The coffee cups piled up like stagnant corpses. As if they were so many forgotten soldiers of the morning, forced to bear the boiling coffee in the wee hours then left beside their brothers to grow cold and die. Solemnly awaiting for a human to return was a waste of time for they found no solace in being pushed aside for smelly feet. Abandoned on the lonesome plain of unpolished oak the red and white polka-dotted cups sat with emotionless, pale, and placid souls beside the cool, tall glass of sweaty soda recently placed to seemingly stab at their self-worth. It even had ice in it… the bastard. It was a losing situation, coffee was no good cold. It smelled horrible, tasted putrid, and started forming disgusting rings around the inside when left for days on end.
"I am parched, and need sweet nutrients," I said aloud.
"Here I am, choose me!" One coffee cup shouted.
I laughed.
"Choose me! I was once suited to be drank! Choose me, it is not too late!"
I pondered this unexpected turn of events. Was I to drink day old coffee? Surely not. But as I laughed again and reached for the smug, chilled soda I saw through the bouncy carbonation an army of coffee cups all faltering together with belittled and broken spirits. A bead of sweat formed on my temple.
I eyed the soda from the corner of my eye and whispered, "what fate is mine to keep, I wonder."
The coffee mugs gathered together in a huddled, pathetic mass. Slowly marching at me with determined, angry looks of betrayal. Had they formed a rebel band of would-be martyrs? Surely they knew what would become of them if there was disorder in the cupboard.
I heard the slow beating of tribal drums and the polka-dotted ceramic marched perfectly in tune, almost with an essence of triumphance.
I asked in a commanding tone, "a mutiny?"
Not a word came from them. They continued marching in place to the beat of the ever intense drum. The sound grew louder with each passing moment and all other sounds faded from my ears as the coffee cups became the sole focus of my thoughts. I could feel them inside my head. The marching, the heavy, ghostly marching of The Abandoned rang incessantly and reverberated from the walls of my house.
"No," I spoke with a feeble whisper. Yet they persisted.
Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink! This was the tune of their song that cried in harmony with the thunderous beating of the drum. I looked for the soda, but it was nowhere to be found. What happened? What was going on? Someone tell me! I then saw the soda on the far end of the table being marched toward the edge. Calamity befell; as I reached for it with screams of terror the tasty, bubbly liquid toppled from the rim of the glass in slow motion. Time traveled slower than the orbit of the farthest planet as I watched the dark soda glisten in a moment of untasted glory as it, and the entire glass, fell to the absorbent carpet.
"No!" I roared at the very top of my lungs.
The marching, the drumming, the drinking, it became clear and loud as never before. My awestricken, watery eyes saw the murderous coffee mugs face me. They now all stomped toward me high above the terrible carnage their impatience had caused. They grasped brushes, nail clippers, permanent markers, post-it notes, anything that could barely be a weapon.
"Stop," I said, "stop!" But they did not, they marched ever forward. Those who were left behind for the rot of death had finally had enough, they were making their own rules, they were crying out in rebellion, they wanted recognition for their sad state.
"Stop! Please, stop it now!" They then paused, sensing the truthfulness in my voice. "Stop this madness! I will wash you! I will clean you! I will not leave a single flake of cooked pottery behind! I will do whatever it is you want me to do, please, just stop."
And so they did. And since that day I have held true to my promise in washing them, putting them in their proper places, and drinking all my coffee. Every now and then I will rinse immediately after use, as a favor or kind gesture. To this day I’ve left the stain from the soda as a constant reminder of the independence the coffee mugs risked martyrdom for. And, once in a while, I cautiously ponder the correctness of my actions for the clothes hamper, and the bathroom.
© Copyright 2005 - All Rights Reserved - Ryan Valich
As always I am looking for feedback on my words. I would love to make new friends who share the same passion for writing and abstract ideas and I invite anyone to make comments, either good or bad, and to contact me.
Maybe seeing them side by side will show you the subtle differences, maybe not. Harmless and jovial Potato Man on the left, decaying, bug-eyed corpse face on the right with tendrils of flesh laying next to it.
