1 Prompt, How Many Writers

Cats, Coffee, and Cotton Candy

         I stared at my laptop's screen, reading over the same paragraph again and again. I was working on a story, but for my life, I could not think of what to do next. I had been sitting in this coffee shop for who knows how long at this point. I had run out of tea quite a while ago and I ran out of ideas even sooner. Wracking my brain for anything to put next in this apocalyptic story. The story was based in a post-apocalyptic setting that had been caused by a pandemic that had swept the world a few years ago. We were stuck inside for months and during that time I had begun writing the story, but it was rough and had a lot of issues. I gave up on the story not long after I started. Recently, as I had quite a bit of spare time between my part time job and college classes, I picked up the story again, fixing what I had already written and adding on.

        I have been coming into this coffee shop for weeks, as it was quiet and calming. The baristas always knew my order, chamomile tea, extra sugar. It was always the same when I came in. Jasmine, a barista who has been here just as long as me, would have my tea ready for me, and when I came in she would take her 15 minute break so we could chat about everything going on in our lives, between college, work, and romance, something only she seemed to have info about. I enjoyed talking with her and with due time we had become close friends, often hanging out when we had days off. Today though, everything seemed kinda off. All of the baristas were a bit more energetic than normal and when no one was at the register, they were all crowded behind the counter, talking. Even more odd, when I asked Jasmine about the odd behavior, she said I'd have to wait and see for myself.

        I glanced at my phone, seeing if I had any notifications. The only notifications were from people posting on Instagram. I was about to put my phone down when I saw the time. Jesus, I've been in here for two and a half hours! I saved my doc and turned off my laptop, putting it in my backpack. "I gotta head out, Jazz. See ya later!" I called into the kitchen. "Bye, Bex!" I heard Jasmine shout back as I headed out the door. She somehow had shortened 'Benjamin' into 'Bex', but I wasn't complaining. It is better than the middle school and highschool nickname attempts of 'Benny' and 'Jammin'. I shook the thought out of my head and continued on my way.

        The neighborhood around the coffee shop had the same tranquil vibes the shop did. This whole area was known as a 'college town'. Aka: it was made to be peaceful in an attempt to calm the anxious bunch of loan laden students that attended the nearby university. There were bright colors, plants, and expensive looking buildings (probably paid for with our tuition money). All in all, the town was small and sweet, and most people knew each other. Every year there would be a new wave of students, oftentimes juniors, who just got their AA at their local college and are now moving to a specialized college, but other than that, it was rare that new people showed up. Sure, there was the occasional transfer who got held back half a semester to finish a class, but even that was rare.

        The college everyone around here goes to is the Calten University of Arts, or the CUA. Many of the people that came here were aspiring actors or artists. It wasn't unusual to see people doing sidewalk chalk or doing street acts. A bit less, but still a large amount of the students who attended this school are 'wanna-be musicians', as Jazz calls them. The school offers a wide range of artistic classes, and luckily my major fell under them. I was marked as a creative writing major. I was also working towards a minor in journalism, in case my stories can't be full time.

        I watched the world around me as I made my way back to my dorm. I had a single dorm for my first year here, but now I room with two others. They were never a bother though. Sure, when they brought home girls it was annoying, or when they were belting their lungs out to Heathers at four in the morning, but hey, what can you do. They probably got annoyed by my loud mechanical keyboard clicking into the late hours as I worked on my seemingly never ending story. I had written smaller stories while writing my current one, but this was my big debut. If this story failed I would have to fall back on journalism, or try to make it as a poet but poetry is a far outdated art and journalism is boring, so being realistic, my fallback was less of a flop onto a bed, more of a plunge into a bottomless pit.