The Daily Davis

A short story I wrote based on a prompt for NPR, I was originally going to send this in, but never got around to it. There’s always another writing challenge out there somewhere, so no harm.

…

My plan was simple. First, I would enter the cafe with a newspaper. Then I would get my coffee and loiter, like this was a regular thing for me. I don’t know why I cared so much. I guess I still don’t. Deep down, I wanted to prove I was a normal person. Normal people went to cafes, right?

I crept to the coffee-shop, wary to not seem too eager. I blew that when I pushed the door, rather than pulled. The loud rattling of the door in its frame turned all eyes to me, both inside and out of the shop. I flushed, realized my mistake, and then pulled with more force than I needed to. I was off to a good start.

There was a line to the counter and a small stage where a guitarist was getting ready to play that soft kind of music that I call background noise. The red tables stood out against the brown and green tones throughout the shop, like mushrooms on a forest floor. Even with all the attempts at atmosphere through color and music, I felt nothing for it. It felt all too artificial, like my presence.

At the end of the line, I gave myself a proper amount of distance from the person in front of me. My foot tried to tap while I was waiting, but I willed it into submission. I didn’t want to seem annoyed or impatient to others. In my head I rattled off what I was going to order.

“Sir, may I take your order?”

I nearly bolted to the counter and apologized. I was terrified some customers behind me were shooting dirty glares for wasting their time.

“No problem. How can I help you?”

I froze.

“I’d like a coffee, please.”

“Sure, what style?”

My eyes moved up to the menu and I glanced around at all the items, names I couldn’t understand and numbers in columns that grew in amount from left to right. I felt my eyes rattle in my head.

“Uh. Large black, please.”

I didn’t even like black coffee.

I paid my three dollars and sat glumly at one of the red eye-sores. I saw one of the big, comfortable chairs with the leather and padding, but I stayed away. I didn’t want to look like I was struggling to get out of it later.

My paper was open to a section I wasn’t really paying attention to; I was more interested in staring at a wall. I heard my name come from the counter and rose to get my drink. I didn’t realize my feet had been wrapped around one of the legs until I went stumbling across the floor, dragging the chair with me. The loud scraping caught everyone’s attention as my fingertips brushed the floor. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I untangled myself from my betrayer. I shuffled to the counter and grabbed my drink silently, terrified of being mocked. I sought sanctuary with the turn-coat chair.

I brought my paper cup to my lips, hesitant. I didn’t know what was worse: the taste, or the searing spears that had assaulted my tongue. I fought a yelp and swallowed my sip. I felt the hot dirt-water scald my throat and the gazes scald my skin.

I left the paper at the table for someone who would actually read it, and dumped my coffee in the trashcan as I made my way out. Maybe this was wasteful, but the bigger waste was my being there. I decided to go back to where I was comfortable.

February 23, 2010

It’s time for you and Writer’s Block to part ways. Write a letter breaking up with Writer’s Block, starting out with, "Dear Writer’s Block, it’s not you, it’s me … ."

Dear Writer’s Block, it’s not you, it’s me… I am so sorry for leading you on like I have. I was never interested in you as much as your prompts. I fell in love with them, and you were the unfortunate casualty of my pursuit. I used you to get closer to them, and I have been consumed by guilt over this. I felt like I needed to clear the air.

I don’t want to part on bad terms. You’ve been so supportive and well meaning, and I don’t want to lose that. We can still be great friends, and I want to be great friends. It’s just your prompts have given me more than you ever could. Your advice, while practical and well intentioned, doesn’t fire me up quite like your prompt’s ideas. Something about your prompts are just so… inspirational. You keep me moving forward like a good friend, but the prompts really get my motor running, so to speak.

Please don’t grow disheartened, I couldn’t bear losing your support. There will always be a place for you in my life, just not in the capacity you hoped for. I’m sorry.

Your friend,

David.

PS: Your prompts and I are hoping you’ll join us for a light lunch next week. Say around 12 on Tuesday?

Write for fifteen minutes a day, five days a week, for a year.

First prompt comes from Wigglytype, who simply suggested “Splash”.

Prompt posted with minimal editing.

__________________________

The smell of lake water filled his nose, and the rocking of the boat was a subtle sort- noticeable, but not extremely. The kind of rocking that resembled a nervous jitter. He found himself at this moment stuck, surrounded by yards of greenish-gray fluid.

The boat shifted a bit more as Noah’s father adjusted his sitting. The aluminum slat that served as a seat on this can was uncomfortable, and for the old man, the discomfort was only slightly agonizing. The old man liked to fish, and it was something Noah never understood. The water grew still after the boat finished its rocking, and there was an eerie silence. It was broken, fortunately, by the sound of a bird in one of the trees at the shoreline.

Noah finally swallowed and asked a question without really considering whether or not he should ask. “So, do you ever catch a fish while you’re out here?”

The father casually cranked at the reel. “I always do.”

Noah swallowed hard. He didn’t have the heart to tell his father that there hadn’t been a catchable fish in this lake for at least a year. Nobody quite knows what happened. Some fanciful stories included that there was a spillage of toxins in the lake, or that the fish had simply been fished into extinction. Noah always favored the one about the fish taking a cab to the lake next door.

Noah also didn’t have the heart to deal with his father’s condition. The old man was getting up there, and there was some real memory loss, but Noah always just chalked it up to senility. He also shamefully hoped that the comment about always catching fish was just a joke on his father’s part. He was ashamed because that line of thinking was optimistic, and throughout this life his mother would always express that optimism was just not something that worked for him.

His father stirred again, reeling in his quarry of nothing, and proceeded to cast once again. Noah did this as well. Humoring his father was slowly becoming a chore, and he was, admittedly, getting bitter about it. His dad just had to fish in the fish-less lake, not realizing that it was essentially a dead hole full of water. He wanted to shake his father, and tell him to remember, to realize that he’d not caught a fish the last time they were here.

The splash came suddenly after his thoughts of shaking his father into realization, and Noah was immediately struck with guilt over his desire to shatter his father’s view. Once again, another splash shook him from his thoughts, and the boat began to rock.

“Got one. Got one.”

His father was reeling in, full of vigor, pulling against the fish. For a period of a minute Noah just watched in shock and disbelief in this spark of life this day had brought. The fish finally found its way out of the water, and into the boat.

Noah’s father seemed happy enough with his quarry. It wasn’t a large fish, but it was a fish regardless. It would be a productive day for him.

All Noah seemed to see was a fish who was choking, surrounded by something that wasn’t water, and with no way to escape its fate.