Adam’s coffee mug talks with a Germanic accent. Why, he doesn’t know. Words started escaping its coffee residue months ago, and when he holds the ceramic vessel to his ear, it’s like talking on the phone. All in all, the mug isn’t bad, but its claims are suspect. As if some thrift-store trinket invaded England with the Saxons in 449! All the more reason to ignore its prophecy late one Friday.

“Adam.”

He glances at the empty mug and returns to work.

“Adam, son of Gregory.”

Perhaps he’s losing his mind. Auditory hallucinations might represent some bizarre, subconscious coping mechanism for stress, but hey, whatever works. He can’t afford another breakdown or the bank might fire him.

“Adam, I bear dire news.”

Mostly, Adam wonders why his subconscious is so annoying.

“Adam, pay heed! The coffee stains are clear. The ancients speak, just as they foretold the Saxon invasion of—”

“Stop. I still don’t believe that Saxon nonsense.”

“But you knew nothing about Saxons before I spoke.”

“I must have read about them somewhere, but go on. What news, mug?”

The mug hums. It loves theatrics.

“The promotion,” it announces. “Two weeks. Upper office.”

“What?”

The mug blathers about high windows and drafts—and wouldn’t Adam prefer a toasty hearth?—but Adam isn’t listening. There’s no way he’ll get that promotion, even though he kills himself for this job. It’s cruel, his subconscious torturing him like this, and his doctor’s warning bears remembrance: relax or you’ll develop hypertension.

“Fortuitous,” the mug says, “but my tidings are bittersweet. Claim that office and Mada dies.”

Who?

***

Mada is, of course, Adam spelled backwards. The realization means that the mug must be ignored—that Adam is dangerously close to another breakdown, and the added stress of this prophecy is simply egging him on. What he can’t decide is whether Mada portends his own literal death or something more symbolic.

“I hate you,” Adam tells the mug.

“The English spouted worse.”

But the mug isn’t real, which means the prophecy isn’t real. Nothing will happen, so there’s no reason to worry. Still, Adam is sweating so profusely that he packed two shirts today.

“No breakdown,” he tells himself. “Get your shit together, Adam.”

Karen, his manager, steps into his office.

“Adam? Could we meet now? My afternoon cleared, so we can do your performance review early.”—A review he’s been avoiding in fear of criticism or platitudes regarding his prior collapse.

“Now?” he asks.

“If you’re available. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

Her tone is light. Promising. Is he overthinking? Does she hear his damn mug striking up a battle hymn in some dead, Germanic language?

Adam follows Karen upstairs, where they pass someone unfamiliar—a woman in a sleek suit with bold, red heels. The color conjures a cacophony of memories: lipstick on grandmother’s pinched expression, father’s angry pen dissecting essays, and a ball snatched from Adam’s hands with reprimands to go study.

“Oh,” Karen says. “This is Mada.”

***

“You,” Adam hisses into his mug. “I’ve had three cups of coffee. You’re saying the residue mean nothing?

“The ancients are silent.”

The sound that escapes Adam is something between a growl and sputter—a grutter.

“Mada must be symbolic,” he says. “She represents success. Pressure. The perfect, high-achieving partner my parents expect. The one I’m supposed to break $150K to attract, because the top ten percent love our city and make it unaffordable for everyone else, especially if you want kids. Never mind owning a house. Oh, screw that.”

“Mada,” the mug says, “appears to be a real person, not mere symbolism.”

“Hush.”

Arguing with his subconscious like this is crazy, except Mada is most definitely real.

Adam baits the mug: “Tell me something I couldn’t know. Something Saxon.”

“Do you know Mucking? That’s where I was excavated.”

He looks it up online and feels sick. Listed artifacts do resemble his mug, and he doesn’t recall ever reading about Mucking, but then again, his subconscious might have stored anything he’s seen over the years. And didn’t his doctor say that his problems might stem from internalized criticism? Couldn’t that tendency manifest as a prophecy meant to hamper promotion—to spoil promotion’s validation with a downside? And say the promotion does validate him. Great. His family will ramp up questions about marriage and kids. More pressure. More stress. More expectations.

“Adam,” the mug calls. “Gird your loins. Fate comes.”

Karen is dangling a key and smiles.

“There’s a new desk you might like.”

Adam needs emotional support, so he carries his mug, much as he detests it.

“Here,” Karen says, opening a door.

Adam sweats indecision. He can’t turn down the promotion. He needs the money—retirement, a mortgage, graduate-school loans—and damn it, he wants to be good enough for this. He is good enough, but he can’t stop seeing red pen across his essays and that toy ball disappearing into a closet, and he knows his family will demand a cut from this while yet belittling him. Oh, to have success untethered from anyone’s judgment!

And then there’s Mada, who might die. Double damn.

His feet stall shy of the office. One step will take him inside.

The mug speaks: “Be bold! Trample Mada. Trample her or return to your desk of shame.”

But murder is an awful burden for starting a new position. Maybe he doesn’t need the pressure of this promotion. Actually, for sure he doesn’t, but whether he flees or stays, both decisions feel slicked by the self-doubt coating his palms and thoughts, and yes, the prophecy feels real, but it came from a mug or maybe his subconscious. Adam takes a neurotic eternity to shuffle all of his competing thoughts aside. What does he personally want?

He steps into the office and exhales.

“Where’s Mada?” he asks.

“Who?”

“Mada. She’s new?”

“Oh,” Karen realizes. “Not Mada. Manna.”

She congratulates him and leaves. The mug gripes: “So maybe no one was ever in danger. Like us, prophecy isn’t perfect.”

“Like us,” Adam repeats.

“The Saxons—”

Adam spits into the mug, silencing it, and for a blessed moment that silence lingers. He cherishes the void of thought and chatter, uncertain how long it will last. Then, wondering whether the silence might be permanent, he vanquishes the mug to the trash bin.

————

Janessa Mulepati is more successful at fainting than writing, but alas, here we are. You can find her work in Pif Magazine, Ghost Parachute, Luna Station Quarterly, and elsewhere. Ramblings are available at https://substack.com/@jlmulepati.