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justprompts
Oct. 20th, 2009 04:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tothelightshown“DG! DG, hurry up!”
With a dull thump, DG snapped her sketchbook shut. The tiny alleyway behind the Hilltop Cafe wasn’t the most comfortable place to draw, and it was hard to feel creative when you were surrounded by refuse bins and the smell of unfinished fried breakfasts. Her dreams – always hazy at best – tended to evaporate as soon as she stepped out into the Kansas sunshine. By the time she reached the cafe and pulled on her apron, she was clinging to their remnants out of sheer desperation.
Tucking her pencil between the pages, DG headed back inside.
“Your break finished five minutes ago,” said Phoebe, one of her coworkers, wiping her hands on a dishclotch as DG passed, “You’re lucky Carter isn’t here this morning.”
If Carter had been around, she probably wouldn’t have been given the break in the first place. But DG knew better than to mention that, and she knew better than to push her luck. If she wanted to pay off the last few payments on her beloved bike, she needed this job.
“What do I need to do?”
“Put that book down and take those plates to table three,” Phoebe instructed. Abandoning her sketchbook on the counter, DG grabbed the pies – which weren’t particularly famous, no matter what the sign on the door of the café liked to claim – and hurried out of the kitchen. “And take table six’s order.”
“Got it,” said DG. Not that it was a hard task. The flavour of the pie might change, and occasionally people would order pancakes or a cooked breakfast instead, but, like her dull little life in this dull little town, it was never more than a variation on a theme.
Although, occasionally, DG did manage to do something to shatter the peace. It was evidenced in her numerous speeding tickets and documented in her constant battle with Officer Gulch, who was sitting at table six with his police hat placed very carefully and very deliberately on the table in front of him. He was just dying for an excuse to drag her up in front of a judge – for speeding, for serving him the wrong breakfast on purpose, for generally existing – but DG knew that he wouldn’t manage it today. She’d been on her best behaviour, more or less.
“Ok, what did I do this time?” she asked, a menu in one hand as she made her way over to his table, “Did I manage to speed while standing still? Because Mom hasn’t let me near the bike since my last ticket, and …”
“Actually, DG, I just wanted a coffee.”
DG, who had been bristling defensively, deflated.
“Oh. One coffee it is.”
“Black, no sugar.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? There was nothing sweet about Elmer Gulch.
“One coffee, black, no sugar,” she repeated, before bidding a hasty retreat.
She made her way back into the kitchen, pinning the order up on to the board for someone else to deal with. She’d reached her daily quota when it came to dealing with Elmer Gulch, and the boss wouldn’t be happy if the police officer ended up with coffee in his lap instead of his mug.
“Your Mom called,” Phoebe informed her, “She gave me a list of groceries for you to collect on your way home.”
Perfect.
“Where did you write them?”
“In your book,” Phoebe drawled, pointing idly at the sketchbook and turning her attention back to the plates that needed delivering. She’d opened it on to one of DG’s favourite pictures, a maze that stretched on and on until it was cut short by the size of the page. The intricate arrangement of the hedges had now been obscured by biro pen.
“Milk, eggs, flour, apples, half a pint of milk and a copy of the newspaper,” DG read, flatly. “There’s no place like home.”
Prompt: Trapped
Word Count: 644
With a dull thump, DG snapped her sketchbook shut. The tiny alleyway behind the Hilltop Cafe wasn’t the most comfortable place to draw, and it was hard to feel creative when you were surrounded by refuse bins and the smell of unfinished fried breakfasts. Her dreams – always hazy at best – tended to evaporate as soon as she stepped out into the Kansas sunshine. By the time she reached the cafe and pulled on her apron, she was clinging to their remnants out of sheer desperation.
Tucking her pencil between the pages, DG headed back inside.
“Your break finished five minutes ago,” said Phoebe, one of her coworkers, wiping her hands on a dishclotch as DG passed, “You’re lucky Carter isn’t here this morning.”
If Carter had been around, she probably wouldn’t have been given the break in the first place. But DG knew better than to mention that, and she knew better than to push her luck. If she wanted to pay off the last few payments on her beloved bike, she needed this job.
“What do I need to do?”
“Put that book down and take those plates to table three,” Phoebe instructed. Abandoning her sketchbook on the counter, DG grabbed the pies – which weren’t particularly famous, no matter what the sign on the door of the café liked to claim – and hurried out of the kitchen. “And take table six’s order.”
“Got it,” said DG. Not that it was a hard task. The flavour of the pie might change, and occasionally people would order pancakes or a cooked breakfast instead, but, like her dull little life in this dull little town, it was never more than a variation on a theme.
Although, occasionally, DG did manage to do something to shatter the peace. It was evidenced in her numerous speeding tickets and documented in her constant battle with Officer Gulch, who was sitting at table six with his police hat placed very carefully and very deliberately on the table in front of him. He was just dying for an excuse to drag her up in front of a judge – for speeding, for serving him the wrong breakfast on purpose, for generally existing – but DG knew that he wouldn’t manage it today. She’d been on her best behaviour, more or less.
“Ok, what did I do this time?” she asked, a menu in one hand as she made her way over to his table, “Did I manage to speed while standing still? Because Mom hasn’t let me near the bike since my last ticket, and …”
“Actually, DG, I just wanted a coffee.”
DG, who had been bristling defensively, deflated.
“Oh. One coffee it is.”
“Black, no sugar.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? There was nothing sweet about Elmer Gulch.
“One coffee, black, no sugar,” she repeated, before bidding a hasty retreat.
She made her way back into the kitchen, pinning the order up on to the board for someone else to deal with. She’d reached her daily quota when it came to dealing with Elmer Gulch, and the boss wouldn’t be happy if the police officer ended up with coffee in his lap instead of his mug.
“Your Mom called,” Phoebe informed her, “She gave me a list of groceries for you to collect on your way home.”
Perfect.
“Where did you write them?”
“In your book,” Phoebe drawled, pointing idly at the sketchbook and turning her attention back to the plates that needed delivering. She’d opened it on to one of DG’s favourite pictures, a maze that stretched on and on until it was cut short by the size of the page. The intricate arrangement of the hedges had now been obscured by biro pen.
“Milk, eggs, flour, apples, half a pint of milk and a copy of the newspaper,” DG read, flatly. “There’s no place like home.”
Prompt: Trapped
Word Count: 644
