Fri, 10 Apr 2020 11:21:19 -0700WeeblyWed, 27 Nov 2013 09:19:15 GMThttps://www.catmorgan.com/writing/cold-coffeeEveryday was the same. Clara would wake up, take her meds, try not to fall asleep in her shower, make coffee, get dressed, leave for class. She’d come home to a cup of cold coffee on her desk. Cold coffee. She’d make a new cup to tackle her homework. Fridays were special. She could sleep in an extra hour and half, sweet, sweet slumber. But ultimately she would wake up, take her meds, try not to fall asleep in her shower, make coffee, get dressed, and leave for work. She’d come home to a cup of cold coffee on the table. Cold coffee. On Saturdays, she would clean her room to the outdated pop music on her iPod, and sigh. Always a deep sigh. Why did she sigh? Not even she knew.



On Monday, Clara, as usual, went through her morning-she left her cup of coffee on her desk, and left her house. As she walked on a path through a tunnel of ancient, overarching trees, she thought about a reading she didn’t finish, and how today in class she would just keep quiet to mask her ignorance. Oh, shit I forgot to grab food for lunch….I guess I’ll just skip since the Cafe just guzzles my money.



You must think that Clara’s life is mundane, boring, or lonely… I know I do. However, she never really noticed it. She was perfectly content with her simple life- there was no drama or outrageous circumstances. She woke up, took her meds, went to class, came home to a cup of cold coffee, and made a new one. She could have continued that way, never noticing the World crumbling around her. The World was flawed, ugly-just a disappointment; people were greedy, selfish, and manipulative. She could have continued living her simple life, if only she hadn’t run out of coffee.



Tuesday. Clara groggily woke up, cursing herself for staying up til 3am to finish that essay. In the shower, her thoughts drifted off to the warm cup of coffee she was looking forward to. I just need to get my coffee, then I can wake up and manage through class….ha. managing…is that all my life is? I guess so.



Only, she stood in her kitchen looking at her empty cup with a sinking feeling. “Fuck”. I’m out…guess I’ll stop by the Cafe for a cup before class.

She left, her desk looking naked without a hastily discarded cup.


If she hadn’t been out of coffee, if she hadn’t gone to the Cafe at exactly 9:29am on Monday, her life probably would have never changed. Maybe there would be a cup of cold coffee on her desk tomorrow, but the fact was that tomorrow, there would be no cup of coffee to coldly welcome her home. Nor the day after that, or the day after or any of the days to follow.

Clara walked into the bustling Cafe, the air stagnant with ground beans and cacophony. She stood in line, glancing at her cellphone as she impatiently watched the minutes tick by. Crap, I’m going to be late for class. ugh and if I walk into class late with a cup of coffee I’ll look like a tool.


She turned to leave, reasoning that she could survive her first class without her morning dose of caffeine and she could just grab one after class. When she turned around, she didn’t meet the door as you might expect. “O-oh I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t mean to bump into you, I’m sorry,” she stuttered, flustered. She glanced up catching a glimpse of a bl-”Wait no please let me go!” she screamed as the man grabbed her by her hair. “E’rrybody down!” he yelled, holding a gun up to the crowd. He discarded Clara like a used tissue, she collapsed to the ground- crumpled, shaking. People’s screams muffled to whimpers. The cacophony died. The Man kept the gun down their throats as he moved towards the register. “Nobody move, nobody makes a fuckin’ sound, an’ ain’t nobody gotta get hurt”. He turned his attention to stuffing the cash and tip jar in a sack.

A missed coin dropped, echoing through the room with an eerie pierce, making Clara flinch.

I know it’s cliche to say “it all happened in slow motion”, but Clara could now understand where that cliche came from. The bell above the door jingled as a small boy walked in, “Mommy we are going to be late for scho-”


The man whipped around aiming his gun. His finger gripping the trigger like an eager lover. Clara didn’t even think as she dove towards the boy. A bullet abandoned the gun, just as life started to abandon Clara.


She lay gasping, fruitlessly grasping at the air.


Suffice to say, she missed her class.

]]>Wed, 27 Nov 2013 09:17:35 GMThttps://www.catmorgan.com/writing/to-write-cursive-in-dirtDear Mom,

I guess Iʼm doing okay, but I miss you. As you can see, I finally finished learning how to write. One of the moms taught me in exchange for watching her daughter during the day. Since I can write now, I wanted to tell you everything that I can, even if you already know it. Iʼm not sure where to even begin. I guess, Iʼll start with outside of the 
compound.

Unlike the story books, the grass is no longer green, and the sky is no longer blue. The plants have finally all withered, and there are not many animals left. The air constantly has this unpleasant odor, with a green haze covering the ground. People canʼt go out at night; theyʼre too scared of the Creatures. Food is hard to come by, but people in the compound share with each other; itʼs the only way we all will survive. I donʼt go out and scrounge for food-the Elders say itʼs because they want to make sure I reach a proper age, so I watch the few little kids here and mend the clothing and equipment when I can. Itʼs nice to be able to help out-it makes me feel good. 

I once heard about this kid who went out at night, because he thought that heʼd be able to pick up more loot that way and maybe find some food. His sister kept begging him not to go, but he said that he was a man and therefore he had to go out and get food for his family. The sister was left behind, her face contorted with an ugly sob. The next day, all there was left of him was scattered fingers and toes…the sister was in hysterics. It makes me even more scared to go outside, during the day or night.


Next week Iʼll be turning 13; Iʼm still one of the youngest people on the compound. All the babies born either die from the Disease or canʼt survive long in the toxic air. Itʼs sad when I see a crying mom, and then I think of you.

I miss you.

I guess itʼs been tough since the Event happened; I canʼt really tell. I hardly remember the Event, and before it…as you know, it comes in glimpses. But I hear stories from the Elders about how life used to be; it sounds warm and peaceful. I have so many questions about how we used to live…but it makes the Elders sad to talk about it, so my 
imagination takes over. I once had this dream where for dinner, we had a piping hot coconut with ketchup, roasted cats and beans, plates and plates of butter, cans of soda everywhere and tasty bread! It looked so delicious, that I woke up drooling! That was the day the Elders talked about different foods.

My hand is getting pretty tired now, and I think I hear one of the kids crying, so I am going to stop my letter here and Iʼll get back to you. 

I lo-

“Hey Billy! Watch where youʼre stepping, you just ruined my letter!” I screamed at the running ten year old. He just smirked and waved a stick in the air triumphantly while continuing his getaway. 

I looked down at the ground where I etched the letter to my Mom in the dirt. Footprints had kicked up the dust and smudged most of the writing- my heart sank. I knew that it didn’t matter since Mom was dead…but I worked so hard on that letter, writing for nearly an hour, and now it was all for nothing.

I stood up and gave one last longing look at where the letter had been. “I love you, Mom,” I whispered into thin air; I brushed the dirt off from my skirt. I strode across the patch, trying to catch Billy and make him give back the stick he stole from Adrienne.


“Last call! Lock down in 5 minutes; you know the procedure!” The tired night guard called out with his booming voice. The small gathering of people in the compound continued on with their tasks. I finally caught Billy and gave him a scolding.

]]>Wed, 27 Nov 2013 09:16:56 GMThttps://www.catmorgan.com/writing/salt“4 krones,” Dax said in his firm, husky voice, “I wonʼt pay any higher than that.” The large, tanned man stood about 6ft, with a mess of black hair on his head. Despite working indoors, his hands were permanently calloused from growing up on a farm. He stood in front of a make-shift spice stand that was set up on the main street. He was arguing with the 
seller, as usual.


“This salt is from the Laryn Sea! Do you know how far that is?! Itʼs worth at least 9 krones and thatʼs a bargain! Donʼt try to swindle me!” replied the traveling merchant in a a screeching voice, his thick accent slurring the words together like jade beads.


Dax had owned the local tavern for the past 6 years. He spoke surprisingly well and was unusually educated for a simple owner. And as the clever man that he was, he of course knew that the Laryn Sea was far and he of course knew that the merchant was also a pig.


“Listen, BʼRotheir, I know that salt isnʼt from the Laryn Sea, so stop trying to fool me you swine. Salt from the Laryn Sea is white with pink facets, this is just plain white!” He fingered the spice, “Now letʼs 
say… I wonʼt go around telling people youʼre swindling sod and donʼt deserve a single coin, and you give me that Ferrid salt for 3 krones,” Dax slammed his hand down on the counter, smirking wildly at the bewildered merchant.


“Wha-what, I-I donʼt know what youʼre talking about!” BʼRotheir tried to argue, but it was in vain; Dax knew he was going to get the deal just as much as the seller. BʼRotheir reluctantly made the sale, cursing the man underneath his breath.


Dax left the stand, smiling to himself. Immediately, he was lost in the cacophony of the immense crowd. Stands lined the dusty main road and side streets; it was the one time of the year where hundreds of merchants gathered in the small town of Forlin. The merchants were on their way to the river town Maask, and Forlin just happened to be on the way. People flocked from neighboring villages and far off locations, for it also was the one time of year where shop owners, inn keepers, farmers, sorcerers and the likes could get uncommon supplies for their needs.

The sun was set high, greeting people with sweltering heat. It was the second to last day of the annual event. Dax stopped and stood at the center of town, observing the people gathered. No matter how many times the seasoned man had seen this event, it still seemed unusual. The normally recluse sorcerers from the mountains were out running 
amok muttering gibberish to themselves; farm children happily played in the streets, awed by the spectacle; tradesmen screamed at each other about arguments as old as the Goddess Lasheiah herself; and street performers begged for coin. All sorts of people who normally didnʼt associate with each other were drawn together by the great String of Fate itself.

The quiet Forlin was transformed into a bustling center, and Dax just snickered to himself.

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