I stumbled upon a prompt from Patric Morgan that asked for a tragedy in just three words.
A lot of possibilities came to mind.
Last Train Gone.
She Left Yesterday.
You, Me, Never.
Rapture Already Done.
But one phrase wouldn’t leave me alone:
Last Coffee Bean.
Patric even said not to write the story—just to leave it at the three words. “No. Stop. This is a true horror story.” But by then, the fire had already been lit. The images were there.
What would the world look like if there were only one coffee bean left? Who would guard it? Who would mourn it? Who would laugh it off—right up until they couldn’t?
I couldn’t shake the idea, so I made something.
This is what I saw.
I hope you enjoy it.
Just Another Day in the Office
My name is Steve.
I’m a security guard.
Not for a bank. Not for a celebrity.
For a glass case in the west wing of the museum.
Inside the case sits the last coffee bean in the world.
It’s smaller than people expect. Dark, unremarkable. Looks like it could’ve fallen out of someone’s pocket years ago and been swept away without a thought. There’s a plaque beneath it. Gold lettering. Very serious.
THE FINAL COFFEE BEAN
Do Not Tap the Glass
They learned about it all at once. That was the mistake.
First came the disbelief. People laughed. “No more coffee?” they said. “Sure. Next you’ll tell me the sun’s shutting down.” Memes went around. Someone sold t-shirts that said I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
Then came the bargaining. Synthetic brews. Mushroom coffee. Chicory. Burnt barley pretending to be something it wasn’t. People smiled too hard when they drank it.
After that came the headaches.
The world divided pretty fast. You had the calm ones—tea drinkers, water people, those unsettling souls who said they were “fine without caffeine.” And then there were the rest.
They called them Dependents.
The museum got busier every day. People pressed their faces to the glass like it was a religious relic. Some cried. Some prayed. One man whispered, “You were there for me in college.”
My job was to stand. Watch. And not let anyone touch the bean.
The first protest was peaceful. The second wasn’t. By the third, I was issued knee pads and a whistle.
That’s when he came in.
Eyes wide. Hands shaking. Smelled faintly of old espresso machines and regret. An ex-coffee drinker. He stared at the case like it was calling his name.
“I just want to smell it,” he said.
Then he ran.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
We went down hard on the polished museum floor. Bean safe. Glass intact. He cried. I apologized. We both lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Security took him away.
I stood back up. Straightened my badge. Looked at the bean.
Still there.
Still quiet.
I sighed, adjusted my belt, and took my place beside the glass.
Just another day in the office.
What would you do if there was only one coffee bean left?
Do you know someone who would freak out if there was only one coffee bean left? I’m sure they’d love to hear this story. :)