AtomicCafe1
02-10-2010, 11:38 PM
I wrote this a while ago as a first draft. I think I might want to further establish, but what are all your impressions? Bring on the....advice/criticism/comments! (if you want to). Thanks!
The ice cubes clanked and clattered against the glass as the lady stirred her drink with a straw. A gentle breeze caressed her, and from where she was sitting on the park picnic table she slightly shivered and drew her jacket closer. She spun her straw around in her ice tea a few more times, and then she drew it out of the glass, and it dripped a little bit on the table. She brought the glass to her lips and took a sip, pausing reflectively as she swallowed, and then took another sip. She set the glass a few inches away from where its past location had left a ring of moisture. Another bomb—the fifth in the past few minutes—dropped on the city off in the distance, right atop of a building. She didn’t wince. She sighed.
“Honey, use the napkins,” she said to the child across from her, pointing to the basket sitting next to him.
“I’m not stwupid.” The boy was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, all of its contents was seeping out of the crusts and onto his mouth. “I’m not stwupid, Mommy!”
“Of course you aren’t, honey. But you’ve got goop all over your face. Here.” The lady reached over into the basket and grabbed a napkin. “Here you go, honey.” She wiped off the peanut butter that was on his face.
“Mommmm.”
“There you go. All done.”
The boy groaned, and a siren began to wail in the faraway city.
“I’m not stwupid though. Mommy…she’s stwupid.”
The lady crumpled up the napkin and tossed it back into the basket. She stifled a smile.
“Oh don’t you say that, bub. What’s this girl’s name?”
The boy took a bite of his sandwich and started: “Her name’s Beckie, and, no, I think her weeo’ name’s Webacca. Webacca, uh… Webacca Swan—”
“How many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full?”
The boy stared at the lady.
“Go on. Finish up, and then you tell me about this girl.”
The boy tried his absolute hardest to finish the sandwich in the shortest time possible, in the shortest amount of chews possible. But this was beyond his talent, and his first attempt to swallow was followed by several more chews, and several more swallows. In the silence of the muffled chomps, the prominent skyscraper of the faraway city collapsed, and with it a bulbous cloud of dust and smoke slowly ascended into the sky. The lady resumed spinning her straw in her drink. The ice cubes clattered and clanked. The boy gulped down his last bite, then continued his story with urgency:
“Webacca Swanson’s her name and she’s new and she’s got wed hair. And—” he took a quick swig from his pop can and began talking before he swallowed—“she’s friends with Meghun Bwown and she’s fwom. She’s fwom. New Hams-hire.”
“New Hampshire, honey.”
“New Hams-hire. And we were drawing weaves and pumpkins and scarecwohs. And… mommy? Mommy?”
“Yeah honey?”
The lady’s face was content. A plane flew overhead, carrying a bundle of bombs soon to be dropped on the distant city.
“I think I wanna be an artist when I gwow up. I wanna be wike gwandpa.” The lady laughed.
“What happened to you wanting to be a hunter?”
The boy took another bite of his sandwich and frowned. He chewed, took a drink from his pop can, and while the can was touching his lips his eyes were bright. He then set his pop can down and furled his brows again.
“I don’t think I wanna kill things. I like animals. I don’t wanna kill—”
“Finish chewing before you talk, honey.”
The boy started to chew vehemently. He smacked his lips and eventually finished, and then he jumped up onto the bench seat and looked into the basket.
“Dessert, dessert!”
“Go ahead, honey. Just two, though, that’s all you get.”
And the plane released the slew of bombs over the heart of the faraway city with a great bang.
And the ice cubes clanked and clattered against the lady’s glass.
The ice cubes clanked and clattered against the glass as the lady stirred her drink with a straw. A gentle breeze caressed her, and from where she was sitting on the park picnic table she slightly shivered and drew her jacket closer. She spun her straw around in her ice tea a few more times, and then she drew it out of the glass, and it dripped a little bit on the table. She brought the glass to her lips and took a sip, pausing reflectively as she swallowed, and then took another sip. She set the glass a few inches away from where its past location had left a ring of moisture. Another bomb—the fifth in the past few minutes—dropped on the city off in the distance, right atop of a building. She didn’t wince. She sighed.
“Honey, use the napkins,” she said to the child across from her, pointing to the basket sitting next to him.
“I’m not stwupid.” The boy was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, all of its contents was seeping out of the crusts and onto his mouth. “I’m not stwupid, Mommy!”
“Of course you aren’t, honey. But you’ve got goop all over your face. Here.” The lady reached over into the basket and grabbed a napkin. “Here you go, honey.” She wiped off the peanut butter that was on his face.
“Mommmm.”
“There you go. All done.”
The boy groaned, and a siren began to wail in the faraway city.
“I’m not stwupid though. Mommy…she’s stwupid.”
The lady crumpled up the napkin and tossed it back into the basket. She stifled a smile.
“Oh don’t you say that, bub. What’s this girl’s name?”
The boy took a bite of his sandwich and started: “Her name’s Beckie, and, no, I think her weeo’ name’s Webacca. Webacca, uh… Webacca Swan—”
“How many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full?”
The boy stared at the lady.
“Go on. Finish up, and then you tell me about this girl.”
The boy tried his absolute hardest to finish the sandwich in the shortest time possible, in the shortest amount of chews possible. But this was beyond his talent, and his first attempt to swallow was followed by several more chews, and several more swallows. In the silence of the muffled chomps, the prominent skyscraper of the faraway city collapsed, and with it a bulbous cloud of dust and smoke slowly ascended into the sky. The lady resumed spinning her straw in her drink. The ice cubes clattered and clanked. The boy gulped down his last bite, then continued his story with urgency:
“Webacca Swanson’s her name and she’s new and she’s got wed hair. And—” he took a quick swig from his pop can and began talking before he swallowed—“she’s friends with Meghun Bwown and she’s fwom. She’s fwom. New Hams-hire.”
“New Hampshire, honey.”
“New Hams-hire. And we were drawing weaves and pumpkins and scarecwohs. And… mommy? Mommy?”
“Yeah honey?”
The lady’s face was content. A plane flew overhead, carrying a bundle of bombs soon to be dropped on the distant city.
“I think I wanna be an artist when I gwow up. I wanna be wike gwandpa.” The lady laughed.
“What happened to you wanting to be a hunter?”
The boy took another bite of his sandwich and frowned. He chewed, took a drink from his pop can, and while the can was touching his lips his eyes were bright. He then set his pop can down and furled his brows again.
“I don’t think I wanna kill things. I like animals. I don’t wanna kill—”
“Finish chewing before you talk, honey.”
The boy started to chew vehemently. He smacked his lips and eventually finished, and then he jumped up onto the bench seat and looked into the basket.
“Dessert, dessert!”
“Go ahead, honey. Just two, though, that’s all you get.”
And the plane released the slew of bombs over the heart of the faraway city with a great bang.
And the ice cubes clanked and clattered against the lady’s glass.