At The Existentialist Cafe Novels & Stories

ELIJAH The café looked too normal for what I came here to do. People sipping coffee, typing on laptops, chatting like the world wasn’t full of monsters disguised as humans. I walked in with my hands in my pockets, my heartbeat steady. It felt calm—too calm. My rage had simmered into something colder. Renata picking this place didn’t sit right with me. An open café? Really? Not a warehouse, not a basement, not an abandoned parking structure? A café with croissants and soft jazz? It was either confidence… or arrogance.

This coffee shop is owned by a French woman, and Le Coup de Foudre means "Love at First Sight." She's been working in this coffee shop for almost a year now, and so far, she s enjoying her time her while getting a little allowance from her part-time work... Kate lets out a big smile when she heard the entrance door's chime. It means that someone entered the coffee shop. "Bonjour! Welcome to Le Coup de Foudre Cafe !" she greeted the customers. Her smile almost disappeared when she saw Chelsea, Jessica and Jenny inside the shop. These are the girls who said nasty things about at the University's Cafeteria. These girls got hots with Kei, and they've been eyeing her like hawks waiting for their

Maybe. I glanced at the front of the cafe Jess pointed at. 'Poirot's' was written on a glass window. I peered inside and saw a couple of wooden tables and chairs with padded seats. The bar was put on the side of the room instead of on the back like Starbucks. Behind the cash register, there was a short guy with a mustache; he wore a hat similar to the one used by Hercule Poirot in Agatha Christie's books. I wasn't a fan of Agatha Christie since I loved Sir Arthur's Sherlock Holmes more, but even I couldn't resist reading one of her books: And There Were None. The short guy was giving a customer his change, and I looked further down the cafe interior to study its decor, but when I slid my gaz

"There's a café on the east side. Quiet. Out of the way. Most of our people don't go there. I'll text you the address." Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to a small, dimly lit café that looked like it hadn't been updated since the 1970s. The kind of place that served bad coffee to insomniacs and people who didn't want to be found. Dante was already there, sitting in a corner booth, facing the door. He wore jeans and a dark sweater instead of his tuxedo. He looked younger like this. More real. I slid into the booth across from him.

“Here's the story in a summary, I-” My sentence was paused midway as I heard a feminine voice next to me. “Welcome to the summer cafe. May I take your order?” She asked, I kept my head low, not wanting to reveal my identity, while trying to control the urge of giving her a deadly glare. “A cup of black coffee,” Phlux answered, “And for you?” “Coffee with almond milk.” I replied, “What else?” She asked, Phlux, noticing I didn't want to speak, took up the duty.

“Take me to a cafe. Now.” Without a word, Thea turned and walked toward her car, her steps mechanical, like a puppet whose strings were being pulled. I followed behind, enjoying the sight. I knew that with a little encouragement, this woman could be a valuable asset to my plans. ** We arrived at a small, quiet cafe on the outskirts of town, a place far from the public eye. When we got there, Thea parked and invited me inside. We chose a table in the corner, away from the windows. I sat down quietly, ordering some food and drinks. Thea, still looking confused, stared at me as if she had just realized something was happening.

he once said, frowning at my depiction of a girl trapped in a mirror. “Why not?” I asked. He had no answer. After school, I went to the café, my sanctuary. A tiny place tucked between a florist and a bookstore, owned by an old man named Ezra who wore suspenders and made the best pistachio muffins in the state. He gave me my usual hot chocolate and waved me toward the window seat. I pulled out my sketchbook and let my mind go. The café always smelled like cinnamon and something old. Something safe.

"Coming right up. Grab a seat, and I'll bring it over." I paid and turned to find a table. The cafe was mostly empty—a older man reading a newspaper in the corner, a young couple whispering to each other near the window. I chose a table by the window, where I could see the street, and slid into the wooden chair. The pie arrived first, warm and fragrant, a small scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on the side. I picked up my fork but didn't eat. I just stared at the steam rising from the pastry, my mind drifting back to the council room, to the moment Kira had stepped forward and offered herself up like a sacrifice.

she asked, her voice calm, a perfectly executed charade. “No, please,” Claudine replied, mirroring the politeness. “Join me. The more the merrier, wouldn’t you say? Especially when dealing with existential pastry choices.” They pretended to be strangers at first, ordering their items, making small talk about the weather and the cafe’s ambiance. Then, their voices dropped, the real conversation beginning, masked by the gentle clatter of cups and hushed chatter of other patrons.

Our sweet waitress greets us. " Hi, Ireen. Please open this bottle, serve it to booth 21, and make me Camellia tea. " The waitress nods. Camellia tea is our specialty, and the cafe is called Camellia Cafe. The flower Nikolas gave me inspired it not so long ago, and I returned to the booth, sitting before Xavier Alarie. We are quiet. My gaze is on my hands, and I cannot look him in the eye. He is so intimidating.