A continuing story.........

Bridgit makes another pot of coffee and tidies up the counter. Elle will be here in a minute for her shift and Bridgit is going home. The sun is blazing outside and Bridgit has to lower the shades on the front windows. Too hot and too much sun in the eyes of the customers.

Bridgit hears the bell above the front door and she thinks it must be Elle. She finishes filling the salt shaker she's holding and looks up. But it's a customer, straggling in after the lunch rush.

"Good afternoon," says the man, "glad to find this place. I've been driving all day."

Bridgit hands the man a menu and glances in the mirror as she returns to the kitchen. She brushes her hair back away from her face.

"Not bad," she thinks.

Finding her purse with the lipstick, Bridgit adds a little bit of color to her lips.

"Not too much," she thinks. "Too much is obvious."

She giggles a little and wonders why she's suddenly so interested in her appearance. The guy's handsome and muscular. A perfect height for her. He's wearing a baseball type hat, black, and has a small, well trimmed beard. But it's the intensity of his eyes that have caught Bridgit's attention.

Returning to the table, with her note pad in her hand, she smiles brightly and says, "see anything you like?"

(Wiping up the floor while I'm down here...)

"Jus' some coffee, black and strong," the man says, staring at the menu as if he really wants more. He looks up at Bridgit and notices her name tag. Irish name. Fancy that. His mother's name was Bridgit.

Bringing a hot pot of coffee to the table, Bridgit fills his cup. "Ya sure I can't get ya somethin' else?"

The man fumbles through the pockets of his jeans and places three crumpled dollar bills on the table along with some change. "What can I get for that?" he asks.

Surprised, Bridgit says, "well, I can bring you a steak sandwich and some chicken noodle soup." Bridgit is lying but she wants this man to have whatever he wants for some reason......

Elle hurries in, calling over her shoulder, "sorry I'm late. I know you want to get out of here."

"You going home?" asks the man.

"Oh, I'm in no hurry," says Bridgit, looking at her shoe, and then back into this man's eyes, "it's time for my lunch, late like you. I'm not allowed to eat when I'm working. Oh, I'll get you that sandwich."

"Make one for yourself too," calls the man as Bridgit trips over her feet, on her way to the kitchen.

"Who is that guy?" Elle asks, as Bridgit posts the order in the kitchen window. "He looks so familiar..."

"You've seen him in here before?" Bridgit asks.

"N-n-n-n-no," Elle says, "but he looks just like my cousin, Owen. Same eyes, same hair, but...somethin's different...oh, I know, his nose isn't crooked like Owen's." Elle props her elbows on the counter, staring past the man dreamily. "Owen and I used to go skinny dipping out at the Duncan's pond, you know the one out on the Jacksboro Highway, well anyway, Owen would borrow his daddy's truck after school and we'd drive out there and we'd park under one of them big cottonwood trees where it was all shady and..."

Elle is off in Dreamland again, Bridgit thinks. She wonders how many of Elle's stories are true. There is a fine line between truth and fantasy in that girl's head.

Elle is still vocally daydreaming when the man's order is ready. Bridgit bumps past Elle and gathers the full plates, balancing them skillfully on the way to the table.

"This is too much food. I can't pay for all this," the man says, looking at Bridgit apologetically as she sets all the dishes down on the table in front of him.

"Aw, it's nothin'," Bridgit says. "I'll just put it on my own ticket. They let me eat here for free."

"Well, that's awfully nice of you," he says. He digs into the food with the appetite of a man who has gone for days without a proper meal.

Bridgit just sits there, watching him eat. Finally, after half a sandwich, the man looks up and realizes Bridgit isn't eating.

At 12:04am it will have been 24hrs.

You ladies really have to keep this going!! You're good!!

We're horny, I think is the proper adjective.........or at least I am. :-) Makes for good copy.

Where's Dys, it's his turn or Diane's........

Realjohnboy.....where are you when we need you?

Henry was dozing off to sleep one night, deplete and satisfied after a brisk little bout in bed with Elaine, when she muttered those curious words: "We're going to change that old format..."
"pardon?" Henry said "sure, honey..." his lids dropped down again. He was a happy man ready for the blissful dreams that follow spendthrift sperm. What's this post coitus regret bullshit? In the sweet hiatus after sexual love Henry perfers to hear little thrushes calling from magnolia tress in paradise. ("Paradise"--another word for man's original garden, the preagricultural wilderness.) But now Henry was attacked by an unkindness of ravens. Not a dissimulation of birds or an exaltation of larks but a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows, a school of hagfish, a coven of witches.
"Did you hear me, Henry?"
"What? sure honey, you bet"
"What did i say?" Elaine continued.
"Henry struggled against his drowsiness, sensing danger. "You said, did i hear you."
He thought, he thought hard, mastering his irritation. Irritation? Homicidal outrage: there's nothing Henry hated more than being disturbed during those equisitely languorous moments when drifting into slumber.
Elaine said again "I said we're going to change that old format."
"What format?" Henry answered.
"Foreplay, penetration, ejaculation, sleep" she recited, as it it were all a formula.
"Whats wrong with it?" Henry said very quitely.
"It's no good. It's obsolete"
"We could skip foreplay" Henry offered.
There was not going to be much sleep that night, nor foreplay.

Elaine ponders what to do. Maybe she can find a boyfriend on the internet. She's heard about such things. Nooooooooo.......too much to hope for. Still, she's had enough and she's not going to take it anymore. Henry's a really nice guy, but nice guys are plentiful........it's an aggressive man, Elanie longs for.........

Meanwhile, back at the cafe, Bridgit is thinking, "this man is full of aggressive lust, a quality not often found in a thinking man."

"You're not eating," says the man.

"Oh, yes," says Bridgit. "You must have a very interesting name......for such an intriguing man."

I'm not getting in the middle of all of the panting with a new character. In fact, I am evacuating any previous characters who may be under 18. Richard has been sent to soccer camp. Gothboy has been sent to New Hampshire to work on the "Edwards for President" campaign.

I'm sitting here a little stunned at the past few posts.

(By the way, and this is not intended as a criticism of this site, I've started a new story under the Original Writing category titled, "A Pompous Bunch of Asses." The idea is explained there. I expected it to be similar to this place, but with perhaps some more character development. My first creation was killed off (adroitly) by the end of page one. I don't know how to do links so you will have to find it on your own).

"Grant."

"Huh?" Bridgit says, trying to listen now instead of just staring at his green eyes. "What did you say?"

"My name's Grant. Grant McMillan," he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

What a name, Bridgit thinks. She has never met a Grant before. Nobody in this town has a name like that. Just Eddies, Joes, Bobbys and Bills around here. What kind of a place would a "Grant" come from, she wonders.

"So where'd you come from, anyway, Grant?" says Bridgit. "We don't hear that name around her very often. As a matter of fact, I don't think I've ever heard that name until now when you told me it was your name. So what's up with you? How did it come about that you have found yourself sitting here on the other side of this cafe table from me on this sunny afternoon in July?"

"Oh,i am a foreign exchange student from the U.K..My studies at the universary back on the isle were sorely lacking any challange for me.Your lovely country continually surprises me each day i am here.i stopped here on my way to the museum for a spot of tea and this was the only seat open.i must say that it has worked out to my advantage to be sitting across from such an alluring young lady."

All Right! Welcome, Wolfstorm. We hope you will have as much fun here as we do. -realjohnboy-

Thank you!

His tea arrives,"Thank you dear",he offers the waitress.
"What a flirt!",Bridgett thinks to herself.
"So,what is it that brings you here today?",Grantt asks her.

"I, um, work here," Bridgit says. "Remember?"

"Oh, of course," Grant says smoothly.

That's funny, Bridgit thinks. He sounds more like a Texan than an Englishman. No accent at all. And what's with the funny question?

"You have some kind of a problem with short-term memory loss?" Bridgit asks the gorgeous, green-eyed stranger.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.....Bridgit," he says, checking her nametag for verification.

"i am sorry,i guess i am not used to this weather and it seems to have gotten the better of me.Could i have a glass of water please?",Grant says,hoping his lapse of memory will not put off the young lass.
Bridgett brings him his water,"Here,i hope it's nothing serious."
"No,no,it's something my doctor warned me about anyway.i'll be alright in a minute,really,thank you very much.",Grant says gaurdedly,clearly not wanting to go into any further detail.

Question: Why is no one writing here anymore?

Setentia, hi and welcome. The Original Writing category on A2K is sparsely populated and if a story-line doesn't catch on, the thread dies. I've wasted some great characters but that is the way it goes.
An enduring character is Gothboy. He has gone back a couple of years. He's a survivor.
Okay, Setentia and anyone else, here we go with a new story. Setentia, you are into hip-hop. Make that a part of the plot.

***
Gothboy gave blood today. It's something he does religiously, three or four times a year. He started when he was 16, forging his mother's signature on the permission slip. Four pints a year equals two quarts. He's 23, I think now, so he's up to something like 12 quarts. Is that like 3 gallons?
Pretty amazing, isn't it, that the human body can produce that.
Anyway, Gothboy got done and the volunteer at the First Methodist Church guided him over to a table and gave him orange juice and donuts. On the other side of the table was the lady's husband, Eric, I believe. Alsheimers, probably. They smiled at each other.
Who's next with an add on? -john

Gothboy walked around the table to join Eric and seated himself in an empty chair next to the still-smiling man. Feeling a bit dizzy from the loss of blood, he took a large bite from the donut. As Gothboy chewed and chewed, Eric stopped smiling and instead, opened his mouth at the sight of the donut, causing a string of drool to slip out and trail down his stubbled chin.

Gothboy noticed and said, "Why don't you grab a donut? They're right in front of you. I suppose you gave blood, too."

Eric bobbed his head up and down in agreement and slowly said, "Super..."

He reached across the table and was just about to finger the chocolate covered donut when his wife briskly walked over and shrilled, "No! Eric, don't touch any of that food. We're going to have dinner at home. How many times do I have to tell you not to take these donuts? I'm really getting sick of it!"

Gothboy, already half-way finished with his donut, took a sip of his orange juice and said, "Sorry, Miss. I thought it would be okay for him to have one, so I encouraged him to take one."

"That's fine, dear," replied the woman with a motherly smile as she turned to him. "But please don't do that next time. I don't allow Eric to eat any kind of junk food. It's bad for his health, you know."

Eric started crying, bawling at the top of his lungs.

The people in the room turned to his direction and shook their heads at the sight of him.

"It's amazing how poor Clara takes care of him and supports him and the family all by herself. I've never seen such a generous soul. Just look at her! She's even using her day off to volunteer for the church. Pity she has such bad luck to have a man like Eric," said an elderly woman to her husband.

Clara looked around the room and gave the onlookers a smile filled with courage. She rolled up her sleeves and whispered in Eric's ear, "For God's sake! Stop blubbering like a baby. It's bad enough that people have to see me with you."

Gothboy, who had heard every one of Clara's angry words, rolled his eyes in disgust and popped the last donut piece in his mouth.

"Are you mad, Mommy?" asked Eric with a tone of sadness like a toddler.

"Yes, I am," replied Clara, making sure she spoke lowly enough so that others couldn't hear. "In fact, very angry!"

"I'm sorry, Mommy. I'll be good from now on," Eric said as he wiped the tears off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Clara turned to Gothboy and said sweetly, "We'll be going now. I'm sorry if Eric has caused any trouble for you. I hope the church will see you again when we have our next blood drive!"

"Oh, Eric was no problem for me," replied Gothboy.

"Well, it was nice meeting you...uh...what's your name, dear?"

"Gothboy," he replied loudly, wanting to see what Clara's initial reaction would be upon hearing his name.

Clara slightly shrunk in disgust at such a strange and crude name but quickly reverted back to her sweet self, saying, "Oh, Gothboy. What a nice name. Remember to come next time!"

As Clara hurried away tugging Eric with her, Gothboy yelled, "Hey, Eric! See you sometime later!"

Eric looked back and gave a big grin.

"Ok, God! Super! See you later, too!"

Gothboy smiled and downed the last of his orange juice before getting up to leave.

(Er...I'm not sure where you got the info that I'm into hip-hop because I'm not. Sorry, I can't incorporate hip-hop into the story since I don't really know much about it. I'm new at writing stories, excluding the sentence and word ones at a2k, so bear with me please.)

Hi, Setentia. That was great!
I don't know where I got the hip-hop notion. I probably got you confused with someone else.

So now we have to sit and wait. Will anyone (letty, dys, cav, et al) build on this story? Chances are, no. But I don't have any problem with that. I enjoy writing and I really don't care that much about whether anyone responds. I send the stories into the nether regions of the internet.

Please continue to post stuff. -johnboy-