Cave Writes

Moonrise Roasters

Chapter 1:
Motor oil, distant weed, just a little bit of shit: dried by the sun then pushed into
the street some days ago. Last night’s rain activated it, and thousands of similar dollops
across New York. Root breathed deep: his secret little cold shower to make this 10-hour
shift just bearable.
Moonrise Roasters had a dusty maroon facade and two dustier glass windows,
tucked between a defunct parking garage and a suspiciously busy shoe repair place right
in the middle of New York’s Gramercy District. Despite the late hour, four people
huddled together in the yellow luminescence of the shoe repair, hovering over a bin of
hollow-heeled brown clogs.
Moonrise leaned closer to the abandoned parking garage in terms of activity.
And the onset of winter only brought a harsher dip in customers. Lately, Root and his
boss, Joan, had found themselves involved in more marketing schemes than coffee
making. Their latest effort resulted in the shabby chalkboard stand almost blocking the
shop’s door: a crooked coffee mug with three wavy lines of steam and a questionably
bubble-lettered “Coffee! Hot Drinks!” colored in white chalk.
Root cracked the door open with a “Ding-a-ling”. The murky windows let in just
enough nighttime streetlight to distinguish silhouettes. Dark chair legs like a copse of
pointy trees—still upside down on tables from this morning’s closing sweep. The big
dark brick of the counter like a squat, distant cabin to spend the night. The fireplace
chimney looked like—well, a fireplace. And it all smelled like wood, dust, and coffee.
Root flipped and tucked the chairs in the dark; the effort shook the last winter
chill from his fingers. Next up: ridding the rest of the cold from the ancient and poorly
ventilated building.
In front of the brick hearth, Root stuffed torn dryer lint under a tangle of ancient
yellow newspaper. They had two towering stacks of newspaper in the basement and
kept a small wicker bin stacked with some next to the hearth. Root clacked the trigger
of a long lighter and the dryer lint lit up and burned steadily. The newspaper caught,
and ate away at itself from the center, sending up lazy black campfire-smelling smoke.
The twigs and sticks caught at the bark and started to hold some flickering flames. Root
shifted two logs to maintain some fist-sized gaps and judged the fire would handle itself
from here.
Root liked seeing the shop in its stages: different contexts of light. Prepare a
hundred Cappuccinos and you’ll start to forget what a Cappuccino looks like. Work the
same day in the same place a hundred times and you’ll forget you existed there at all.
Root felt his presence in that dark room. And he felt himself made visible by the
dancing orange glow in the fireplace. And when he pushed the light dimmer up too high
before correcting, Root felt himself harshly illuminated before he was left standing in
the warmly-lit room, all put-together for the cold night with a hot, crackling fire.
The final touch: Root flipped the closed sign the same as he did at the start of
every shift. Same as every shift, Root had hardly reached the counter when the door was
pushed open… slowly. Excruciatingly slowly.
Mildred was old. She was an old, old lady. So old that you could draw complex
liver constellations to connect all of her liver spots. So old that Root wouldn’t be
surprised if her grandkids grandkids had grandkids. So old that the tight-knit group of
friends she’d surely grown up and joked alongside must all be long-dead by now. Root
had never seen the woman so much as frown.
Mildred shambled in with a new but unconcerning limp. She traded old person
maladies on a weekly basis. Last week, Root had to go around the counter and yell the
cost of her order in her left ear, even though she’d ordered the exact same thing almost
daily since Root had started at Moonrise. The week before her hearing had been fine,
but when Root gave her her drink—a large Long Black—her hand shook so badly that
she’d spilled half of it on herself and the rest on the floor. Root had panicked. Mildred
didn’t bat an eye.
This week, Mildred held a bone white cane with confidence. She clopped in tiny
steps and loud bangs across the wood slat floor like a P.I. looking for false floorboards.
“Good to see you. The usual?”
“Twenty ounces of the good stuff!”
The good stuff was a Long Black. Basically an inverted Americano: espresso gets
poured over hot water rather than water over espresso. Since the layer of espresso isn’t
disturbed by all the water, the crema is kept intact—along with all of its flavor.
With great effort, patience, and a permanently bruised tongue, Root could barely
stomach a straight black coffee. He guessed old people appreciated stronger flavors but
all that espresso slowly merging with all that water made his mouth sympathetically
sour. Mildred didn’t share in Root’s reservations about flavor or heat. The moment Root
held out the drink, she snatched it and took a hearty sip. Root worried that the old
woman had seriously scalded herself but Mildred let out a satisfied “Pfahh”, displaying
a straight row of pearly whites that Root was certain weren’t originally hers.
“Thank you kindly. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“It’s four fifty, like it has been daily for the past two months.”
“Ahh, astute Root!” Mildred cackled and slapped her leg through her
ankle-length pleated skirt. She fumbled in her large and tattered purple canvas purse
and came out with a stack of weathered quarters. The ridges were so smooth that Root
doubted a vending machine would still accept them. He weighed the quarters in his
hand but knew he didn’t need to.
“Two quarters short.”
“There’s ol’ steel-trap Root!” Mildred grabbed two more quarters from her purse.
Root tried to accept them but Mildred’s old lady fingers were locked on the coins in a
vice grip stronger than a trailer hitch. A tensile strength known by any cheek-sore child.
Something had to give, and Root dreaded it wouldn’t be him.
Root dreaded right. His pinch strength wore thin. Mildred’s smile only widened
but so did a gap between the flesh of her shoulder and her upper arm. Muscley sinewy
red and grey and green came apart with a schklop and Root was sent crashing into the
back of the bar. Two steel pitchers, a bag of coffee beans, and Root himself all scattered
to the ground.
Dazed, Root noticed the quarters were in his hand before he noticed Mildred’s
wrinkled, thin-skinned arm was as well. Well, her hand was. Her detached arm extended
two feet out and upward, and past it, Root could see Mildred’s head peeking above the
counter, reaching for the coins Root had placed in the register.
If pressed, Root would say that he didn’t intend to do it. But the horror of finding
someone’s detached arm in your own, mingled with the instinct to protect your goods
at any cost… It was a simple decision, really.
Root chucked the old lady’s arm. The bloody stub would’ve planted square on her
forehead but Mildred grabbed it from the air just before impact.
With routine ease, she connected the arm’s stub to the meaty circular end of her
shoulder—more gray and green than red—and wrapped it in place with a waning roll of
duct tape. She bit the end off before dropping the roll back in her purse. “Now that’s no
way to treat a customer. You could’ve knocked my eye out!”
“It’s not nice to steal from your favorite coffee shop either, but you don’t go a
night without trying.”
“From an oldin’ to a youngin’, you’ve gotta treat yourself, Root. And luxury ain’t
cheap.” On the side she was limping on, Mildred hiked up her pleated skirt to reveal an
uncannily muscular leg. It was covered in thick black hair and must’ve been longer than
her other leg, as she leaned heavily to the other side. “Victim of a pole-vaulting
accident. I heard he was bound for the Olympics. I’ll tell you, it’s taking me longer than
usual to adjust to all this extra spring in my step.” Mildred flexed the fingers in her
re-attached arm before giving her new thigh a slap. Root could make out some zig-zag
black stitching that attached the leg to the rest of Mildred. “I’ll be seeing you, Root.”
“Always a pleasure,” Root said as Mildred left. Outside, the nighttime streetlights
glinted off her two pilfered quarters: clinking in the air before Mildred snatched them
again.
Mildred’s enduring assault on his patience and common sense always set an
interesting mood for Root’s shift. Reinforced by the fact that she never gave him time
for his morning coffee. An injustice Root intended to rectify. Right after he cleaned up
these coffee beans.
On his knees, sweeping up coffee beans with a tiny plastic dustpan, Root didn’t
notice Joan enter the shop. She lived in the attached apartment upstairs and emerged
from the kitchen door behind the counter, which didn’t have any convenient bell to
alert an easily-startled barista.
Almost every finger on both of Joan’s hands sports a chunky ring. Some made of
worn birch. Others of fractiling boxy crystals. Some with alarming bugs stuck in resin
drops. Some ringed with spikes. Each ring weighs heavy on her fingers, save her middle
fingers, which she left strategically bare.
It hurt Root, when Joan’s ring-weighted hand slammed into his upper back. He
hacked and crumpled to the floor. And Joan laughed. “Working hard or hardly working!”
She shouted with a gusto that didn’t match her dead-eyes or the way those dead-eyes
glared at the coffee-keg slowly trickling into her mug.
“Bad day?” Root moaned.
“Fuck you.”
Root pushed himself up from the floor. “Ok Grumplestiltzkin! Who shit in your
Cheerio’s?”
“Dinkle called.” Joan bit savagely into a croissant.
“Oh god.”
“Meeting’s tomorrow and I pulled a stress induced all-dayer alchemizing options
for that ‘secret menu’ thing you mentioned. If this idea of yours doesn’t pull us out of
the red, I’m done for. And if I’m done for—”
“Then no more wolfsbane and I’ll go on a rampage and kill everyone I love and
the Supernatural Secret Service is gonna lock me in a volcano. The secret menu will
work.”
“It better work dog-breath. Also…” Joan put the croissant down and lowered her
voice, “don’t mention that Rumple-fuck by name. From what I hear, he’s got some big
ears.”
“You mean Rumple-“
“Don’t!”
“Right… Big ears?”
“Big ears.” Joan drained her mug and slammed it on the counter like a tankard for
Root to wash. “Things are about to get dicey in the back. If you hear any booms, ignore
them. If you hear screams, they’re not mine. If you have a question, ask Destruction.”
Root said “But!” by the time Joan had shut the kitchen door. “Only you can
understand Destruction,” he trailed off. The black cat was curled in her fluffy violet bed
by an assortment of to-go tops, stir sticks, and straws at the counter’s far end. Lord
knows how that flew by the health inspectors. Maybe paranormal specialized shops
(Legally P.S.S.) were held to different standards. Did familiars shed?
For the last few days, Root had been dialing in some of the more uncommon
orders. Today, he prepared himself a Breve. Equal parts espresso and steamed
half-and-half. Simple enough, but Root couldn’t help but fret over the ratio. A purist
would follow the recipe precisely, measuring down to the meniscus. A real barista
would examine their customer and adjust according to mood, taste, and gut feeling.
Whether someone would like a bit more bite to jolt them awake or a smoother drink to
ease the day’s load. All that finesse is found in the ratio. Root decided he could use an
easy win today and edged closer to two-thirds half-and-half.
Station cleaned and drink made, Root burned his lip with a too early sip. How did
Joan slug down mugfulls straight from the machine? Root suspected it wasn’t through
magical heat resistance, rather, sheer will and spite.
He had restocked the bean hopper and checked his fridge supplies. He took
another chance with the steaming Breve, only to sputter when he found the liquid
inside had turned ice cold. A glance around showed the lively fireplace now diminished
to a dim smoulder. Even the few ceiling lights seemed to dim, and a drafty cold pushed
through the air despite the firmly closed—and arcanely sealed—door.
Root jumped at the doorbell’s grating “Dink-a-link” and saw the door cracked
open, five too-long teal blue fingers gripping the frame. The glass had fogged over and
revealed nothing outside but a tall silhoutte. Destruction hissed from her perch on the
counter and darted through the kitchen’s doggy door. Root said, “Hello?”
Cold wind hissed inside.
Root begrudgingly added, “You may enter,” as Joan had instructed.
The fingers rat-a-tatted against the glass.
“We have coffee and some other drinks if you’d like to order!” Root said, “For
money, preferably.”
A vague voice you’d hear beneath a frozen over lake slipped into the shop.
“Drinks. No tricks?”
Root glanced at the chalk menu board behind him. Their coffee was a bit pricey
but definitely reasonable for New York. “Not a single trick.”
An empty chuckle rolled in—it sounded real, but lacked the warmth of a genuine
laugh. The figure entered. Slumped shoulders didn’t do much to diminish his tall frame.
Long and rough black hair obscured his eyes and his pale blue skin was only covered by
a pair of jeans (Root had long since given up enforcing any kind of dress code.) An
altogether too wide smile was stuck on the man’s face, but his most arresting
characteristics were his fingers: each digit extending around two feet too long for Root’s
taste. Each digit shifted somewhere along the middle into razor-thin nails. Or the
fingers themselves were sharp. Or the fingers were nails from the beginning. Or—Root
wanted to stop thinking about the frightening man’s frightening fingers.
In recent months due to recent—changes—Root had realized that his eyes were
no longer his best test of character. He felt it slightly impolite, but when a good chunk
of your customer’s wouldn’t mind taking a chunk out of you, a little rudeness was a
good sacrifice for longevity. Root brought his nose high and took a hearty sniff.
Briny? Not the best first note and not the worst—blood was the worst—and
worryingly common… No, not briny. This guy was salty and watery. Old and mildewy.
Like those jeans weren’t strategically ripped in some sweat shop but pilfered from the
drowned body of a gold rush miner. Where was all that salt coming from?
Sweat! Unusual for such a cold day, but the man was shirtless and shoeless in 30
degree weather. He didn’t think much of it.
Smell check success! Root was now reasonably sure the tall man would rather
take a dip in a public pool than a sip of his blood.
The customer stalked to the counter, right past Root’s comfy winter coat, hung
up near the door. Root figured it might be rude to go and retrieve it, and wasn’t eager to
annoy the very cold—very sharp man looming over him. “Welcome to Moonrise
Roasters, what would you like to order?”
The customer hummed in thought. And when he spoke, his lips hardly drifted
from that wide, cold smile. “Something that might make a child laugh… to warm their
heart lest this winter chill freeze their smile stiff.”
Root had worked at Moonrise for a small but eventful amount of time. He’d made
a path of garbage bags for a corrosive sentient slime who tipped him a twenty for a cup
of matcha powder. He’d spent fifteen minutes with a morse code cipher on his phone,
taking the order of a disembodied shadow cast across the floor; The shadow had
requested an Americano to be placed in the shop’s lightless basement and later sent
four dollars to Root’s private Venmo. But an order from a tall blue man delivered
through vaguely threatening poetry was a first. “A name for the order?”
The customer raised his hands and clacked his long nails together thoughtfully,
creating a mesmerizing pattern that would seem fitting from some spiny deep sea
creature. “Jeremy.”
Root carefully scribbled ‘Jeremy’ on a paper cup. ‘Something to make children
laugh?’ he thought, ‘That could mean sweet, probably. That other thing though…
Disregarding all of the creepy parts, I guess he meant warm?’ Jeremy didn’t look cold,
arms not crossed but one raised, absently slicing long fingers through his matted hair
with quick shick sounds. He didn’t look impatient either: A sign of someone eager to
satisfy a caffeine craving.
Something sweet and warm, not necessarily caffeinated, that might make a child
laugh… Root felt like he had a good idea, but wasn’t sure if the intimidating man with
the pointy hands would agree.
Root didn’t like that they used store-bought powder. At home, he would make
the process a production, having a movie ready along with pajamas and sparing lights.
He’d melt chopped up chocolate bars in a pot, pouring in half-and-half rather than milk
to make the final drink richer than normal.
Even if they only used powder here, Root took pleasure in touching up the drink
with the half-and-half he had lying out, stirring the mixture in a pot to reduce for a
while, which happened to take much longer than usual—likely thanks to Jeremy’s
chilling presence—and finally topping it all with whip cream and chocolate curls.
Root was still worried he’d get finger-shanked, but was more worried that Jeremy
wouldn’t enjoy the drink he’d made. He neglected a top on the off-chance Jeremy
appreciated a pretty finish.
Jeremy accepted the cup: between both hands as a classic one-handed grip would
likely result in slitting his own wrist. He raised the drink to get a closer look and didn’t
seem to notice as one of his matted bangs caught a whip cream glob. Jeremy took a long
sniff and Root was able to make out his eyes for the first time: dull yellow flares behind
his dark hair. “This drink…”
“It’s hot chocolate! It was a childhood favorite of mine on chilly days like these. I
hope you enjoy!”
“I have not seen, ‘hot chocolate’, for a very, very long time. However… I will not be
enjoying.” Jeremy placed the cup gravely back on the counter and raised one
hand—fingers extended towards the ceiling—nails so wickedly thin and sharp that Root
couldn’t quite make out exactly where they ended.
Facing what Root presumed to be his last moments, he wondered what he’d done
wrong. Was the drink too cold? He figured it would be. He cursed himself for not asking
to pour the drink into Jeremy’s mouth straight from the pot—health code be damned!
Root braced himself to be split in twain, but he never felt the killing stroke.
Instead, a sound like a sonic boom rocked through the shop; Jeremy had snapped his
too long fingers and shouted, “Jeremy!” mouth still fixed in a smile.
‘That’s a strange thing to yell before you murder a barista,’ Root thought, ‘Your own
name?’
Another sharp ‘Dink-a-link’ sounded and the temperature dropped even further.
Root’s jaw dropped in turn and proceeded to chatter as an identical, albeit smaller
version of Jeremy stalked into the room.
Lil-Jeremy’s hands were as long as the original’s, but his shorter stature kept his
nails just above the ground. Like the original, he had on a pair of supremely old jeans.
But his mouth was spread in a too-wide frown rather than a smile. Markedly less creepy,
but a little sad.
Lil-Jeremy avoided eye contact with Root. Only after he’d arrived at
Original-Jeremy’s side did Lil-Jeremy take in the coffee shop through full body turns
that didn’t budge the frown on his face. He was interrupted by a long hand holding the
hot chocolate down for him like an arcade crane.
Lil-Jeremy looked up to OG-Jeremy. “What’s this?”
“Something warm.” OG-Jeremy smiled down.
Lil-Jeremy took the drink and opened his mouth (unhinged might be more
appropriate) and tipped his head back so that it formed something like a basin. He
poured the hot chocolate gradually, steeper and steeper, until almost the entirety had
been consumed, apart from a single dark droplet: a frozen stalactite at the cup’s lip. A
thin, black forked tongue snaked its way from Lil-Jeremy’s mouth and broke the frozen
droplet at the stem. His mouth snapped closed over the final drop and he closed his
eyes as well.
A discrete sniff revealed the sweat smell from earlier had increased considerably.
OG-Jeremy was nervous! Root empathized as he waited for Lil-Jeremy’s reaction.
Root felt it first in his fingertips. The bone-deep cold started to fade. Flooding in
was a warmth like palm held hot plates and snow days by the radiator and drier baked
blankets.
Root saw it in Lil-Jeremy’s eyes as well: glowing yellow embers that only grew
through his mess of black bangs. The transformation ended at the corners of his mouth,
which pushed up his cheeks and squeezed his yellow eyes into two happy lines.
Lil-Jeremy looked directly at Root for the first time, “Thanks for the drink! It was
so warm!” He hugged OG-Jeremy’s hip. “That was great, thanks Dad! Oh—” Lil-Jeremy
extended one long finger and tapped at the section of his dad’s bangs that had caught
the whip cream glob. “You’ve got something…”
OG-Jeremy searched with his own nail for a moment before he brushed the whip
cream glob off and peered at the collected mass. Without any warning, his frog-like
forked tongue snapped out—then back—and the globule was gone.
Lil-Jeremy laughed first: breathy and without the pitch of a normal child’s laugh.
OG-Jeremy joined, with his same strange rolling chuckle. And finally, Root joined.
Partly out of relief for his life, partly from the warmth that had returned to the room,
and partly because he always loved seeing a customer smile.
The Jeremys chatted at a table for a while longer through their fixed smiles
before vacating the premises. Root felt guilty at his relief, but on cold days, coffee shops
were meant to be a haven from the cold. Not a destination for it.
Without the possibility of a faux pas, he retrieved his coat from the far corner of
the shop and rolled up the sleeves. Among so many other things, Root worried about
shirt-sleeves caught in coffee grinders more than most.
Destruction had returned to her countertop bed, which made him jump yet
again. He must’ve had too much caffeine.
To ease his jitters, Root did what any sane barista would do—he talked to the cat.
“Long day, huh Destruction? I bet we both could use a drink. I’ll make myself
a—regular—definitely decaf. And you could probably use some water. I think I read
somewhere that milk’s bad for cats. Isn’t that crazy? Like that thing… how ducks
explode if they eat too much bread.” The worst part about talking to a cat is that the
conversation’s always one-sided. Still, Root had trouble letting the ‘exchange’ drop, and
tried to focus on making his drink. He’d just clicked on the plastic top when the
entrance bell rang yet again.
A small statured man with a pointy face and a low-flapped woolen trapper hat
sidled up to the counter. In a high and merry voice he said, “A decaf regular good sir!
Such a fine night for a stroll and a sip.”
“That’s strange, Mr…?”
“Mr. R.”
“Mr. R, I’ve got your exact order right here! I don’t hear many people around
New York saying regular coffee. If you don’t mind, where’re you from?”
The short man gesticulated largely as he spoke. “Here and there. Around,
uptown. Wherever people need their Mr. R.”
“Like Harlem?”
“Upper West Side,” Mr. R took the coffee from the counter.
“That’ll be three dollars.”
Mr. R smiled at the amount. “Do you take card?”
“We really should. My manager thinks that the bank companies are skimming off
the top. I’ve been telling her–-”
“I only have larger bills, could you give me change then?”
“Sure,” Root said.
Mr. R proffered a $100 bill. The sight of so much money started Root sweating in
his coat. He opened the cash register to see the Jeremys’ $4 and Mildred’s stack of
quarters upon which two cockroaches sat, dining on muffin crumbs.
“I’m sorry Mr. R but it doesn’t seem like we have enough change. Hold on a
moment, I’ll go get my manager. Maybe this’ll convince her to get a Square…”
“You know Root, I’ve got a work thing- a meeting? No. A convention? No…
That’s it! A small gala. Consider this a little up-front with much more on the way. Your
shop could cater! So it’s a deal? “
It took Root a moment to sort through the small man’s word barrage. “One
hundred dollars up front and much more on the way… You’re not going to ask us for a
thousand in ingredients and then not pay, right? We’ve fallen for—caught—our fair
share of scams… this isn’t binding?”
“No, no. I swear it. I’ll pay you for more than what you provide.” Mr. R held his
hand out for Root to shake.
Root couldn’t say he got the best vibes off this guy, but he passed a quick smell
check—bread and cigarrettes? And an upcoming catering gig might make the meeting
with Dinkle feel more like a meeting and less like an interrogation. Root leaned over the
counter and shook the small man’s hand, “Sure then! We can’t go rejecting every
catering offer that comes in! We do get a ton—like so many, everyday—so we’ll have to
make sure our timetables align. Do you have an email… I don’t think we have an
email… a phone card? Number? Card?”
Mr. R offered a black card embossed with golden lettering. “I’m sure things will
line up.” Mr. R turned back by the door and tapped his trapper hat respectfully to his
chest, revealing a head of thinning straw-blond hair and a gigantic pair of ears, rounded
and thin like those of a mouse.
“And now I have to make another drink. A regular again, or some hot chocolate?”
Destruction didn’t seem to have an opinion either way. “That guy was pretty weird. Did
you see those ears?” Destruction ignored Root but perked her head as Joan staggered
through the kitchen door, some blue smoke drifting in behind her.
“A Black Eye on the double!” She collapsed onto her reserved high stool behind
the counter and buried her face in the cat’s fur.
“How’s the alchemizing?” Root let the coffee-keg drip into a white mug.
“Fucking great,” Joan muffled into Destruction, “The kitchen just exploded.
How’s the shift?”
“The usual. Mildred’s arm fell off and knocked me on my ass. A cold dad came in
with his kid. Actually, you know how we’ve been talking about getting a card reader?”
“You have. We don’t have any money.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. This short guy came in and ordered a coffee. He didn’t
have any small bills, so he gave me a hundred!”
“No shit!” Joan scooped up Destruction with one hand and her half-eaten
croissant with the other.
“Yeah, he called it ‘upfront’ for some catering he wants us to do. For a gala or
something.”
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah, weird guy, big hat, bigger ears, fancy business card—smelled like bread.”
Root pulled two shots of espresso into a short glass.
“Big ears?”
“Yeah, here’s his card.”
Joan set down Destruction and laid the croissant on her back. “Root.”
“Feel the texture on the letters—bougie, huh?” Root finished the Black Eye by
tipping the short glass of espresso into the coffee.
“ROOT.” Joan demanded over his shoulder.
“What?” Root turned—careful not to spill Joan’s Black Eye—and shrunk into his
coat. Joan looked pissed. Her hair was floating around—doing the zappy-sizzling
thing—and Destruction hissed from the floor.
“Did he ask to shake your hand?”
“Maybe. I don’t know? Yes?”
“Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Did you shake his hand?”
“Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Fuck!” Joan accepted the Black Eye from Root, placed it on the counter, and
kneed him in the gut. “Rumple-fuck!”