed to be lingering in wait…for her. Waiting for her to give it meaning, give it significance.

So, she did.

With the star-kissed wind whipping her onyx hair around her face, Asha closed her eyes and imagined herself the silver thread woven in this night-blue, smoky-grey, midnight-sapphire, and charcoal-pearly patchwork of darkness. A glimmer of silver like the stars in the night sky. An arc of silver like the crescent moon burning high above. A line of silver that was hope.

 

 

Freya watched each artist find a piece of themselves in this darkness. She watched the musician find truth. She watched the poet find peace. And she watched the painter find hope. Freya let the beautiful moment wash over her, savoring the raw glimpses of humanity that filled her heart.

This was why she always found herself content merely peering through the window of life—because she felt her love for life, for others in the visions of this world one only saw if they stopped to watch. So, she did. She watched, and she drank it all in.

Freya’s eyes wandered from the weeping and joyful artists to find the barista standing in the shadows in front of the doorway, broken coffee mug in one hand and the light switch between the fingers of the other hand. Freya’s eyes widened.

The golden glow of the lanterns returned.

 

 

Moonrise Coffeehouse returned to its normal self, thrumming and humming with creativity. But something had irrevocably shifted. The barista had been spotted, not just in passing, but really spotted. The barista, an artist herself, a writer at heart, the architect of this story, had been spotted.

I had been spotted.

 

The End.