Post by hanabanana on Aug 2, 2012 9:03:41 GMT -5
I was pretty excited last night after talking about all the writing and the books and the greatness(!!!!!!) and spontaneously took Ruth up on her call to write something that isn't too painful to read. I don't know where to put it though. I still can't believe I wrote it. It's not even that long. It's dev-y. About someone with spastic CP but not from their point of view, at least not yet. I don't know but maybe I will make a chapter or two from his POV. I've never finished something as far as this and liked it enough to continue, so this is a first for me.
so... if you're not a dev, it's not too creepy. It's PG. No worries. Kinda funny, at least I hope so. My grammar is horrible, I didn't sleep much but I was like.... I'M INSPIRED SO I SHALL WRITE AND BECOME ARTSY. Didn't end up too artsy, more like cliche-ish but hopefully you can past my horrible confusion with tenses and enjoy my mush.
Oh, and if this not where I'm supposed to put this, I apologize for my newbie ness. So many rules! Such little clarity. Meep.
I really want to sit down. Sitting is what I need right now. I can feel my toes begging me to release them from these stifling shoes, these horribly painful... oh so cute shoes. Never again shall I wear these deceiving shoes, with their large bows and adorable little buttons. They aren’t even heels, so my legs don’t even look good. But never again. What was I-
sh*t.
Table five’s order was all I needed. Literally, I had two more minutes of my shift. My feet hurt, my eyes were burning, and the smell of greasy diner food was about to make me gag. I just couldn’t keep focus and who the f*ck parks their hunk of metal in the middle of the aisle. As I stumble, well, more like crash over a beeping tank with a smirking man situated comfortably inside his almost unworldly looking wheelchair. The plates in my hand threaten to tip, sliding pancakes and coffee careening side to side. Why do people have this for dinner? Attempting to put my non-existent circus-esque balancing skills into action I sway with the plates and try to catch my footing. The bow on my left shoe(good for nothing, evil shoe) somehow tangled itself onto part of Mr.Smirk’s footrest, his smirk now gone, I see a flash of panic grace his face and from then on, chaos ensued. His neck clenched, shoulders soon to follow. Muscles tightened everywhere, his back bent to the side, forcing his arms to react -regardless of the muscle tone which was increasingly hard not to notice- and jerk faster than I could say(or think) “that was hot”. Jerk they did, right into the mess of syrup and coffee that the haggard family at table 5 had hoped would be their dinner.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him, I didn’t want to. But the blood returning into my hands, seeing as most of the of the plates are now on the floor, made me surface back to real life.
It is rare I ever get so serious about my job but whenever there is a mishap in this noisy grease pit, I’m the one everyone searches for. Somehow, my boss managed to find the must clumsy, socially awkward or faint hearted people to work here and I’m always the one to step in with a smile and make sure no freak outs or break downs take place. I sometimes fall into the clumsy category, as you may have been able to tell. But for now, let’s blame it on the stinking shoes.
My attention moved from his face, his gorgeous face that seemed to be in so much more discomfort than before, and snapped into damage control mode. As I continued to shake off the pins and needles feeling in my hand, I yanked my foot, hoping that if I am was longer invading his personal bubble, the previous calm would return. This proved to do the exact opposite, his eyes which were once clenched shut, snapped open and revealed stunning dark brown orbs with specks of gold around the edges. Mr.Smirk then attempted to tell me something, his arched back and clenched neck making the words which I knew were probably very helpful, come out as a garbled mush. I really wanted to just put my hands on his neck and give him a nice massage, calm his body down. What was I doing? Right! Okay, yanking- ahck, wait. Would Mr.Smirk appreciate the crazed, flailing waitress perhaps breaking his ultra packed chair and her shoe in the process of removing herself from his personal bubble? Probably, negative.
The grunt and grumble from the man himself made me assume my reasoning was correct. Cringing at the realization that that was not a good idea to begin with, I hop backwards on the one stable foot in an effort to slide my ribbon off the chair. A little less violent and maybe it’ll work.
Alas, as I said before, clumsy tendencies sometimes befall upon me. As my shuffle backwards succeeds in releasing my left shoe from Mr.Smirks footrest, it sacrificed my already shaky footing. Slipping on a lone pancake, my body makes an epic fall as my right leg slips out from underneath me via the pancake and makes its way to the other side of his chair, straddling the front of him. Thinking fast of ways I could break my fall without touching the many buttons on his armrest, or touch his chair at all, for I’ve read people have bad experiences with strangers using their chair as a coatrack or public space of sorts, I squeak out a very professional “meep”. I hear threads of the hem of my skirt pop as I slow down my journey to the grease covered floor by using his wheel as a break, pressing my left shoe into it. Plopping into what could have been a very painful center split, I thank my mother for putting me in dance classes as I look down and my Michael Jackson half split. My future children should thank her too. Probably wouldn’t be able to carry a baby with a broken hip.
Taking a minute to calm down and block out my whining coworkers who no doubt will make fun of me for this episode for awhile, I look up at the man in front of me. Taking in his figure, his shoes pointed down and out, rather close to my left foot which is still getting cozy with his wheels, I see he is just as tense, if not more so than before. His hands are wriggling and his hips bump against the cushioned sides of his chair. But the muscles in his neck are not as tight, his adams apple bobs as he spurts out what sounds like a laugh. This man is laughing at me! After all I did for him. I am on the floor, this sticky floor! And all because I didn’t want to hurt his oh so precious wheelchair. And he laughs? Well, excuse my manners. This is what I get for trying to be nice. With a huff, I grab onto his handle bars(? or armrest?, I’m not sure which term to use), narrowly missing a rolly-ball attached to a stick(?joystick, god I really need to do my homework) and attempt to keep my fingers at the edges, hoping I didn’t press any button that may cause him to be booted out of his chair. While I don’t like being laughed at, I don’t think I want to cause any more of a scene than I already have.
His laughter ceases and his muscles loosen a bit. I can feel the fear shown on my face and I realize I touched his chair. Hoping he isn’t mad I mind my hormones as I try to apologize.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to touch the chair! You were laughing at me and my butt hurts and I didn’t mean to yank on your chair either! It’s just that these shoes are really the worst and I don’t care if you wreck them with that thing, but please wait till I take my feet out of them because I think I have wheel tracks on one of them already and,” I pat his shoulder to try to express my urgency and need for him to understand that I am not an ignorant, crazed, and flailing waitress, “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable but I sparked whatever kind of spasm that was. If you need anything-”
“Can you not touch my shoulder? You’re getting syrup on my shirt.” Mr.Smirk says, his smirk back in place where he seems to like it.
so... if you're not a dev, it's not too creepy. It's PG. No worries. Kinda funny, at least I hope so. My grammar is horrible, I didn't sleep much but I was like.... I'M INSPIRED SO I SHALL WRITE AND BECOME ARTSY. Didn't end up too artsy, more like cliche-ish but hopefully you can past my horrible confusion with tenses and enjoy my mush.
Oh, and if this not where I'm supposed to put this, I apologize for my newbie ness. So many rules! Such little clarity. Meep.
← ↑→ ↓↓ → ↑ ←↓ → ↑ ←↑→ ↓← ← ↑→ ↓↓ → ↑ ←↓ → ↑ ←↑→ ↓←
I really want to sit down. Sitting is what I need right now. I can feel my toes begging me to release them from these stifling shoes, these horribly painful... oh so cute shoes. Never again shall I wear these deceiving shoes, with their large bows and adorable little buttons. They aren’t even heels, so my legs don’t even look good. But never again. What was I-
sh*t.
Table five’s order was all I needed. Literally, I had two more minutes of my shift. My feet hurt, my eyes were burning, and the smell of greasy diner food was about to make me gag. I just couldn’t keep focus and who the f*ck parks their hunk of metal in the middle of the aisle. As I stumble, well, more like crash over a beeping tank with a smirking man situated comfortably inside his almost unworldly looking wheelchair. The plates in my hand threaten to tip, sliding pancakes and coffee careening side to side. Why do people have this for dinner? Attempting to put my non-existent circus-esque balancing skills into action I sway with the plates and try to catch my footing. The bow on my left shoe(good for nothing, evil shoe) somehow tangled itself onto part of Mr.Smirk’s footrest, his smirk now gone, I see a flash of panic grace his face and from then on, chaos ensued. His neck clenched, shoulders soon to follow. Muscles tightened everywhere, his back bent to the side, forcing his arms to react -regardless of the muscle tone which was increasingly hard not to notice- and jerk faster than I could say(or think) “that was hot”. Jerk they did, right into the mess of syrup and coffee that the haggard family at table 5 had hoped would be their dinner.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him, I didn’t want to. But the blood returning into my hands, seeing as most of the of the plates are now on the floor, made me surface back to real life.
It is rare I ever get so serious about my job but whenever there is a mishap in this noisy grease pit, I’m the one everyone searches for. Somehow, my boss managed to find the must clumsy, socially awkward or faint hearted people to work here and I’m always the one to step in with a smile and make sure no freak outs or break downs take place. I sometimes fall into the clumsy category, as you may have been able to tell. But for now, let’s blame it on the stinking shoes.
My attention moved from his face, his gorgeous face that seemed to be in so much more discomfort than before, and snapped into damage control mode. As I continued to shake off the pins and needles feeling in my hand, I yanked my foot, hoping that if I am was longer invading his personal bubble, the previous calm would return. This proved to do the exact opposite, his eyes which were once clenched shut, snapped open and revealed stunning dark brown orbs with specks of gold around the edges. Mr.Smirk then attempted to tell me something, his arched back and clenched neck making the words which I knew were probably very helpful, come out as a garbled mush. I really wanted to just put my hands on his neck and give him a nice massage, calm his body down. What was I doing? Right! Okay, yanking- ahck, wait. Would Mr.Smirk appreciate the crazed, flailing waitress perhaps breaking his ultra packed chair and her shoe in the process of removing herself from his personal bubble? Probably, negative.
The grunt and grumble from the man himself made me assume my reasoning was correct. Cringing at the realization that that was not a good idea to begin with, I hop backwards on the one stable foot in an effort to slide my ribbon off the chair. A little less violent and maybe it’ll work.
Alas, as I said before, clumsy tendencies sometimes befall upon me. As my shuffle backwards succeeds in releasing my left shoe from Mr.Smirks footrest, it sacrificed my already shaky footing. Slipping on a lone pancake, my body makes an epic fall as my right leg slips out from underneath me via the pancake and makes its way to the other side of his chair, straddling the front of him. Thinking fast of ways I could break my fall without touching the many buttons on his armrest, or touch his chair at all, for I’ve read people have bad experiences with strangers using their chair as a coatrack or public space of sorts, I squeak out a very professional “meep”. I hear threads of the hem of my skirt pop as I slow down my journey to the grease covered floor by using his wheel as a break, pressing my left shoe into it. Plopping into what could have been a very painful center split, I thank my mother for putting me in dance classes as I look down and my Michael Jackson half split. My future children should thank her too. Probably wouldn’t be able to carry a baby with a broken hip.
Taking a minute to calm down and block out my whining coworkers who no doubt will make fun of me for this episode for awhile, I look up at the man in front of me. Taking in his figure, his shoes pointed down and out, rather close to my left foot which is still getting cozy with his wheels, I see he is just as tense, if not more so than before. His hands are wriggling and his hips bump against the cushioned sides of his chair. But the muscles in his neck are not as tight, his adams apple bobs as he spurts out what sounds like a laugh. This man is laughing at me! After all I did for him. I am on the floor, this sticky floor! And all because I didn’t want to hurt his oh so precious wheelchair. And he laughs? Well, excuse my manners. This is what I get for trying to be nice. With a huff, I grab onto his handle bars(? or armrest?, I’m not sure which term to use), narrowly missing a rolly-ball attached to a stick(?joystick, god I really need to do my homework) and attempt to keep my fingers at the edges, hoping I didn’t press any button that may cause him to be booted out of his chair. While I don’t like being laughed at, I don’t think I want to cause any more of a scene than I already have.
His laughter ceases and his muscles loosen a bit. I can feel the fear shown on my face and I realize I touched his chair. Hoping he isn’t mad I mind my hormones as I try to apologize.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to touch the chair! You were laughing at me and my butt hurts and I didn’t mean to yank on your chair either! It’s just that these shoes are really the worst and I don’t care if you wreck them with that thing, but please wait till I take my feet out of them because I think I have wheel tracks on one of them already and,” I pat his shoulder to try to express my urgency and need for him to understand that I am not an ignorant, crazed, and flailing waitress, “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable but I sparked whatever kind of spasm that was. If you need anything-”
“Can you not touch my shoulder? You’re getting syrup on my shirt.” Mr.Smirk says, his smirk back in place where he seems to like it.
