Cacao — A Fantasy Born from a Writing Game

L.M. Rapp
Sep 11
3 min read

Minimalist top view of a chocolate cup on a pastel pink background, aesthetic flat lay. — *When Chance Becomes Story*

Constraints, far from stifling imagination, actually fuel it. In the writing workshop I run, participants often prefer having a theme imposed on them rather than choosing one themselves. One idea leads to another and, even from the simplest prompts (the supermarket, an argument, a contest…), original stories emerge—each one unique.

Today, I’m sharing with you a short story written for the Contreforme club. Alongside the usual constraints—length (500 words) and deadline (two days)—I added another one: to draw ten words at random and weave them all into the story.

The lucky winners: to kill, search, kitty, threat, pattern, dagger, cocoa, soup, pines, inn.

The result? A short, somewhat peculiar tale.Here it is: Cacao.

Feeling like a challenge? Try to spot the ten words in the text… or simply read and let yourself be carried away by the story.

Cacao

Queasy, my legs weak, I staggered on the staircase, just managing to cling to the banister. Once I regained my balance, I groped my way down. The maid, already up at this early hour, was sweeping the floor of the common room. She asked me to wait, dashed off to the kitchen, and returned with bread and a piece of cheese, which she stuffed into my satchel. I was about to leave when I noticed, in the candlelight, a tear glistening on her cheek. My tongue and mind still dulled by the previous night’s drinking, I stammered:“Some grief troubles you… Tell me everything, pretty kitty… er, pretty face…”

She shook her head, smiled sadly, and withdrew into the shadows. I considered pressing her with questions or offering words of comfort, but my stomach twisted, and I rushed out of the inn. The brisk air lightened my malaise, and somehow I managed to mount my faithful horse, Cacao. At sunrise, a crow perched on a pine tree took flight. Shaken needles released drops of dew that splattered onto my neck. My shouts and threats made no difference—the crow, following a stubborn and monotonous pattern, kept circling above our heads. Was it trying to drive us from its nest or to warn us of impending danger? The cawing of that wretched bird—either addled by solitude or drunk on overripe fruits—followed us for a long time.

When at last it abandoned us, a muffled silence wrapped me in its supple, suffocating cocoon, lulling me into pleasant indolence. Then a thought jolted me. What had I babbled the previous night to my drinking companions? I checked that the map—discovered by chance behind the portrait of my great-great-uncle, on a night of solitary revelry—was still sleeping in the secret pocket of my coat.

Before day’s end, I reached my destination: a ramshackle farm used as a shelter by lost travelers. At the fireside, kindled just for me, I ate soup thickened with stale bread. To enliven it, my host, a short, stocky man, served me a strange liquor. I refused a second glass and quickly withdrew to my room.

At dawn I would begin my search and soon know whether this map held the location of a treasure or merely the ravings of a credulous ancestor. I blew out the candle and lay down on a vermin-ridden mattress. Hours stretched on in irritating discomfort. I finally decided to get up—hoping to find a little of that sharp, aromatic liquor in the kitchen—when I heard a furtive sound. Through the window, I saw a man approaching the farm. He was holding a long dagger. At the creak of rusty hinges, I realized the innkeeper had arranged to meet him. They had planned to kill me—for a ridiculous scrap of parchment. This map would bring me nothing but blisters and disappointment.

I was about to flee and rejoin my faithful Cacao when the incongruous craving for that bitter drink made me think of my drunkard father waiting at home. Oh, how he would revel in my shameful return! But the moon cast a soft bluish light across the room, and a nimble, daring wind seemed to sing for me. I could not renounce my dream, however absurd it seemed. I drew my sword—and waited.