Friday May 16th, 2014

The exercise:

Write four lines of prose about: the diner.

Spent most of the morning doing an oil and filter change on the car, so no farm work really got done today. Trying to be at peace with that.

It's a struggle.

We're heading back to the farmers market in Penticton tomorrow... but as customers only this time. We won't be going as vendors until our strawberries are ready.

Which is going to be much sooner than I care to think about at this stage.

Mine:

As Terrence squeezed his way toward the far end of the row of men and women (mostly men) stuffing their faces with food they would surely soon regret consuming, an itch manifested between his shoulder blades. Someone was watching him.

There was hardly room to move forward, much less turn around, so he continued on and tried to ignore the waterfall of sweat that had been unleashed in his armpits. After a lifetime passed he reached the only available stool and sat on it while keeping his head down, all too aware that he had wedged himself into an inescapable corner.

2 Comments:

Greg said...

I was so sure sure when I was reading "oil and filter change" that you were going to finish with "on the tractor". Oh well :(
Don't worry, you'll get through the next couple of weeks just fine; you managed all the ones previous to this! And then you'll get help and you'll be planning how to take over the world again :)
Hmm, interesting scene you have there! I like how it finishes; just ready to really start!

The diner
Dalton's was filled with the usual crowd; all of us who gathered here when the connected world disconnected and left us internetless and alone. We fled the Downtime and ended up here, in the Diner, gathered around the stammtisch (it looked ancient but it was from IKEA) and exchanging stories about the days before global connectivity. Lars and Helen were playing backgammon and several people were looking on; the betting was just starting to get serious. And here was Dalton himself, his eyes twinkling as he brought over the plates of chili-battered chicken feet, stuffed aubergines and baked halloumi; a sure sign that Blind Alex had been ordering at random off the menu again.

Marc said...

Greg - hah, sorry to disappoint :P

I am very much looking forward to having time to plot once again...

Fantastic atmosphere in your piece. I feel like many a tale could begin in such a place.