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Post by EVELYN JULIET WOODS on May 16, 2011 14:47:17 GMT -5
she listens like spring, and  SHE TALKS LIKE JUNE , "WANT a refill, Evie?" Karen asked from behind the counter. Evelyn and a lot of the staff at Lucinda's Corner were on first name basis. The blonde had been finding comfort in the little cafe since she moved to South Carolina at the age of seven. Evie looked down at the tall glass before her. All that was left of her sweet tea was the lemon rind pinned against the glass by ice. She contemplated whether or not she should give in. Her sweet tooth got the best of her, naturally. "Yes, please," she smiled, "and may I please have a slice of carrot cake to go with it?" The rejoinder was a nod and a smile as Karen prepared the dessert.
LETTING out a sigh, Evie looked down at the notebook in front of her. She was scheduled to play here, at Lucinda's, Friday night. Evie was one of the regular cafe performers and every now and then she saw a new face. Evie didn't get paid directly, but she did leave her guitar case open by the window. Her goal wasn't to have change thrown into it, but on good nights she'd get a nice little sum of cash. However, each week was like a new challenge for Evie. It wasn't like it was difficult for her to write songs, it was just difficult for her to perfect them under her own standards. She normally played two or three songs before handing off the mic. It was Wednesday night and Evie was working on her third and final song for her short set. She had had the instrumentals down from forever ago, she just could never find the right lyrics.
EVIE knew that she would have to get a move on this song because the sky was already freckled with stars, which meant that closing time was somewhere in the near future. Closing time meant Evie would have to return home to her step family who gave her no time for her music. Perhaps she could convice Karen to let her stay past closing...
TAG: ROSE ZELLER.
TEMPLATE [C] ALLIE.
LYRICS [C] TRAIN. |
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Post by savannala on May 16, 2011 16:00:00 GMT -5
  Living in Paisley, Oregon naturally meant that Rose had little to no exposure to actual civilization. In fact, Paisley's shopping center (creatively titled 'Paisley General Store,') could barely be called that, as it consisted of three aisles of very basic and bland foods, a small refrigerator in the back, an ancient cash register sitting atop of a wooden counter, and Mr. Kent. Mr. Kent had owned the store for as long as Rose had been alive, and remembering the neighborly and welcoming feeling of the store filled Rose with a sense of longing and homesickness. Sure, Port Royal had been lovely to her thus far--after all, it would be giving her not only an education, but a home as well. But it was moments like these, when she would stop to remember Paisley, when she would long for a place of familiarity in Port Royal.
So, that's what she was determined to do. Rose was absolutely set on finding a quaint public place and making herself a regular there; be it a library, a bookstore, or, in this case? Lucinda's Corner.
Rose entered the cafe with caution, afraid that the homely feel the outside had advertised would completely vanish upon stepping inside. Fortunately, it did not. Instead, she saw a woman behind the counter of the cafe and a girl sitting at said counter. Rose made her way over to the girl and, trying to hide her excitement at the prospect of making a new friend, spoke as casually as she could. "So, what would you recommended?" She asked. "Like, as far as the menu goes, and all?"
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thoughts;; anything you'd like to say? |
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Post by EVELYN JULIET WOODS on May 17, 2011 14:24:31 GMT -5
she listens like spring, and SHE TALKS LIKE JUNE , OUT of nowhere came a spurt of inspiration. Maybe it was the sound of the ice cubes so clearly colliding as Karen prepared the drink. Perhaps it was the sound of the journalist flipping through his latest collection of rough drafts, a routine that was as familiar to him as running errands was for Evelyn. Perhaps it was the tinkling of the bells hanging from the door, swaying as the door opened. Normally Evie would've looked to the door or had to fight the curiousity to see who the new comer was. At home, if she dared ignore her step family as they entered the room, she was sure to burden an extra errand that day. Now though, without a second thought, she furiously scrawled down a few lines on the clean lined paper before her.
ALTHOUGH Evie knew better than to ignore somebody speaking to her, the words in her mind were fleeting. They were lines about familiarity and how familiarity was meant to bring comfort, yet sometimes there wasn't any to be found. Evie was a veteran song writer, having began writing songs when her dad was alive. Back then they were only short little rhymes that they would sing together while catering to the animals. That love had developed into countless songs. Evelyn's words for this particular song had a lot of blatant references, yet she had a way of wording it so that it all sounded so abstract and symbolic. She scrawled down her thoughts to the chorus, where she hit a wall. There was a shadow dancing on the corner of her notebook and she suddenly remembered there was a girl beside her.
SHE jumped slightly. She wasn't alarmed, she just wanted to perk up so that she looked less rude. "Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized for her delayed reaction, "I was..." She looked down at her paper, but stopped her thought. For years her step mother had been telling her that excuses were excuses and there was no reason to share them; they only took up time. "Everything's great," Evelyn informed the girl, "it depends on what you're in the mood for, I suppose." Evelyn was no good at meeting people, she was somewhat shy, so she stuck to making small talk - or at least responding with small talk. Not a moment after Evie shared this knowledge with the girl, Karen brought the fresh sweet tea and slice of carrot cake. The glass made a nice little chime as it hit the table, followed by the little silver fork. Evie couldn't refrain from taking a bite.
TAG: ROSE ZELLER.
TEMPLATE [C] ALLIE.
LYRICS [C] TRAIN. |
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