—through the lens of a ritual gone too far, where coffee becomes a sacrament of transformation, or maybe a warning etched in bitter oils
No beans remain from that old batch.
The ones he roasted in the ash,
a fire built from coffin pine,
its smoke a thread through cursed bloodlines.
He stirred them once. He sang too loud.
The flame replied. The beans turned proud.
The scent was wrong, not rich, but sharp.
It smelled like parchment, salt, and bark.
He ground them with a pestle made
from jawbone taken, not betrayed.
He brewed them slow, by crimson light.
The cup held night. The night held bite.
He drank. He changed. Or something did.
His shadow split. His teeth grew hid.
The mirrors fled. The glass turned blind.
His heartbeat steeped in boiling brine.
He doesn’t speak, but still he pours
a cup that costs what you were for.
📜 The Roaster’s Rite – The Recipe
Ingredients:
- 1 handful Unnamed Beans (smoked over bonefire)
- 6 oz Ritual Water (collected from a sealed well)
- 1 pinch Salt (for containment)
- Serve in: A black clay cup with no handle
Instructions:
Roast the beans while chanting a name you never gave yourself. Grind with a bone implement under a blood-colored moon. Brew without blinking. Sip only if you seek to shed what makes you familiar. Do not finish. Leave one drop for the flame.