Daily Prompt: Being Creative!

Daily Prompt: Today, write about anything — but you must write for exactly ten minutes, no more, no less.

Now that I’ve started Year 13 and my A levels, one of the things I had to do was pick up an ‘extended study’ option. And, because I didn’t quite fancy doing General Studies or Critical Thinking, (they were the choices), I decided to pick up an AS subject instead – which just happened to be Creative Writing! So from now on, I may or may not decide to post some short stories I’ve written. So far I’m loving the subject – it’s kind of like a mix between yoga and English! So here’s a short story I wrote whilst in a café, (that was our homework), and because I am only supposed to be writing for ten minutes, I am copying and pasting it in!

Fight Café

Twelve pairs of eyes squint with a new interest at the two young men who have seated themselves at a single table amongst the hustle and bustle of the café. The men order quietly and settle into their seats as two tall lattes arrive just a few minutes later. To an outsider, nothing would seem odd about any of this. But the elderly customers inside know better, for these men are not regulars and the suits they wear spark the sixth sense within them, gained from years of experience and knowledge. Sure enough, the hushed voices of the men soon rise, becoming more urgent and angry as the other speaks, then dropping to violent whispers as they remember where they are. But their anger gets the better of them and within a minute every table in the café can hear their dispute – one of complicated business and deals that were never followed through. The old eyes watch with delight as one suited man shoves himself away from the table and towards the door. Then all hell breaks loose.

The dapper young man still seated at the table stands up all of a sudden, his hand shooting out and grapping his partners wrist. All this drama is sending me a little giddy with excitement. Finally something worth gossiping about! I shoot a look at Doris, her eyes wide like mine as the man who has just stood up speaks.

“You forgot to pay,” he snarls, and, still clutching the other gentleman’s wrist, throws an almighty punch at his face.

A unified series of gasps entail as the two men lock onto each other, sending a basket of bread rolls flying when they crash into it. Horrified and delighted by this turn of events, I peer through the glass window separated the seating area from the queue, staring at the tangle of limbs now rolling on the floor. The poor young lasses behind the long counter open and close their mouths in horror and one of them lets out a small squeal as the rope queuing barrier topples upon the moving bodies. I check to see if Doris is alright – sometimes she can get a bit breathless when something excitable happens – but I shouldn’t have worried. Her eyes are alight at the spectacle before us and I am taken back to my school years, reminded of the time that Peter Ackerman got into a brawl with a shopkeeper for pinching a bag of sherbet lemons. The thrill I feel now is an echo of back then, my face almost pressed against the glass as I watch the two of them wrestle. Unfortunately, it’s all over too soon. One of the older waitresses shouts over the angered grunts of the men, something about calling the police, and to our dismay the men hear her threats. Each stands and looks around quickly, red-faced and dishevelled, before hurrying out the open door one after the other. For just a moment there is silence, everyone letting their racing hearts settle, and then the place is filled with fast and excited chitchat about the day’s event. Doris looks over the table at me and grins.

“Well I never, just wait ‘til I tell Joyce about this!”