Finish Her Story

The sound of frogs and crickets floated through the humid night air, dancing along with the fireflies. I watch them outside on the patio that overlooks the river, winding through the town. My first night in the country is quiet, yet loud from the sounds of nature. I can't stop watching them and staring up at the night sky. I've never seen so many stars at night, and underneath them I feel so tiny.

Eventually I go inside, but I can't sleep all night, even with the fan on inside my room, so I try to write. Inside the small room, made when people were skinnier and shorter, I sit at the brown antique desk and take out my favorite pen from the drawer.

I put the pen tip to the paper and my mind went blank.

"I can't do this."

I rest my head on the desk, cooler than the air somehow, and squeeze my eyes shut, hard.

I figure going outside again will help with inspiration, so I get in my car, and drive to the 24/7 diner.

It's 4 AM by the time I arrive, so all the drunks are gone, and the truckers who show up early for sunrise breakfast haven't arrived yet. I get the place to myself. I grab a booth in the corner, take out my notebook and pen, and think.

As I blank out for the five hundredth time that week, I come back to reality when the waitress appears.

"Welcome to the Nighthawk Diner sir, can I get you some coffee"?

She's covered in freckles from head to toe, like the stars I saw outside on the patio. I don't realize I'm staring until she repeats the question with her deep southern drawl.

"Do you uh, do you want some coffee?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you uh…."

I squint at her name badge with cute flower stickers all over it.

ANNABELLE.

"Thanks, Annabelle."

She gives a tired smile, nods, and quickly makes her way to the kitchen until she pauses. Her long brown hair that was in a bun unfurls and she panics. I don't know what to do when she bends over to look for her hair tie, and then suddenly, her glasses slip off.

Like a bad scene in Scooby-Doo she's patting the black and white tiled diner floor, searching for her glasses. I get embarrassed for her and offer my help. I give her my hand to get up from the floor, but she refuses.

"I don't need your help sir; I can figure this out."

I find the black glasses, hidden underneath a booth nearby, and gently place them near her, waiting for her to find them on her own. She does, quickly puts them back on, and grins.

"I told you I didn't need no help."

She proudly leaves for the kitchen, and I take my place back at the booth, smiling absent-mindedly. Without realizing I'm writing again I find the words for the first sentence of my new book.

Sarah Sterling knew there was more to life in her village when she looked into the night sky, seeing more stars than she could ever count.

It wasn't a great first line, but it was a start.

As I rewrite my first sentence for the 3rd time, Annabelle returns with a new cup of coffee, and her long hair hastily made into one neat braid down her back. Her brown eyes quickly flit across the notebook, and then looks away, trying not to be nosy.

But she can't help herself.

"What are you writing there, sir?"

"A book."

She gives the same look everyone gives when they hear the words. A mix of mild skepticism but at the same time, they're open to finding out if I am in fact, "a real author".

"What kind of book," Annabelle asks.

"Fantasy. They always tell writers to write what they know, but who is interested in writing about what they already know? Those books would get boring fast."

"Well, what if all you know is fantasy? What then?"

She teases me and tries to find plot holes in the new story I've come up with until a yell is heard from the back.

"Annabelle, you best be not getting distracted or else there will be trouble!"

Suddenly she's professional again, and she stands up straighter, at attention, and asks what I want to eat.

"Choose for me," I reply.

In twelve minutes, a plate of chicken and waffles is gently placed at my table, and suddenly I can't eat. She's looking at me, her big brown eyes expectant.

"One of best foods from the South. I can tell you ain't from here sir, with your fast talking and everything. Ain't seen you around town neither."

"Fast talking?"

"Yeah," she giggles. "You sound like you're in a rush to go somewhere, all your words are in one long breath. Unless you've got somewhere to go? Am I holding you up?"

"Nah," I say, shaking my head.

 I take one last sip of coffee and take a bite out of the chicken, expecting it to be slightly better than average, but it's not.

It's spectacular.

Annabelle can tell I love it from how fast I start to chew, and she grins again.

"Everything here is fresh, right from the farms. You can't get anything better anywhere else."

The front bell rings, and a group of truckers walk in. The pretty waitress, in her blue and white dress leaves to take his order. I leave her a ten-dollar tip on the table and hope that I can see her around town, later.

I go to the bathroom quickly before I set off on the road. It's in your face USA themed, just like the diner, with a baseball bat up on the wall, painted red, white and blue. I jokingly salute the baseball bat before entering the stall.

 While washing my hands I hear screaming and shouting.

Gunshots.

 My body is cold for the first time in this humid town.

I thrust open the restroom door to see a man with a gun.

"Everyone get down on the ground now!"