Short Story / On a dead day.

The ocean that filled the view from the café windows washed upon the shore, receding back into the black depths, taking with it the wonders and mysteries of the watery abyss which seemed to pull on a cord in Darcy’s heart, and it gave him that wondrous sense of fear and longing, the kind you feel when you’re standing before a storm in the twilight hours of the darkness before the dawn. The seagulls whirled and buzzed in and out between the few coastal trees that spotted the dark, wet sand. Morning had broken hours before, and the terrain had a grayish overcast that seemed to instill a sense of boredom and laziness in the inhabitants of Black Water, but which fueled great inspiration in the wondrous brain of our fabled writer, sitting with pen in hand and an open, blank page before him.

A Styrofoam coffee cup, accustomed the presence of Darcy’s dark figure, sat idly on the table before him, the steam rising and twisting as it escaped into the slightly chilly atmosphere. The room was quiet, and the man at the corner table only added to the heavy, comforting silence, the only sounds being the echoes of past conversations and the scrape and fall of fresh pastries being piled in the tantalizing baskets which sat at the forefront of the counter. They beckoned with their alluring scent and their golden brown, crisp skins. You could almost imagine yourself biting into the warm dough, and by the time you made it to the cash register to pay for your one meager cup of bitter coffee, you had already chosen your favourite pet pastry and had it tucked away in a nice, paper bag to munch on the way home.

Darcy drew his brown eyes from the ocean landscape and the quiet, monotonous goings-on of the café to return to the paper before him. Taking one last drag of his cigarette, he twisted it into the mouth of the nearby ash tray, letting it sizzle slightly before dying, letting the smoke drift to the ceiling where it seemed to be collecting, staining the wooden roof with that old smell and that slightly darkened tone. He had been having trouble getting his ideas pinned to the page, and so Darcy had retreated to this corner of Black Water to try and get something productive done. Unfortunately, he had not been successful so far. So, he began to doodle in the corner of his page, etching swirls into the crisp white with black ink.

Perhaps he would do another one of those dime-store plots, with the seemingly evil werewolf hero, who actually turns out to be the saviour in the midst of it all. Of course, there had to be the female lead as well. He would never understand the fascination with such things. Women were so fickle, and most of them seemed to be caught up with just how much make-up they could spread onto one surface, covering every inch of skin. Then again, he had met some who were actually intelligent, and they all had their own interesting points.

Taking the coffee cup into his pale hand, he brought it to his lips and let it slide into his throat, savoring the taste and the caffeine he knew was slithering its way into his system. His dark hair framed his pale face as he set the cup back down with a soft thud on the table, his brown eyes looking through the paper. Pulling at his jacket, Darcy shifted slightly to push himself into the corner, one foot on the bench-style seat, his knee up. It was here her rested his notebook as the idea struck him. With intent and purpose in his eyes, he began to scribble creatively into the page, looking up every once in awhile as if trying to catch the distant words that were just beyond his reach.

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Reviews

July 17, 2006

Deleted User

Review of Version 1 - Read 100%% of the Item

Nice piece. It is beautifully written in it’s descriptive language and metaphors. I really don’t have any suggestions to change it, it seems just right the way that it is.

Keep up the good work!

—J.L.G.