Author’s note: This piece was inspired by this week’s image prompt from John Watson - Horror Author and Sarah Faxon’s Flash Fiction Friday prompt: There’s no more coffee in the break room.
Peter lifted his screen glazed eyes to the old analog clock: that ever faithful friend, reminding him of the myriad minutes he’d spent encased in his cubicle crypt down the years, keeping up the grim but engrained charade of selfless service as the consummate team player. Hence why he remained in the innards of the Brutalist office complex, burning the midnight oil on a Friday night, to help prepare the files for the pending audit. He was, after all, twice divorced, childless, and liable to spend his weekend binging on booze and porn. As the old saying went, idle hands were the devil‘s workshop. Structure was good. And it paid.
Coffee was also good - and vitally necessary.
Slowly rising to his feet with a yawn Peter shuffled to the break room, a short walk from his cubicle row.
“No, no, no,” he groaned, as the cabinet revealed the horrific sight of an empty can of Maxwell House. Good to the last drop indeed…
About to skulk back to his desk in defeat, Peter spied a brown bag wedged into the corner of the cabinet. It was unmarked but bore an undeniably strong, earthy scent. Dark roast wasn’t his preferred blend but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He placed the grounds and water into the drip machine before procuring a mug from the sink.
As the brew poured the aroma grew even more pungent.
“Just what I need,” Peter said, grabbing the steaming mug. He took it black.
Despite the heat he found himself wanting to guzzle the nectar down, the spicy notes overpowering his palate. Slurping gluttonously Peter exited the room, a newfound spring in his step.
Continuing to drain the mug Peter felt his head swimming, eyesight going mottled -
What’s in this stuff?!-
The mug fell with a crash as he madly rubbed his eyes, until finally vision returned.
Gone were the sterile corporate confines he knew so well.
Peter found himself in the midst of a writhing throng, their blasphemous figures swaying alternately in grotesque and arabesque rhythm, on the edge of a blighted wood. A hypnotic chant rose in unison from their unholy throats, kept to the infernal time of a thunderous beat, emanating from the Tartarian depths of the wood. Tongues of crimson flame flickered from the center of the ring of forms, illuminating a Titanic frame, bald head sprouting a crown of horns.
Turning its sulphuric eyes on Peter, the Erebean Lord beckoned.
“Here at least
We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell.”
With a shriek Peter shed his clothing, joining his gleeful voice to the chorus of unrepentant revelers.
© Conor MacCormack, 2026. All rights reserved.
What is in that stuff?
Great flash piece!!