sto·ry | \ ˈstȯr-ē \
1a: an account of incidents or events
b: a statement regarding the facts pertinent to a situation in question
c: ANECDOTE
especially : an amusing one
Is The Air On?
The excited voice shouted from behind the counter and continued to rattle around the coffee shop. Thomas lazily walked in the open storefront, head down and not making eye contact with his coworker. He was keeping himself as low key as possible. Hoping to sneak into the back and maybe avoid the bubbly personality that was in the front of the shop, at least for a few minutes
Excerpt from short story Is The Air On?
Thomas would fidget with his wristwatch and set the time. It was always perfect, but he would wind it a full day ahead while he was going through his mind. Most would consider this a form of obsessive compulsive, but it was hard to tell.
“Just a distraction. Focus on clarity.” A small mantra Thomas repeated and turned to when beginning his day. The watch set to the second and a new day was allowed to begin.
Thomas came back out of the double doors and saw Laura counting straws and looking busy. She did this when she wanted to keep talking but not look like she is prying. “Were you guys busy this morning?” Thomas threw out to try to get a new subject rolling. “It wasn’t too bad, typical Thursday. Allen went home early. Been just me for about an hour.” Laura said.
“That’s good.” Thomas looked around and it was pretty slow in the eating area. Three people that were on their computers and one older guy reading the paper. Thomas went into retail mode for a normal shift; strained, but believable smile, and voice lacking timbre, only using an upper register when speaking with the general public. He poured the coffee beans into the stainless steel hopper, grinding some for the next shift and started just straightening up a bit. Cleaning the front window case and setting up some of the sandwiches for lunch.
Thomas liked this shift. Not too demanding and still able to get tips. He had taken this job for the first time when he was finishing up college. It was a part time gig while he was in school, but by this point, five years out of college, he expected to have been somewhere else. He was at one point, but now is back where he started. This was a subject of contention between Jen and him. He never wanted the previous job, but it would have made his life easier if he could have kept up with the demands.
All of these thoughts were swirling in Tom’s head.
“So, did you guys at least make up?” Laura asked. This was about two hours after the initial conversation, but both knew there was only one topic for the day. “No. We slept in the same bed, but that is it. I hate going to bed angry. I left before she was awake, and she hasn’t text me.” Thomas said.
“Maybe she just needs some time.” Laura meant well, but Thomas hated that idiom. “She always needs time. I don’t think she cares about me anymore.” “That’s not true, I have seen you guys together. You are a good couple. How long, now?” “Five years.”
“See, that is my point, you have been through some rough things before.” Laura knew Thomas pretty well and has been a good person to confide in when it came to touchy situations. She was nosey but not one to gossip. The secret was safe with her, but she had to know everything. “I am never one to give advice, you know my track record, but I think you will be fine.”
Motel Room
In the box, to the side of the pressed outline of the pistol, sits a box of bullets. There are twenty five specific circles cast in plastic to hold the bullets. The rounds are placed upside down, the bullet facing down, and the back of the round and the primer facing me. Fifteen of these rounds are slightly shorter than ten that lie closer to the left of the box. The fifteen have primers that that are dented in the middle, they have been fired. But the casings are important, always keep your casings.
Excerpt from short story Motel Room
I open the door with the ice bucket under my arm and close the door behind me. A smooth pink-turning-red sunset was over the mountains. The air was hazy with a little dust, but clean from smog or pollution. I breath in and fill my lungs with the mixture of nitrogen and dust and walk down to a dark corner of this L shaped building. A handwritten note saying, ICE, with an arrow was duct taped to a rusted, pole that propped up the roof. Attached to the whitewashed pole, with peeling paint was a downspout hanging on by three rusty brackets. As I walked past, I patted the gutter with my empty hand with a resounding thud. “You’ll be busy tonight.”
The thunder clouds were starting to rumble a little more. The sun was turning to twilight to the west, and the dark thunder was from the south. Surely picking up steam with coolness setting in.
An open faced concrete room was holding the ice machine. The right side of the wall was slitted concrete blocks, letting in some light of the sunset. It was painted an off yellow. The walls looked like the paint that they used to paint schools. I wonder if that was made by extraordinary bulk in the late 1950’s or 60’s and everyone received their fair share. The back wall was grey cinder blocks with lighter grey mortar dripping in between. The workers that laid these were sloppy, easily wanting to get their job done to move on to the next one.
The ice machine was buzzing on the back wall with a black extension cord reached to its breaking point to the outlet. This was an old-style machine with the lift top on the front and ice cascading down every so often. If I decided to stay at a hotel or newer place it definitely would have been a push button deal with well-formed single cubes.
I open the brown tattered plastic lid and looked at the steam rising from the arctic mountains that lay inside. No ice scooper. No matter. I dunked the whole bucket in the clear formed cubes and pulled out my reward. A full bucket of ice. Slamming the lid down, I turned back and went to the right back to my room.