ALright, I'm kind of stuck. Here is the short story I promised I don't know how long ago, but it isn't finished, and I'm not sure how to finish it.
Mistaken
On a fine day, sitting quietly in a rather bustling corner of the Earth, is a café sitting both seaside and streetside, frequented by patrons not afraid to go out of their way to afford themselves coffee with a view. Little white tables with little white chairs, shaded by little white parasols, sit comfortably on a cobblestone sidewalk, overlooking the unbusied road, and at one of these little tables, sits a man by the name of Mr. Stafford. This is an account of one of his fine days:
The businessman known as Mr. Stafford, elbows resting upon the table, gazes into his coffee as he stirs it. He adds little bits of cream and sugar, stirring each in slowly with feelings of melancholy and satisfaction. Melancholy, because Mr. Stafford is an unfortunate man to have made it, to obtain a beautiful girlfriend that deftly nags him when he doesn’t want to hear it, and teases him when he does. To have obtained the high paying job he spent all of his early adulthood acquiring, only to find that the only thing it really gives is long days of boredom and headache. To have finally gotten the home and car that makes others envious of his status, but finds that such things matter little when you have no time to enjoy them. He does have satisfaction though, the supreme, unrivaled satisfaction that he has at this very moment, sitting at this café table, stirring his coffee.
You see, if there is one thing that gives Mr. Stafford motivation to get up each day, and continue his droll existence, is that each morning, he has exactly enough time to get up and go to this very café, where he can then sit by himself, and with no one to bother him, he can enjoy his favorite coffee, just the way he likes it, in peace as he contemplates whatever it might be that he might want to contemplate that particular morning. Whenever one of the snappily dressed waiters happens to come up to take his order, he can rest assured that these employees are trained to keep their business curt and professional, with as few niceties and possible, to act solely as vessels for the café’s fine morning, brunch, and mid-afternoon delights. This is the way that Mr. Stafford likes it, impersonal, businesslike, and aloof, so that nothing and no one can interrupt him as he muses by his lonesome before continuing onward to his workday. This is truly his greatest and only joy in life.
The assumption though, that someone as important-looking businessman, with such a sour countenance, drawing no attention to himself, in such an out of the way location, by himself, that no one would ever go out and bother Mr. Stafford and interrupt his joy, rests self-assured in his mind. However, perhaps there was a queer wind blowing that day, or the sun shone a little too finely, or some other contrivance to make the day unordinary, but it would seem that this assumption is about to be proven entirely false. On this day, you see, in a manner completely unprovoked, another fine gentleman pulls up a chair, and sits directly across from Mr. Stafford, and orders a coffee himself.
Mr. Stafford is immediately angered, he leers at him piercingly, to give the stranger the message that he does not want his personal table to be disturbed. The gentleman, however, ignores him, and makes idle chitchat with the waiter. He sets his coffee down, and clears his throat briskly, surely a universal symbol to get one’s attention, and it sure did. The gentleman, upon receiving his coffee, leans onto the table, and plasters a bizarre smile on his face.
“Hello, how are you this fine day?”
Mr. Stafford’s eyebrow raises in suspicion.
“Have we met before?”
“No, not at all.”
Mr. Stafford waits a few moments, but no name is given, and the complete lack of introduction has convinced him, this gentleman is a hooligan, a rapscallion, an uncouth youngster with no manners and no business with such an important businessman such as himself. He must be shooed away.
“I apology sir, but I usually sit by myself. Would you care to find another seat?”
“I’m afraid that I can’t do that, for you see… I have business with you.”
Flashing another bizarre smile, the gentleman leans in even closer. Mr. Stafford’s sour expression grows even fouler.
“And what would that be?”
“This business, which behooves both our mutual interests, ensures that we will quickly become fast friends.”
“And what would that be good sir?” in a tone of skepticism.
Without breaking eye contact, the gentleman reaches into his vest pocket, and reveals a small, velvet-lined case, and places it onto the table.
“And what would that be?”
“The contents of this case are a matter of grave import. This is my opinion.”
“What is the importance of this case?”
“I feel you should qualify that matter for yourself.”
The gentleman pushes the case towards him, and Mr. Stafford is overcome with a sudden loss of patience.
“I am not one to play games with sir! You are busying my idle time, and I care not for it!”
“I feel that you will have a change of heart, the moment you look inside of this case.” unfazed at his frustrations.
“If you will agree to leave me be, I will do as you ask, and look inside of this case.”
“These are favorable conditions. I accept.”
So with that, Mr. Stafford grabs the case by its corners, flips up the small bronze latches, and opens the lid, only to be immediately nonplussed by what he sees. Inside of this velvet case, is nothing. It is completely hollow, through and through, with no apparent special properties that might engender such tense worrying. With a sharp crack, Mr. Stafford closes the lid, and passes the box back to the gentleman.
“I’ve fallen for your prank, young man, now leave me be.”
“Sure. Thank you very much.”
And as the gentleman gets up to leave, a peculiar thought hits Mr. Stafford.
“And what is your name, young man?”
“While I am indisposed to giving my actual name, you may call me Mister.”
Before a reply could be mustered, a black Cadillac roars up to the side of the cobblestone sidewalk, allowing Mister to quickly get inside and make haste away from that place.
Absolutely flustered and bewildered, the agitated Mr. Stafford sips down the remainder of his coffee, and determines himself to his place of work. As he steps out of the café though, he is met by two sharply dressed sirs. Saying nothing, they walk to each side of him and lock their arms with his, preventing his free escape.
“You unhand me this instant you foul ruffians!”
But to no avail, as the sirs force Mr. Stafford to the sidewalk and into a rather sizable limousine, and is placed into a seat between them. A man concealing his eyes with dark glasses turns his nose down at him.
“Hello, may I ask your name good sir?”
“I ask that I be unhanded and freed from this reprisal, you vandals!”
“What is your name, good sir?”
“Jonathan Stafford! What is it you want of me you delinquent subversives!?”
The concealed man lowers his glasses for a moment.
“I think you know.”
“No, I do not!”
The man chuckles to himself for a moment, then leans in close.
“Let us not prolong this needless foofaraw. What was in the case that Mister showed to you?”
“What?”
“I would like it if you were to agree to be amenable.” Cracking his knuckles, “What was in the case that Mister showed to you?”
“There was nothing in that case.”
The two sirs hold him fast at his sides, while the interrogator leans in even closer, enough to smell as he masticates his chewing tobacco.
“I’m afraid that I can’t accept such a clear lie, Mr.…”
“Stafford, and yours?”
“I cannot oblige you. What was in the case?”
“And I told you, nothing. It was an empty case.”
A terrible pain befalls Mr. Stafford’s stomach as the interrogator’s fist slams into it.
“Are you mad?! Tell us what was in it, and we’ll be happy to let you go.”
I humbly await your scathing ostracism.
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Topic: Bay12 Writers Guild (Read 58802 times)