By Ryan Rahman
I hardly ever visit Starbucks, even the ones nearby.
They’re not bad. I guess I never saw what the hype was all about. But when my friend asked me to meet up at one, I felt compelled. I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to leave my apartment—the beige walls had been criticizing me for my lack of creative output as of late. I figured people-watching might give me some much-needed inspiration for the story I’ve been meaning to write.
The one that’ll propel me to stardom.
I hadn’t seen him in a while. He’s been busy with backyard renovations. Didn’t tell me much about it, though. He’s also got a nightly ritual: smoke a little weed, sit out on the patio, and disconnect from everything.
When I meet up with him that morning, he’s a jittery mess. His bloodshot eyes make me wonder if he got any sleep the night before. Before I can ask what any of this is about, he looks around the place. There’s only a handful of people here.
He leans forward and whispers.
“I saw something in my backyard last night.”
That’s all he tells me. No additional context.
He stares at his Venti Chocolate Cream Cold Brew. I’d already downed a shot of Espresso Con Panna. Something tells me to pull out my notepad.
Just in case.
At first, I tell myself it had to be an animal. I mean, what else could it be? Take your pick: possum, armadillo, raccoon, bear, gator. He was probably high as a kite last night and accidentally scared himself silly.
It happens.
But he looks way too out of it to be spooked by one of those.
His hands are clasped like he’s trying to keep it together.
He didn’t need coffee.
He needed a priest.
My imagination then did what it does best: went off the deep end.
What if he saw a ghost?
The ghost of a neighbor.
Maybe they decided to check in.
After all, my friend just moved into the neighborhood.
Maybe the ghost was making sure he wasn’t violating any HOA rules.
Still, even a ghost sighting wouldn’t have frightened him like this. No way.
I know what happened.
He stirred an ancient evil, condemned to the depths of limestone. A shadowy and monstrous entity buried in a tomb beneath a bed of bromeliads, far beyond the sprinkler system.
I scribble notes as quickly as I can. He’s clearly traumatized, but I can’t let this newfound inspiration go to waste. Besides, if the world ends tomorrow, I’ll know who to thank for bringing about its ruin. Did we not learn what happens when one delves too greedily and too deeply?
Tolkien did warn us.
Finally, he speaks up.
“Maybe it was a stray cat. I offered one a bowl of water the other day. It didn’t drink from it.”
I nod sympathetically.
“Yeah, maybe it was. They’re out there.”
I’m already outlining the plot in my head. I quickly realize it doesn’t make sense for a demon to be buried deep in Orlando.
I’ll have to spin it somehow.
Maybe I can use magic to explain it away. Yes. Magic always works. When in doubt, just use magic.
It’ll be a hard sell, but I’ll fuss over the details later. Feeling inspired, I order a Trenta Salted Caramel Cream Cold Brew. I’m glad I brought my laptop with me. I open it and start typing away.
My friend, still in distress, finally takes a sip of his coffee.
Meanwhile, I can hardly contain my excitement. I have to suppress the urge to cackle like a mad genius.
It’s all coming together in my mind.
My genius has returned.
Soon, I’ll be a household name.
