maybe somebody cares

a silly piece of prose for your enjoyment

There was a book, on a table, in a building, on a street, in a country somewhere, during some long ago moment in time. The book in question, well the girl had never read it before. Nor did she recognise the delicate little flower engraved on the cloth bound cover; tinged red in the afternoon light. But it caught her attention nonetheless; sitting there on the coffee table, unnoticed by the other customers as they surged to and from the counter, cradling steaming mugs to their chests.

The girl ordered; no milk or sugar. She’d take it black and dreary, bitter and plain. She didn’t like to dress things up.

Despite herself, she stole another glance at the book. Literature spoke to her in ways humans could never, it had always been that way. And so taking her coffee in hand she made her way to the small table by the window, the red book perched there so delicately yet so carelessly, and she sat down.

A room full of people and yet here she was again, alone with a book. How tiring life could be sometimes. Briefly she wished she were one of the students who sat at a large table on the far left. There were a dozen of them, books high and smiles bright. They talked among themselves, maybe inside jokes, maybe plans, she wasn’t quite sure. But either way she envied them, and their gloating smiles. They all had something she would never have; people who cared.

She opened up the little book and was met with a pair of blank pages. A notebook, and a brand new one at that, how disappointing. She downed her cup of coffee, ignoring the way it still burned, and reached for a pencil in her bag.

October 22, found this book. It’s empty. I like jazz and black coffee. If anyone cares.

As the girl left the cafe she wondered if anyone would ever bother to pick up the small notebook, if the words she’d written would ever be read by eyes other then her own. Or if like everything else she did, it was just an unheard scream into the abyss, who’s echoes would never be heard.

★ ★ ★

There was a book, on a table, in a building, on a street, in a country somewhere, during some long ago moment in time. The book in question, well the boy had never read it before. Nor did he recognise the delicate little flower engraved on the cloth bound cover; glowing red in the softness of the early morning light.

Per usual, the cafe stood desolate, save the boy and the barista. After all who else would be crazy enough to be up at such an ungodly hour.

The boy ordered; a latte with extra sugars. He’d always taken it like that, it tasted like magic and happiness in a cup.

With no one around to keep him company, he was drawn to the table with the little red book. He had never been much of a reader, though maybe this was the day he discovered a new love for words and poetry. He drew out the chair and took the book in his hands, flipping it open to the first page.

Not a book in fact, but a notebook.

October 22, found this book. It’s empty. I like jazz and black coffee. If anyone cares.

He smiled, and dug around in his pockets until he found an old pen of his, the ink nearly dried out.

October 23, found this book. It’s not empty. I like pop music and coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Somebody cares.