Fiction
Ten minutes had passed and Amber hadn’t lifted her head from the table. Her arms were wrapped dramatically around the top of her head, her eyes focused on the carpet below the desk. She was afraid to look at the blank word document on the screen of her laptop, afraid to see the angrily blinking cursor, taunting and judgemental, looking back at her. What would have looked like a woman asleep in front of her screen saver to any outside observer, was actually a breakdown of minorly epic proportions.
Amber had known this was coming, had even taken up smoking to try and impede it’s arrival, but she was in full panic mode. Her thesis was due in three months and she didn’t have anything but a droplet of ideas, nothing to make a full novel out of. She thought this was going to be easy! Hell, she was a writer after all…what do writers do but write books! More times than not lately, she had walked upstairs to her office, turned on the computer and promptly assumed the previously described position.
She stared at her bare toes on the carpeted floor, the perfectly manicured pink nails shining against the dull tan carpeting. Her daily beauty rituals had been vamped up to fill otherwise unproductive time. She had never been more attractive and well kept while at the same time accomplishing next to nothing. For a short time Amber had considered finding a sugar daddy and becoming a professional wife, but eventually had to admit she would bore too easily. Plus she didn’t really like being fussed over anyway.
With a sigh, her right hand moved to the keyboard and she smacked it with her palm to awaken the computer from it’s slumber. Still without moving her forehead from the desk, her fingers deftly found the power button, powered down, and shut the lid. With her blank electronic foe put away temporarily, Amber found the strength to sit up and recline into her computer chair.
The light filtered in through the windows behind her, tinted slightly yellow by the gauzy curtains. It was quite cold outside still, so no fresh breeze filled the room, but a gentle hiss of the heater filled the room with white noise. It was what one would come to expect a writer’s office to look like. There were bookcases standing guard on every wall, filled to the brim with countless tomes and references. A small desk sat in the middle of them all, covered with layers of paper, towering books, newspapers, dirty plates, and at least four visible coffee cups. The only unifying mark on all the objects in the room was the rainbow of sticky notes that seemed to tag each object. In truth, the whole room was in utter disarray. Stacks of books leaned precariously against the walls, forming small pathways leading to vital areas, mainly the door and desk.
Amber surveyed the area critically and promptly blamed her lack of focus and creativity on her surroundings. How could anyone possibly write in a place like this?! she thought to herself. She stuffed her laptop and power cable into a bag, along with a pack of sticky notes, three pens of all different colours, and handful of papers and a few books. Deftly avoiding tripping, she shut the door behind her and went down the stairs to her kitchen.
Sitting at the small island in the centre was her husband Mark. A half-eaten piece of toast and cold cup of coffee showed he had attempted to feed himself, but was now lost to the daily newspaper. Smiling to herself, she approached from behind and slid her arms around his waist.
“mmm, hi there,” he mumbled still reading, “Get anything done?”
“No, it’s a mess up there and I can’t clear my brain of it. I’m going down to the Pot for some coffee and a change of scenery.”
“mmmk, I’ll be gone when you get back.”
Mark still hadn’t lifted his eyes from the newspaper and she smiled in spite of herself. Sometimes it was annoying to be a muffled voice speaking behind the din of a book or movie or baseball game. It was his determination to avoid distraction that made him adorable in her eyes. Popping the rest of his toast in her mouth, she trudged out the door with her bag slung over her shoulder.
The T. Pot was the only coffee shop in all of Ollertown and luckily it was only down the street from their house. It had once been a cyber-cafe when that was all the rage, but when that bubble popped, all that remained was an espresso machine and two dozen outlets. Luckily, the new owner was an old friend and didn’t mind Amber hooking up and spending hours in one of the shabby chic, dumpster saved chairs in the corner.
The cafe was really a small old house, complete with the wrap-around porch and screen door. A simple one story building, Amber could never imagine a family cramming themselves into such a small space. The door creaked shut behind her and Sara spun around behind the counter, startled.
“Jesus, Burr! I haven’t even opened yet!”
“Sorry hun,” Amber said, supressing a laugh, “I’ll just sit over here until you’re ready. I’m low on battery anyway.”
The two women had grown up together, living a bit more than two miles apart when they were young, but making up the distance every day on their bikes. Sara had graduated high school the same year as Amber, but never quite made it on to college. She had enrolled to a few classes at the community college a half hour away with the best of intentions, but always lost her original zest. After puttering around at different restaurants and cafes, she eventually bought the T. Pot and filled it with all her own artwork. Really, the coffee shop belongs in SoHo, not Upstate nowhere New York.
“Here ya go, finest roast this side of the border,” Sara said as she set a colourful polkadot cup of coffee on the table.
“Which border exactly?”
“Oh, any border,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “How’s it coming?”
“It’s not,” Amber groaned. “I was feeling claustrophobic over there, so I had to escape. I’m afraid you might be stuck with me for a couple hours. Mark has to check up on a few things over at the Roger Estate, so I’ve got nothing to go home to.”
“That’s fine sweety,” Sara said as the screen door squeaked open, “take as long as you need.”
Amber set up her laptop on the small table to her side. Sara had taken pages of magazines, all varying colours and glued them to every inch of the round surface. Maybe I can find inspiration in here if I get stuck, she thought as she ran her fingers of the photos, waiting for the laptop to start up.
To get her creative mind working, she always tried to use different techniques. What always seemed to work was the habit of freewriting before she even set into her own work. Gazing out the window beside her left side, she let her hands drift to the keyboard on instinct.
The flies buzz in swarms above the browning grass. There is a light haze hanging low to the ground, the dew burning off in the already hot summer sun. The earth is warning of another hot day, warmer than yesterday, not as warm as tomorrow. There is a lazy feeling in every movement of the flies, as if they’re merely going though the motions. On the horizon, there is a straight line of dust kicked up by a car travelling it’s rural route. The same scene tormented me as a child, symbolizing entrapment and isolation. Funny how the same ground, the same dirt road, the same summer buzz can mean a whole other thing to the adult version of the same child.
It wasn’t much and it wouldn’t turn into anything, but it usually got her brain churning and that’s all she was asking of it right now. She double-clicked her thesis and shut her eyes. It was in this almost trance-like state that she wrote her best.