It's Just An Empty Cup Novels & Stories

He is already holding the cup he won in his hand by the time I cover the distance between us. “The trick is to use as little force as possible,” Zayne says as he holds it out to me, the cup exchange hands, our fingers grazing as he places the cup in mine. The warmth of his fingers remains as I bring the cup to my lips, barely tasting the drink, very fleeting but it’s there Goddess, what is this? Did he feel it too? I wonder, eyes on his as I lick my lips, preparing to gulp it down in one go. His eyes don’t reveal anything when I hand the cup back.

My favorite and I didn't think I could stop myself. "You like Maltesers too?" I asked and he chuckled with a nod. "Yeah, wine or water?" He asked, grabbing a Maltesers pack from the fridge. "We are doing a project, we aren't at a club." "Water it is then," He said, ignoring my sassy comment. After that, he stepped towards the bed with two bottles of water and one Malteser which he threw on my lap. I smiled as I caught it and it made him smirk. Opening it gladly, I popped one into my mouth and he opened the textbook, his eyes flickering between the pages and my lips.

That was not something people did. But it did not alarm me. It made me warm. I walked into my apartment and dropped my bag by the door and stood in the middle of the living room. My roommate was watching something on the couch. She looked up at me. "You look weird," she said. "I'm fine." "You're standing in the middle of the room holding an empty coffee cup." I looked down at the cup. I was still holding it. I had walked all the way home holding an empty coffee cup.

I did not know what to do with that information so I filed it somewhere I could deal with later and kept my face even. He held one out. “I wanted to ask you a few more things.” I looked at the cup. Paper cup from the place on Garner Street, the good one. I took it and lifted it to my mouth before I could think about it too hard and immediately knew. Black. No sugar. I took the sip and swallowed it and kept my face the way I needed it to be. Still. Open. Nothing behind it.

The liquids inside ranged from pale blue to deep purple, but that could mean anything or nothing. "You said you see all futures," I said. "So you know which cup is poison." "I know which cup is poison in some futures. In others, the poison moves. In others, there is no poison. In still others, all twelve cups are poison. Time is not a line, Jack Sterling. It's a ocean. And I'm drowning in it." Her white eyes found mine, and for a moment, I saw something behind the madness—something old and tired and desperately sad.

Something sharp and old. On the counter sat the cup. It was empty now, but a dark ring clung to the inside. My stomach twisted, not with fear, but with understanding. He wasn’t lying, he was fighting something every second, and I was standing right in the middle of it. My fingers hovered over the cup. I didn’t know what I was looking for, only that I felt drawn to it. When I touched the rim, a strange warmth spread through my hand, like the cup remembered me.

Especially since on the frost glass it said Please come in. "It's open," she called. When no one entered she called out again. "You can come right in." Still no one entered, but there was another knock on the door. Finally, exasperated and annoyed, she got up and opened the door, and - stopped dead in her tracks. An enormous silver and nickel alloy cup, like the kind given at sporting events, stood front and center, the bowl-shaped top filled with more roses than she'd ever seen in one place before. Their scent drifted up to her and she drew in a deep breath.

“The sun’s already up, and he’s facing west.” “I don’t know. Enjoying a cuppa?” He’s not sipping anymore. He’s just holding the cup midair in a death grip. “It’s coffee,” Kennedy says. “Well, mostly. Coffee and hair of the dog.” “You can smell that?” Kennedy wrinkles her nose. “You can’t?”

Outside, the glacier calved with a sound like thunder, but distant, belonging to a geography that was mine now, a latitude without seasons, without heirs, without ghosts. I set the cup down. It stood on the counter, steady, full, complete. A vessel for living.

To win votes for the school's annual honors award, my stingy roommate picked rotten fruit out of the trash and made it into fruit cups for our classmates. The moment I found out, I rushed to stop them from eating it. Instead, they accused me of being jealous and tore into me for trying to ruin their chances. That very night, they were rushed to the hospital with severe food poisoning. Afterward, my roommate framed me, claiming I had deliberately poisoned the fruit because I did not want her to win the school honors award. She even hid a bottle of pesticide in my locker and convinced our other two roommates to lie for her. With no way to prove my innocence, I became the target of furious