The Barista by John Coultas

Billy balanced his Sharps .50 across the tongue of the wagon, the wind whipped and swirled the buffalo grass all the way to the horizon. His eyes blurred, he looked away, and then refocused on the sight and further out to the hillock, about a mile distant. Bat slipped in next to him, placing a handful of cartridges at his side. "Quanah still there?" He asked. Billy nodded in the affirmative, not moving his eyes off the hill.

"I heard gunfire in the store." Billy glanced to Bat and then back to the hill.

Bat snorted out a cynical laugh. "Olds had an accident, wife handed him a reloaded riffle, went off, his head is all over the place, take my chances out here, safer."

Billy gave a slight grunt, not moving his eyes...


"Sorry to intrude Mr. Wilson, will you want a refill." Frank looked up to Nicki, tall, thin, dark brown hair pulled back, large brown eyes and a small, neat smiling mouth, with deft hands she swooped up the empty cup.

Frank stretched, covered his yawn with his hand, he looked to his watch and Nicki, he enjoyed every chance. "You'll be open another hour. I get so lost in this. Yeah, another cappuccino would be great" He began typing as she walked away, he grabbed a furtive glance at her swaying hips as she receded across the room.


Nicki was cleaning up. "Almost done here." Frank was completing a few last lines.

Outside Nicki turned the key in the lock, Frank was to her side. "Mr. Wilson, I would be interested in reading some of your work, maybe what you were doing today."

"I'll bring in a copy tomorrow, that be okay?" He offered.

"I was thinking I could go by your place, I could read, we could discuss your work. It is just too noisy, too much activity here."

"Well, sure we could do that." Frank was surprised by her assertive ways.


Frank was sorting through a stack of manuscripts; an open beer was to the side on the coffee table. Nicki was next to him on the couch, sipping on her beer, legs curled under her. Frank pulled out the story he was in search of. "Here's the one, you can start with this one while I'm printing out my latest."

She took the work, flipping through it. "You have a lot of words in you, this and that stack there." She settled back to begin reading. Frank pulled out several other pieces.

"My latest chapter." Frank re-entered the room, dropping the chapter on the table. "Let me know when you are done there."

She turned the last page. "Done." She traded for the new chapter, and began anew.

"Another beer?" Frank asked.

"Sure, almost finished." She didn't take her eyes from the manuscript. "This is fun, got questions when I'm done."

Frank set the beer in front of her, then sat down next to her.

"This is great to see the creative process, you coming in the shop, working there, see the results, kinda special, different, seeing it before it is a book." Words were bubbling out of her.

"What did you think of the story?" He asked.

"Yeah, well, that was the big question." She leaned back, facing Frank. "Why do you do a story that takes place over a hundred years ago, and Texas, Have you ever been to Texas.

"No, I have never been in Texas, and the time period, I find it interesting, as my readers do." Frank rubbed his stubbled chin.

"Shouldn't writers use personal experiences for their stories?"

"Jules Verne, Anne Rice and J.R.R. Tolkien created worlds and creatures that didn't exist. They couldn't experience those creatures, those worlds, they were a creation of their imaginations."

"That's true."

Nicky read through more pages, turned to Frank again. "It's not very P.C., killing Indians and all."

"Stories of war, life and death conflicts allow the writer to show man at his most basic, what triggers action, what brings out the best in human beings. I try to be even handed in the presentation of my characters and events."

"How did you come up with this story?"

"Research, the history of that particular rifle, the Sharps .50 mentioned the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, I found it interesting."

"And this is exactly as it happened." She held up the chapter.

"No that is where literary license comes in. I'm not a photographer or journalist, its not a true picture or news report that we create, I will take facts and characters and embellish them, make the story more dramatic."

Frank leaned forward, straightened the stack of manuscripts. "The artist, the writer are destroyers, one reason they have difficulty blending into society, we observe and put those observation on a canvas or a piece of paper, we use creative license, distort what we have seen, rendering a painting or a piece of fiction with dramatic impact. Pablo Picasso's Guernica derives it's power, it's punch from the distortions of reality. A photograph of the city would have captured but a sliver of what happened there, Picasso shows the horrors of many days and many places in that one work."

"Wow, I never thought of art in that way before."

"The artist, not all, but many are solitary souls; they work alone to be productive as well as from an inability to find those that share their values, their outlook on life."


Frank was on the couch, Nicky curled in a chair, a manuscript on the floor; he stretched, yawned and shuffled to the kitchen. Grabbing a carton of eggs, coffee beans, plates and silver, he set up shop at the kitchen table. Pulling a hand mill from a cupboard, he poured in beans and began turning the handle. Nicky appeared in the doorway, combing her bed hair with her fingers, with little success. She cleared her throat; Frank jumped and gave her a quick appraisal.

"I know, not a pretty sight." She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

"I didn't say that, it is Einsteinian, everything is relative. I'm glad you are awake, now I can make noise." He poured the half ground beans into an electric grinder. "That would have taken all day." Frank was looking at the hand crank.

She cleared her throat again, looking around the kitchen. "Not what I would have expected, so very neat, organized."

"Let me get you a clean bath towel, wash cloth, sure I have an extra toothbrush."

"Mr. Wilson, Frank..."

"Nicky, you need it."

"Frank, you don't have to be so blunt."

Frank was scooping eggs onto plates when Nicky returned. "Smells good, I'm hungry."

"Sit over there Nicky." Frank pointed with the egg coated spoon. "You look nice, not that you looked all that bad ruffled."

"You needn't remind me." She smiled.

Sitting across from her he poured coffee. "That's a funny little pot; I've never seen one quite like it."

It's a Bialetti, Italian pot; it was supposed to be a gag gift from a friend, bought in a second hand store, turns out it makes a great espresso.

Nicky spooned scrambled eggs onto half a bagel, examined the table and counter. "Tabasco, Frank? She asked.

"That's what I like a woman with spunk." He turned to get the sauce from the cabinet.

She sipped at the coffee. "That does make a good cup, maybe not as good as mine, but good and strong.

"I know better than to argue with a pro." He said with resignation.


Billy Dixon stood, sighted and pulled the trigger, the riffle butt kicked into his shoulder; he knelt down, slipped another cartridge into the breach. Masterson, eyes shielded with his hand, scanned the hill. "Big commotion in Quanah's camp, did you hit someone?"

"If I did it was only luck." Billy stood, rubbing his shoulder, squinting as he sighted on the encampment. "They might be moving back, I don't know, maybe I did."


Frank leaned into his chair, grinning with satisfaction. "Will you have another refill Mr. Wilson?" Frank looked up at Nicky, then his watch. “Sure, an hour to closing?"

She strode away, he stared, as he had stared so many times before, and then went back to the keyboard.


Billy and Bat stood before the post store, surrounded by ecstatic buffalo hunters.

"Boy you done it."

"Old Quanah is leaving for sure."

"Let's hear it for Billy."


"Nah, doesn't sound right, sophomoric." Frank commented to himself. Nicki placed the refilled cappuccino next to the computer

"Maybe I could read some more, we could talk again tonight." She suggested.

Frank lifted the cup, steam rising up before him. "I think you are just trying to keep me as a customer."

She smiled down at him.


John Coultas 2010

The Dungeon by John Coultas

The Dungeon is a scene from a novel, La Comedia that I am currently working on.

He sensed that he still occupied space amongst the living, he breathed with spasms, his head pounded with pain and the room he occupied reeked of human waste and death. Other than his breathing and the drips of falling water the room seemed muffled by a suffocating cloud of acrid vapor. He was either paralyzed or bound so tighly he was unable to move. A bone aching chill came from the stone floor upon which he lay.

Who had done this, why? Had Colombina been acting last night, has she taken vengence for his public humilations of her. His mind was in a daze, confused, he was frustrated by so many questions and no answers.

In the blackness, water dripped down the naked stone walls. Giovanni's body shook as he pulled his thin jacket tighter. He was able to push himself to a sitting position, his back against the wall. His chest ached as he coughed; his head drooped between his knees. From the corridor beyond his cell could be heard the infrequent clanking of a passing guard or the crazed scream of a destitute inmate. The windowless room blocked out any sense of time, it afforded an infinity of despair only. He forced himself to his feet, leaning against the wall he shuffled around the perimeter of the room, gaining a sense of its size and the impenetrable nature of the construction. He began to count to himself. "One, two, three..." He took up his shuffle again. "Fifty-five, fifty-six..." On he went, circumnavigating his box. "One-thousand-five..." He leaned against the damp wall, his head against the hard granite blocks, sliding to the floor, sobs escaped from his chest.

"Giovanni da Brendisi." A corse voice shouted. Keys could be heard rattling, the door creaking and clanging open. Giovanni's body, little more than a lump of cloth, kicked at with no response. "da Brindisi." Again the loud voice. Another guard entered, they pulled him into the air, feet dangling.

"da Brindisi." Giovanni spoke with a whisper through blood caked lips, his head attempting to nod the afirmative.

They transported him suspended in air, down dark tunnels, up stairs, through doors of wood and metal, who could escape, who would think of escaping this maze of death. "In here." The less rough of the two guards directed. The faint light from the doorway exposed a dark room, with a single chair in the center. Giovanni was dropped onto the chair and tied to it without grace. As the door closed on their leaving he tried at his bindings, both arms and legs held fast. He sat. His body ached. He attempted to see, to see something, to get a sense of what this room was. The effort fatigued him, his head dropped to his chest.

Moments or hours later he woke to a sound, a crisp sound, paper sliding against paper or the swish of linnen cloth. His head came up, eyes opening to the glow of candle light, he jerked his head away, just so faint a light was near to blinding. A chuckle came from behind the light. "So small a light offends your eyes Signore." The voice, almost a wihisper. Giovanni nodded, straining to adjust his eyes to the light. "The Signore has a habit of offending great men, is that not true Signore da Brindisi."

Giovanni grunted a response, twisted at his ropes.

"Signore Bounirota does not speak well of you. A mild man, not one easy to anger. The mention of your name..." Another cynical laugh. "His work on the Bassillica has been jeopardized by your lassitude." There is silence. Giovanni attempts to look through the light, trying to know the identity of his interrigator. "The master attests to your skills, however, your indifference to projects and introduction of conflicting styles could not be tollerated."

"I have been beaten, imprisoned and starved beacuse Signore Bouniroti would not consider a new artistic style." Giovanni, his voice almost inaudible, his eyes piercing at the light attempting to prenatrate the question and the man.

Another snicker. "No, no. You must not forget the affair of Cardinal Ippollito de Este's mistress. The cardinal is a powerful man, is he not?"

Giovanni's head rose and fell back to his chest. The light, the strain of the conversation was begining to wear away what little strenght he possessed.

The interrigator rapped an eagle crested cane accross the besk before him. The two guards returned. A hooded man clothed in a heavy dark robe came from behind the desk. "Have him cleaned and fed, new clothes, and find a clean cell for him. We will hang him in two mornings."

What energy remained in Giovanni, he exhaled with one breath.

"Do not think of us as fools, we know who you are, we know your talents and we most certaily know your vices. You will cooperate with us, or we send you into the next room where your hanging will take place. We are not people with whom one toys."

                                                                                      ***** * *

Giovanni was dragged to a gallery that looked down on an interrior courtyard. The clash of swords could be heard below, instructors bawling out orders. The whinnying of horses and pounding of the smith's hammer eddied upward.

"Throw him there." Bruno, the one with the rough voice ordered. He yelled for a lackey to bring water and a rag. "Waste of time, should just hang you." Bruno kicked at his innert body. Giovanni emmited a low moan and his legs flinched. The lakey returned with a buckett and a soiled rag.

Bruno took the water, tossing it on Giovanni, who went into a spasm of shock. "Clean yourself Singnore da Brendisi." He tossed the soaked rag at Giovanni, who leaned against the wall and began to sponge the blood and filth from his face and arms. Bruno tossed the empty bucket to the lakey. "Fill it." The guard watched Giovanni's feeble attempt to clean himself with his crippled arms. Again the lakey returned with water. "Throw it on him." Bruno order. Giovanni was prepared, but again nerves flared when the cold water hit him. Bruno was ammused by his reaction.

"Enough Signore, get up." the guard demanded. Leaning into the wall Giovanni pushed himself up to a standing position, the guard pulled him along, his feet tripping on the cobbles. They discended into the dark canyons, down to the depths of the dungeon, their way lit by an occaisonal oil lamp. Bruno opened a door. "Signore Giovanni da Brendisi, your immaculate cell." The guard taunted, and errupted in laughter. "For two very brief days. Your food and last wine." He gestured at a basket in the corner. Giovanni fell upon the food, a loaf of bread and several chunks of cheese. In vain he tried to limit himself, his hunger overcame his resolve. He fell back into the clean straw and slept.

Hours later, he assumed the time, he woke to sounds in the corridore, several voices, clamour of armor. The door was opened, a captain of the guard came in. "We have come for you, Giovanni da Brandisi."

"But why, where am I going."

"You are to be hung." The captained feigned concern.

"No, it is a mistake, two days, they said It would be two days."

"Yes, Signore, and it has been two days." The captain attempted to clarify.

"No, I'm sure that I didn't sleep that long. Tomorrow, come tommow it will be two days. Then I will be ready."

The captain stood firm. "Signore, your time has arrived, we take you now, they are waiting for you.":

"You don't understand..."

"Signore..." The captain took Giovanni by his elbow, leading him into the corridore, guards placed before and after them. They marched into the darkness, Giovanni's legs gave out several times, the guards were forced to pull him up off the floor. The captain reassured him. "It won't be long Signore, a tightness about the neck, a jerk of the rope, it will be over. Nothing more." Giovanni's legs gave way again. "The room!" The captain pushed open a door to a semi dark room with a high ceiling. A stiff rope hung down from a rafter above, and centered below the noose stood a stout barrel. The captain looked around the room. "Everything is in order." He commented. "Do you desire the services of a priest." He questioned.

"I doubt that he would provide the services I desire. No, thank you." He looked up at the noose and down to the barrel. "I am a coward, let's get this over with quickly."

"Most certaily Signore."

A guard looped the noose around Giovanni's neck and tightened it. They then helped him onto the barrel." The captain turned to the guards. Tie down the rope." One of the guards secured the rope to a bracket on the wall. The captain approached the barrel. "Adue Signore."He kicked the barrel out from under Giovanni's feet. The rope jerked, his feet dangled and kicked, he gasped for air and then the rope snapped. Giovanni fell to the floor writhing, fighting for breath and pulling at the rope.

A dark figure cast a shadow from the doorway. The captain turned to him. "We didn't cut the rope thin enough, next time we will know better." He shrugged.

"Bring him to me." The shadow requested as he returned to the corridore.

The captain looked down at Giovanni who regained signs of life. He directed the guards. "Take the rope off, the excellecy will see him now."

                                                                                          ***** * *

"I remember this, the candle, the darkness." Giovanni seated in front of a table in a darkroom, the hooded mamn on the other side of the candle. "Yes, your voice, the same." He stared into the blackness, finding no clues as to what the room or the hooded man were about. A scraping sound came from the table, looking back Giovanni found the cane with the eagle crest resting there.

"Enough Signore, you need not remember any of this, it would be best for you to forget. But first, I have an opportunity for you, an assignment."

"I am not inteerested in opportunities. I m only interested in leaving here."

"No, Signorre, you don't understand, should you not accept my offer I will send you back to that room, the one with the rope, and this time the rope will not break."

Giovanni rubed at his neck. "And what is the assignment?"

You are a man of many talents, are you not Signore. An artist of some merit, certainly Bounoroti felt so. An actor, so I hear, and renown as a man who is able to communicate with the ladies. Am I not correct?

"Yes, you have heard correctly. And the assignment."

"I will arrive there soon. I...we have many spies, the eyes and ears of our organization. At times it is necessary to spy on the spies, or have special agents for an important assignment. That is you Signore. The Duke of Ferrara is without an heir. He has recently taken a third wife, she is young, well connected and despite her age, she is knowledgeble as to court intrigues. Should the duke die without an heir Ferrara will return to the Papacy. We need someone in the court, we have many spies there already, we need someone who will have intimate access to the duchess, day and night." He toyed with the cane.

"But..."

"I am not finished Signore. Should the duchess produce an heir we must be certain that the duke is the father."

Giovanni rubbed at his neck, his lips began to speak, he then thought better of it.

"How will this be acomplished you ask. Your commedia del arte troupe will arrive in Ferrara for the festival in several weeks. You will establish yourself as an actor and artist. The masks that you fabricate for your performances have accumulated a level of attention, construct several, some with flare that would pique the interest of the duke. You will be taken to his court he will admire your work and you will let him know of your many talents, your connections with Bounorotti. The new duchess will require a portrait, you will suggest that your talents..."

"But..."

"No interruptions please. As you execute the portrait you will, establish a relationship, become privy to her thoughts and actions. We must know who she sleeps with...other than the Duke."

John Coultas     2010