The Author stood restlessly at the bus stop, her fingers half-frozen in the evening air. She knew her gloves were in the front pocket of her backpack, but their stiff fabric would stop her from writing. Snowflakes slowly floated to the ground as her pen caused sparks to fly from her notebook.
The Author was on her way home from the Wednesday writing café, and the bus was late. During today's writing café, the Author had spent more time than usual chatting with the other participants. They were all working on different things, but when the snow started to fall outside the windows, they felt inspired to write something together.
The result was a chaotically unorganised short story. It focused around poisonous snowflakes in an alternative universe where snow is the primary source of human nutrition.
Though the story had put her slightly behind her writing schedule, it was a well-welcomed break in her day.
The Author has been trying harder than usual to write. She wants to finish a story she's been working on for a while. The story is a birthday present for the Friend, but the words don't seem right.
The Author fumbles with the pen in her cold hands, but fails and drops it together with her notebook. With her frozen hands, she only manages to fling them further away from her toward a puddle of mud and slush when hands appear out of nowhere, rescuing her work from the gruelling fate of muddy water.
"You alright there, miss?"
The man looking at her had kind eyes; he held her notebook and pen out toward her with a look of interest.
"Yes, thank you. I don't know what I would do if this notebook were ruined." She took the notebook from his hands, her cold fingers slightly struggling to get a hold of it.
"What bus are you taking? In case you need further notebook saving assistance, I mean." The man chuckled, his laugh seemed nervous. The Author studied him for a second.
"Oh I'm getting the 24, It's alright though I'll just put it in my bag." The Author opened her bag quite clumsily but managed to put her notebook and pen in the front pocket. She grabbed her gloves and was about to put them on when she decided not to.
"Well then, I guess you're alright." He sent the Author a smile.
"Yes, thank you though...?" She ended her sentence with a question.
"Hector."
"Yes, thank you, Hector." With those words, the 24 southbound stopped in front of them. The Author started to get on the bus when the man spoke again.
"Will I get to know your name?" He rushed out.
"Maybe next time." The Author giggled slightly, the doors closed as Hector looked at her. He slightly shook his head to himself, laughed and walked away. The Author put her travel card against the reader, and when it had beeped green, she sat down on the mostly empty bus.
She found herself wondering if she'd meet him again, but dismissed the thought. When would that ever happen? The Author sighed, placed her headphones in her ears and leaned her head back. Listening to the music combine the hum of the bus engine — time to go home.
Showing posts with label wednesday writing cafe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wednesday writing cafe. Show all posts
Wednesday, 22 January 2020
Wednesday, 20 November 2019
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.
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.
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