Untitled Ink-Vine Short Story
by Disaster, Ink.
by Disaster, Ink.
Tabitha thoroughly enjoyed sitting under her favorite, overgrown oak tree in her favorite park on the outskirts of her rather small town. It stood on the very top of a hill, overlooking the suburban streets and houses, as well as the long stream that crossed right through her community. No one made their way to the top of the hill; they preferred staying on the level ground, taking in the sun, playing with their dogs, enjoying the company of a loved one. But this hill and this tree, which knotted and twisted its way from the roots to the branches, filled with vibrant, full green leaves, was Tabitha’s sanctuary. She would always go to this place after a long day’s work, writing in her journal until the sun’s final rays made its way below the horizon line. Much like her spot in the field under the tree, the journal was for her and for her only. She was the only one who would jot down notes, and she bore the only eyes that would see its contents.
The sun had nearly set; she had eighteen minutes precisely before the sky would grow dark, and she would have to make her way home. She was so keen to the sun’s rotation; she knew exactly when it would set each day. Tabitha continued to pen her thoughts down in the antique, cracked leather-bound journal; its pages crinkled and yellowed with age. Tabitha thought of her fictional world, letting her ink take control of her as she penned down her tale, which read as follows...
Clarissa ran up the stairs, the heat of her unseen assailant’s breath brushing her bare ankles with every step. She silently cursed herself for wearing flip flops, but to be fair, she had had no idea that her peaceful afternoon stroll would end in a flight for her life.
She couldn’t help but reflect on the events of this morning. As she went through her morning chores, all she could focus on was the sun streaming through the open windows. After three days of almost constant rain, she knew that she couldn’t waste this beautiful day. So, as soon as she finished everything, she slipped into her flip flops and headed straight to the park.
The grass retained a faint trace of dampness that tickled Clarissa's feet as she strolled. She soon realized that she was not the only one making the most of the unseasonably good weather. Children played on the swings and slides, while parents took their toddlers to the pond to throw stale remnants of bread at the greedy ducks. Yet, something wasn't right.
Clarissa could sense something, just out of sight, a darkness that invaded her sight in the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look, it was gone.
Unsettled, she thought it best to stay near people. At the edge of the park she noticed a cafe bar, the front terrace filled with chairs and tables for thirsty tourists and regulars alike. She smiled at a young couple as she edged her way to the main doors, and was plunged into the darkness beyond. In contrast to the sunshine, the bar was cool and dark and she felt a chill as she walked towards the counter.
"What can I get you?" asked the waitress, idly.
"Coffee, please. Need something to wake me up," Clarissa explained nervously, feeling like she had to justify herself to this uninterested stranger, "you ever get the feeling you haven't actually woken up?"
"All the time," said the waitress. "Just flag me down when you want me to top you off."
Demetrius walked to the back of the room and sat down at the table most shrouded in darkness, away from the glare of the bright strobe lights and greedy pole dancers' eyes. A waitress approached him.
'What would you like to drink?'
'Let me have a gin and toni...'"
"Ready to order?" the waitress interrupts the two men at the table adjacent to Clarissa's, who put down their screenplay draft and revisit their menus.
"Yeah, let me ask you something: are your 'blueberry pancakes' made with real blueberries, like from the produce section of a store, or that fake pie filling stuff?" Damon inquired, much to the chagrin of Angelo.
"I'll check with the kitchen," the waitress replied, masking her contempt for the question she sensed would prove to be irrelevant to the patron when she returns with the answer.
"Don't mind my friend. He likes to make things difficult," Angelo assured the waitress, looking at her name tag. "'Estrella,' that's a pretty name. Habla español?"
"Sí," Estrella replied with a bashful smile.
"Me llamo Angelo, y quiero tostadas con mantequilla, y jugo de naranja," said Angelo.
"Mucho gusto," Estrella responded sweetly.
"El gusto es mío," Angelo replied with a wink, while Estrella quickly collected the two menus, so Angelo wouldn't notice her blushing.
"Are you done flirting, so we can get back to focusing on the script?" Damon asked, perturbed.
"Quite," retorted with a grin. At the other table, Clarissa listened with interest.
Damon and Angelo looked back at what they had written so far. Both were excited at the prospect of returning to their passion of creative writing, particularly the work of metafiction they had in front of them, which they had nearly forgotten about after abandoning the project several years prior. Damon continued reading from where they left off: the pivotal scene in which Demetrius, the film's protagonist, would meet the one person who would change his life forever.
"'Let me have a gin and tonic, and tell Mr. Goldberg to come downstairs. I'm ready to talk.'"
