Thursday November 12th, 2015

The exercise:

I do believe today is a day for Continuation.

Just pick up the story from wherever it's been left by the previous contributor and carry on from there. And, you know, maybe try to leave it at an interesting point for the next writer to step into.

Pen into?

Type into?

Anyway. You might be able to tell that I wrote the opening in a coffee shop. Let's see what you guys can do with it.


Wendy, sitting inside her favorite coffee shop with only an empty mug for company, let her thoughts wander aimlessly as she watched cars and pedestrians pass by the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a gray, chilly November morning, and an unenthusiastic wind was shuffling fallen leaves around the sidewalk.

She picked up her white mug to take a sip, found only enough coffee to discolour the bottom of the mug, and put it back down again. A quick glance at the other patrons - two stern-looking women in business attire, an elderly man with his nose buried in the local paper, and three heavyset men in construction gear - confirmed that no one had noticed her absent-mindedness.

The music playing softly over the shop's stereo changed to a song she recognized but couldn't name. Wendy considered asking one of the cute baristas what it was but decided against it, not wanting to look foolish. Anything but that in front of those two.

She returned her attention to the windows at the front of the shop just in time to see her ex-husband run by, with two uniformed policemen in hot pursuit.


Greg said...

Damn it, part of me now wants to continue your explanation of how the story came about and what you were doing in the coffee shop! Ah well, this seems interesting enough anyway, and you've given us a bunch of character to play with. Let's see then...

Not again thought Wendy, mentally sighing. The reason she'd left her husband in the first place was because she had a strong suspicion that he preferred policemen to her – well, to anything actually. He'd dressed up as a policeman first at Hallowe'en, then at children's birthday parties, then on her birthday, and when he started doing it at Christmas, New Year and Easter as well she revealed that she'd found his catalogue of police equipment (with the sticky pages hissed a voice in the back of her head) and handed him the divorce papers.
"'Scuse me love," said a gruff voice, interrupting her reverie. She looked up, and one of the heavyset construction workers was standing near her table, his yellow hard-hat in his hands and twisting nervously between them. "Can I buy you a drink?" His paw-like hand, coarse black hair running down his arm and over the back of his it, gestured at her mostly-empty cup.
"Oh!" she said, surprised. Didn't this only happen in bars? "Oh, well, yes, thank-you!" She smiled warmly.
"Ern!" he yelled. "Get us two cups of swill!" He looked back at her and smiled, his weather-beaten face wrinkling like a wet newspaper drying on the radiator. "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all," said Wendy, wondering if this was really happening. Was she actually being chatted up in a coffee shop?
"'Scuse me miss?" said another voice as the construction worker sat down, and she turned to find another one of three stood at her elbow. "Buy you a biscuit miss?"
In short order she had all three workers and both stern business women seated at her table, a cup of coffee, a cup of tea, a cup of water, two biscuits, a muffin and a flapjack. All of the people were staring intently at her, and, as she looked out the window wondering on earth was going on, her ex-husband ran past again, now wearing a policeman's helmet and being chased by a pack of poodles.

Marc said...

Greg - my goodness, it seems like a shame to leave this one sitting here like this. I shall have to find some time to get back to this, if only to discover what has caught everyone's interest in Wendy.

And why that interest has not extended to the old man with the newspaper...