Creative Writing

Cafe Latte

The buzz of the early risers grow as the line reaches the door. The clinking of the money entering the register and the crash of it slamming shut. Familiar names being yelled out over the mumbles and impatient sighs of those waiting to hear theirs next. With every pull of the door handle, the faint whispers of raindrops on the sidewalk sneak in and brush her ears softly, like a lullaby. The rain finally started to fall, after steel-gray clouds had covered the early autumn sky that entire morning. For it was the little things, she thought, that one should try and enjoy most. The smell of fresh-drenched asphalt, the taste of the dense September air, and the feeling that summer is being washed away to welcome the hush before winter.

“Liv?!” called the young girl working behind the counter. The elderly woman, in the leather upholstered arm chair, turned her head. Her name was Olive, after her grandmother, but her husband always called her Liv. They had married young; both barely twenty years old. Not too uncommon back then but, she could remember the look on his mother’s face when they announced it. It was a small, quick ceremony, on a chilly fall afternoon. They weren’t ones for the big fuss of church weddings so they decided to exchange vows at the park. She can still hear the crunch of the fallen aspen leaves under her shoes, and the smell of his freshly pressed uniform as she leaned in for their first kiss as husband and wife. This brought a smile to her face as she shuffled backed to her seat by the window.

She takes a sip, sets her cup down, and reaches for his hand, but it is not there. It has been four years since Henry has passed. One too many autumns without him, she thought. The door swings open once more and her thoughts drift away to the sound of the rain as she sips her latte alone.

Creative Writing

Creative Writing Exercise: Imagery

The path, through the trees, was etched out of the cool, dark earth. Barely any sunlight shone through the dense leaves above. The air thickens the further you move into the forest. The aroma of autumn; clove, cinnamon, maple; embrace you like a warm blanket on a chilly October eve.

In the distance, glimpses of crimson and gold peak through the deep green of the surrounding pine. At first look, your breath is halted, as if you have encountered a ghost. But the sensation was not that of fear, but of pure amazement. For gazing upon the Harvest King’s castle, was something most never have the pleasure to experience.

The steps leading to the front entrance looked to be forged out of the richest timber of the land. Each step outlined with its own, distinct, foliage carvings. No barriers kept you in as you ascended, a softly babbling creek below offered welcoming relaxation, and the warm scent of spices increased.

The door, as big as twenty men, was made of the same rich, chocolate brown timber as the steps leading to it. In the center of the door was a carved out shape of a pumpkin, filled with a cloudy, burnt orange stained glass. A glittering, golden acorn was affixed as a handle to this massive entrance. Along its archway was similar autumn foliage that was carved into the entrance steps, except the arch was laced with gold and autumn colored gems; deep greens, oranges, and reds, which held added sparkle from two large torches mounted on either side of the door’s frame.

Along the veranda were scatter leaves which had fallen from the giant sugar maples erected on either side of the entrance. The leaves mimicked the candy colored gems and created a crimson sea atop the wooden floor.

As I stepped forward for a closer look down at the array of gourds that surrounded the doorstep, I felt a warm gust of air hit my face. I look up to see the second most amazing site of my journey; the Harvest King himself.

Creative Writing


Patiently waiting for nothing to happen…It’s not like I don’t have time to waste, but do I want to waste that time on you?

It’s a possibility, but anything’s possible. Especially when you have everything to lose. Why don’t we just have another drink? Make this more probable. Isn’t that how it all started anyways?

Maybe now the patience is wearing thin, watching the beginning of the end begin. To that, let’s have a stronger drink, and let us think of what we gained…a heart ache, a head ache, or is that what we’d be losing?

Impatiently waiting for an answer to the question that’s been lingering for too long now. Why is the weight of this put on my shoulders?

I’ll get that liquid courage sooner or later, or is it too late now? Are drunken words really sober thoughts? Maybe I am just thinking too much and I know you aren’t thinking at all.  If it was up to you we wouldn’t say a word and we would just have another drink. I would love to say no but I know I can’t with you; a constant problem of mine.

So, let’s have that drink, throw patience, emotions and logic out the window of that cab we will be taking back to your house where you will be taking advantage of the situation and still have nothing to say.

I’ll drink to that.