Rushing to post my broken glass drabble before the end of the week. It's not as dark/intense as most of the others - but I know breaking things very well.
Nine o'clock, breakfast rush just starting and she's already in the weeds. And now they're out of coffee. She sweeps an empty pot up, recognizing the burnt-oil smell of evaporated coffee one second too late. Overheated glass clicks against hot metal and cracks; a rain of brown-glazed shards falls over and around her feet. Glass dust crunches under her black shoes, grinds into the soft rubber soles.
"Fuck fuck fuck!" Goddamn Lisa leaving a goddamn empty pot on a hot burner. Her third breakage this week and now they'll take it off her fucking cheque.
"Miss? Miss! More coffee, please."
It was a contest, Deena. Competition is not my friend, generally. My stories don't have enough death and T&A for that. Except when I steal.It hurts, of course, but, actually my attitude about writing has changed since I read How To Be A Stand-Up Comic ironically. Because in that book, it says "Prepare to fail. Because you're going to. And if you can't handle that, don't quit your day job, babe." (And I haven't got a day job. So I guess I'll stick it out.)
Belzer also says you can make fun of anybody you want, without apologies, except Sinatra.(He got "Just kidding, Frank.")
And being a writer, nobody can hear me bomb. Small mercies, right?
Oh Dani, I can relate that SO well to stuff in everyday life, even though I've never waitressed.
Dani, damn! Perfect waitress moment. Instant evocation of that burnt-coffee smell, too.
My Old Skool Ficathon entry got recced to some other community, and several random strangers have stopped by to say good things about it.
I am inordinately chuffed over this.
Nothing inordinate about it. Chuffed is the proper reaction.
Under the wire? In a cheat?
The fragments arced across the floor, and there was a thinner scattering everywhere, glistening glittery sharp bits that crunched beneath his bootsoles. She sat on the ledge by the window, knee bent, one ankle propped across her opposite knee, the sole of her foot upturned. Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip as carefully, with finger and thumb, she pulled splinters and shards from her thin slipper sole. At her quick gasp, he looked closer, and saw the long, curving bit she picked at come loose, the pointed end of it scarlet with her blood.
Soooooo....who'd like to suggest this week's topic? Because I am frazzled and stressed out and my brain, she no work so good no more.
