Write-Off #1
A friend of mine who lives in Canada agreed to a write-off with me. The purpose is not competitive, it's merely to give ourselves a literal due date (Every Wednesday night at 11:59 PM) on something -- ANYTHING -- written. Essays, memoirs, fanciful stories, haiku, whatever. We just have to write something.
I'm beginning to get a sense of what appeals to me as a writer, and that's essentially the reality, scope, and depth of human emotion painted against a realistic backdrop with something, usually tiny, that's just a little magical.
These aren't meant to be of any great degree of quality, but hey, an artist creates, right? I figure I should at least share these with a few people who care to read them. So here's my first, from last Wednesday.
"Snow"
It was the middle of summer, and all she could think about was snow.
Snowdrifts, snowmen, snow angels, snow forts. Snow in the air, snow on the trees, snow on the ground. Snow whirling madly in thunderheads, snow drifting quietly towards the ground, snow --
"Excuse me, miss?"
She looked up. Her waiter stood to her left, blocking the sun. She'd chosen to sit on the patio because of the uncharacteristic mildness of the weather, and she was glad she had. Birds twittered in carefully manicured ginkgo trees nearby. A gentle breeze, so different from the howling gales of the day before, gently lifted napkin corners across the wide patio's tables. The sun was warm, but not hot.
She smiled up at her server. "I'm sorry to be a bother, but could I just have a cappuccino?"
He smiled back. "Not a bother at all, miss." He looked around the sunny patio, seemed to make up his mind about something. "Hot or iced?"
Icy branches, icy gutters, icy windows. Ice from refrozen snow, ice from freezing rain, ice from frozen condensation. Ice on the pond, ice on the road, ice --
"Oh, a hot cappuccino, definitely. Extra foam, if you don't mind."
The waiter smiled, nodded, and walked away.
She stared after him for a moment. He'd seemed nice, and though she knew that was part of his job, she still appreciated the effort. She resolved to leave a few dollars extra for what would be, no doubt, a very overpriced coffee. As she reached into her bag, searching for the pad of paper on which her notes from the meeting were scribbled, the fingers of her left hand brushed instead against the rough wrinkles of a peach pit. She recoiled instantly.
Breathing heavily, she stared down at the bag.
Snow caught on scarves, snow caught on mittens, snow caught in eyelashes….
"Miss, here's your cappucc--"
As she glanced up, she realized her eyes were brimming with sudden tears. She quickly tried to dab them away with her napkin.
"Oh, um, I'm sorry. I'll just leave this…uh, I…" the waiter fumbled for words. He looked around the sunny patio, seemed to make up his mind about something, and then simply left her there alone with her cappuccino.
Eventually, she braved the bag, opening it fully so she could simply see the pad of paper and retrieve it without incident. She studied her notes, made some additional ones, even sent an email. She tried to focus on the warmth of the sun, the heat of her drink. She even considered the heat of her hand resting on her thigh. But she began to run out of sources of warmth to consider, and with sudden ferocity, she began thinking about snow.
Before she left a half-hour later, tear-stained and puffy-eyed, she flagged down her waiter and asked him for the check. He smiled and nodded, but didn't say anything as he walked away. He was some time in returning, but he eventually came back with the check presenter and laid it flat on the table, pausing a moment at her right side before leaving, once again without a word. She opened up the bill.
Within, there was a note.
Miss,
Because of my job I see all kinds of people in all kinds of situations. People come to restaurants for every reason imaginable - to fight, date, celebrate, mourn, distract…and in most cases, you start to be able to tell what people are like and why they're here, almost instantly. So I want you to know that whatever you were here to distract yourself from, I can tell you're one of the good ones. I have faith in you. Life'll be peachy soon enough again, I promise.
P.S. The coffee's on me. Don't even think about tipping on it either.
She was tempted to cry all over again, and probably would have, except that, just at that moment, a single snowflake fell from above onto the note. She stared. It was gone in an instant, first into a droplet and then into the air as even that evaporated.
She looked around the sunny patio, seemed to make up her mind about something.
She smiled, stood, and walked away.
I'm beginning to get a sense of what appeals to me as a writer, and that's essentially the reality, scope, and depth of human emotion painted against a realistic backdrop with something, usually tiny, that's just a little magical.
These aren't meant to be of any great degree of quality, but hey, an artist creates, right? I figure I should at least share these with a few people who care to read them. So here's my first, from last Wednesday.
"Snow"
It was the middle of summer, and all she could think about was snow.
Snowdrifts, snowmen, snow angels, snow forts. Snow in the air, snow on the trees, snow on the ground. Snow whirling madly in thunderheads, snow drifting quietly towards the ground, snow --
"Excuse me, miss?"
She looked up. Her waiter stood to her left, blocking the sun. She'd chosen to sit on the patio because of the uncharacteristic mildness of the weather, and she was glad she had. Birds twittered in carefully manicured ginkgo trees nearby. A gentle breeze, so different from the howling gales of the day before, gently lifted napkin corners across the wide patio's tables. The sun was warm, but not hot.
She smiled up at her server. "I'm sorry to be a bother, but could I just have a cappuccino?"
He smiled back. "Not a bother at all, miss." He looked around the sunny patio, seemed to make up his mind about something. "Hot or iced?"
Icy branches, icy gutters, icy windows. Ice from refrozen snow, ice from freezing rain, ice from frozen condensation. Ice on the pond, ice on the road, ice --
"Oh, a hot cappuccino, definitely. Extra foam, if you don't mind."
The waiter smiled, nodded, and walked away.
She stared after him for a moment. He'd seemed nice, and though she knew that was part of his job, she still appreciated the effort. She resolved to leave a few dollars extra for what would be, no doubt, a very overpriced coffee. As she reached into her bag, searching for the pad of paper on which her notes from the meeting were scribbled, the fingers of her left hand brushed instead against the rough wrinkles of a peach pit. She recoiled instantly.
Breathing heavily, she stared down at the bag.
Snow caught on scarves, snow caught on mittens, snow caught in eyelashes….
"Miss, here's your cappucc--"
As she glanced up, she realized her eyes were brimming with sudden tears. She quickly tried to dab them away with her napkin.
"Oh, um, I'm sorry. I'll just leave this…uh, I…" the waiter fumbled for words. He looked around the sunny patio, seemed to make up his mind about something, and then simply left her there alone with her cappuccino.
Eventually, she braved the bag, opening it fully so she could simply see the pad of paper and retrieve it without incident. She studied her notes, made some additional ones, even sent an email. She tried to focus on the warmth of the sun, the heat of her drink. She even considered the heat of her hand resting on her thigh. But she began to run out of sources of warmth to consider, and with sudden ferocity, she began thinking about snow.
Before she left a half-hour later, tear-stained and puffy-eyed, she flagged down her waiter and asked him for the check. He smiled and nodded, but didn't say anything as he walked away. He was some time in returning, but he eventually came back with the check presenter and laid it flat on the table, pausing a moment at her right side before leaving, once again without a word. She opened up the bill.
Within, there was a note.
Miss,
Because of my job I see all kinds of people in all kinds of situations. People come to restaurants for every reason imaginable - to fight, date, celebrate, mourn, distract…and in most cases, you start to be able to tell what people are like and why they're here, almost instantly. So I want you to know that whatever you were here to distract yourself from, I can tell you're one of the good ones. I have faith in you. Life'll be peachy soon enough again, I promise.
P.S. The coffee's on me. Don't even think about tipping on it either.
She was tempted to cry all over again, and probably would have, except that, just at that moment, a single snowflake fell from above onto the note. She stared. It was gone in an instant, first into a droplet and then into the air as even that evaporated.
She looked around the sunny patio, seemed to make up her mind about something.
She smiled, stood, and walked away.