A Single Day in Any Cafe, A Short Story

written 6/2015 First Draft. Still trying to find the proper “voice” for this character, so please be forgiving of the eye-rolling “noir” bits. (They will eventually be edited out.) As always, I welcome your thoughts.

by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

Lip syncing to a popular song doesn’t make you hip. Just like posturing doesn’t get you noticed. Yet, I found myself watching her as she worked. The sway of her hip as she nonchalantly cleared a table for the next customers, the rhythm of her lips as she mouthed “We Will Rock You,” the way she kept glancing in my general direction. I noticed her blue cap, knit with a red M, clashing with the frilly white and yellow skirt she wore over plaid shorts (a lesson in hipster outfitting 101.) She seemed too tall for natural grace, yet she could still glide through the room.

I sipped my coffee and watched her for a while- when she paused to pick up a book, dust a table, or check her phone. I looked away only when she looked my way, and one other time when she bent to dust the railings. I was curious, not leching.

My wrap was bland. While I’d been finishing it, she had retreated up the short steps to the other side of the building, where I couldn’t watch her anymore.

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White Sheets, A Short Story

This was a writing prompt. (Using an image of an unmade bed.) It needs cleaning up, I’m sure, but for me prompts are just little things you use and throw away after.. like tampons. I likely won’t do anything further with this, but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think. (About anything really, although for the sake of cohesion it ought be be a thought about the story itself or of writing prompts in general.)

She stared at the unmade bed, her arms folded, hair hanging down to her exposed breasts. White sheets. White pillows. Tussled, still body warm. Or so it looked, but she didn’t reach out a hand to test that.

Curtains had been drawn, but light still slipped through cracks in the barrier. One bright line split the room in two, standing as a divider between her bare toes and the foot of the bed. Another cut across the floor behind her, stopping just before it hit the closed wooden door. Motes of dust floated, suspended in the sea of air, an otherwise invisible current the light had exposed.

She ran her tongue over cracked lips, tasting salt.

No one else was in the room with her.

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