Tales of The Author: The Pier

The Author sat cross-legged at the pier with a notebook in her hands. The sun peeked over the housetops, and the Author turned her face toward the warming rays, letting them thaw the cold away from her cheeks this early morning.

Just an arm's length away from the Author, we find the Friend. His back leaned against the concrete wall separating the city from the open water. His eyes were closed, his breaths heavy. The Author smiled to herself, he's asleep. She looks out over the houses along the beach. A long line of apartment buildings next to offices, but right at the edge of the water, a row of small, red huts.

Just like he always does when it's time for a day at the pier, the Friend called the Author early in the morning, far before sunrise. He yelled "the pier" through the phone and then hung up again. The Author had with a sigh of annoyance looked at the time, placed her head beneath her pillow and tried to fall back asleep. This technique has never worked because the Friend always calls again five minutes later. The Author has never gotten out of bed after the first call.

When the Author arrived at the pier, her notebook was safe in her tote bag, and her thin scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck and chin. As she climbed over the thick concrete wall, the Friend was already on the other side, waiting for her. When she put her feet down, the rocks on which she was standing decided that it was the perfect moment to become slippery. The Author lost her footing, causing her and the Friend to fall over each other in a pile of laughter.

After gathering themselves, they reached the spot on the rocks they call their own. Sitting down on a warm wool blanket, they'd swept another one around their shoulders.

And on that wool blanket, they sit. The Author with her notebook and the Friend with his head on her shoulder. The Author's pen flying over the paper as she struggled to put into words every part of the sunrise.

Though she was cold, and the Friend was sleeping beside her, the Author loves every second of being on the pier. These are the moments she feels fully present. The deep breaths of the Friend combined with the sounds of a city waking up making her aware of the world, somehow.

After a while, the Friend woke up. Cursing himself for falling asleep and missing the sunrise. The Author simply laughed, leaning her head on the Friends shoulder.

"Can I read what you wrote?" The Friend Looked hopeful, but the Author teasingly shut her notebook.

"If you hadn't fallen asleep, you already would know."
The Author smiled, and the Friend made an exaggerated, hurt face. They both laughed, and the  Author handed her notebook to her Friend. Together they sat and enjoyed the sun before picking up their things and walking away.

Tales of The Author: The Lunchbox

The Author was writing angrily on her laptop while she waited. The Wednesday night writing cafe was to start in 16 minutes, and she hadn't had dinner yet.

Earlier that day, the Author had packed her lunchbox with delicate hands. The delicious food was safe in her backpack, and all was well.

When the Author had arrived at the location of the Wednesday night writing cafe and was about to bring her freshly microwaved dinner back to her table, she dropped the lunchbox.

This was strange, thought the Author and other people around her. The lunchbox hadn't been too hot for her hands, nor was it slippery. Despite that, the lunchbox fell swiftly though her hands and shattered against the linoleum.

The Author picked up the large pieces of glass and swept the floor for the rest. While carrying the remains of her dinner to the trash, one could hear her mumble curses that would cause the toughest sailor to blush. Her stomach rumbling like a summer storm when she threw her things into her backpack and rushed to the nearby store to fins herself some dinner.

In the store, she was greeted with shelf after shelf of disappointment. Her hunger and sour mood made her picky, any old frozen ready-meal wouldn't do. At last, she found something that would suffice, threw it into the basket with two mandarins and rushed to the check-outs to be greeted by long lines. She'd bounced her leg impatiently, money ready in her hand. When she'd finally paid, she ran back to the location of the Wednesday writing cafe, put the new food in the microwave and sat down to wait.

And there she's sat, still at the table on an uncomfortable wooden chair. The steady hum on the microwave in the background. Other regulars and new faces of the writing cafe started to arrive, and while the Author did enjoy the small talk, she was still hungry. Her fingers typed furiously on the keyboard, sentences flowing from the keys to the screen.

At last, the food's ready. The microwave didn't get to finish its angry beeping before the Author had run to it and grabbed her food. This time she didn't drop it, no way she would. The Author sits down at the table and throws the scalding food down her throat. Her anger and irritation dissolving with every bite.

When she swallows the last bite, the Wednesday writing cafe was declared open. With a heightened mood, the Author threw the frozen food container in the recycling bin and walked through the now unlocked door to the Wednesday writing cafe room.

With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, the Author went on to continue writing. This time with less anger and a soft tip-tap sound coming from her fingers. 

Tales of The Author: The Square

It was just another day, the author was sitting on a wooden bench in a white tent in the square. A soft wind rocked the trees, and the rain was pouring down. The sound of the droplets in tune with the steady click-clack of fingers on the keyboard of a laptop. Where she was sitting in the tent, it was dry. The tables around her quickly filled with people escaping the weather. 

There was an odd feeling in the air. Anticipation, longing, nervosity. The author took a greedy breath, her lungs filled with the atmosphere. Sweat, pizza grease and hot sugar being the main components. It's time for the town square celebration, the author had wolfed down several sugary doughnuts before she started writing. 

"Hiya tip-tap, how's the writing going?" the voice came from someone right next to the authors left ear. She looked up to find a friend. 

In his hands, the friend carried two paper cups.  He handed one to the author, who smiled when she saw the name written on it in uneven black letters. "Tip-tap" was both her nickname and an inside joke. The friend has first called her that after hearing her write intensely on her laptop. He claimed that tip-tap had to be the perfect nickname for her. Since nothing is her as much as the sound of her fingers on a keyboard.  

"Words a' plenty." the author took a sip from the paper cup. 
"Heat, delicious."

"I'd think so, it's very you to forget your coat in this weather." The friend laughed, a very melodic sound. The author shuffled to the side, making room on the wooden bench for the friend. He sat down close to her, and together they shared their excitement. Something is supposed to be happening soon. 
An excited chatter rose from the front of the tent, making the author and the friend look towards the stage. As the rain stopped, it's time. 

On the stage stood two people in black blazers and shiny shoes. With guitar and piano, they cleared the middle of the square. The author and the friend stood on their bench, looking over the heads of the crowd. They saw the square clearly, and as if from nowhere, there was dance. 

The author joined in the crowd's amazement. The music and shimmering costumes enchanted the square. It lived up to every expectation set before they started. 

When the show was over, the crowd dispersed. The author closed her laptop and put it in her backpack. The friend lingered, and when the author had picked up all of her things, they walked toward the author's car together. 

"How about a spontaneous wish?" the author asked when they reached the car. She threw her bag in the back seat and turned to the friend with hopeful eyes. He pretended to contemplate before his face lit up. 

"I'm always up for a spontaneous wish, Tip-Tap." Together they ran across the square to the fountain catching the water trickling out of the cliffside. The author fumbled through her pockets and found two coins.  The friend held out a marker towards her.  She grabbed it and wrote a wish on her coin. When the friend had done the same, they balanced on the marble edge of the fountain. They flicked their coins into the water. 

"Don't fall!" The friend laughed, the edge was slippery, and the author swayed dramatically before grabbing onto the friend to keep her balance. 

"I won't fall, but I might push!" she laughed, the friend barely had time for a startled yell before the two of them fell into the fountain. Already drenched to the bone, they splashed water on each other. A water fight to life or death. 

Their laughter echoed over the now-empty town square, and the author thought to herself that this moment was one she would cherish for a long time.