Ophelia Fey's First Assignment

Welcome to the block!

Craft a scene/chapter/story that includes the following elements.

A music box that plays "Puff, the Magic Dragon."
A cheap digital watch
A bowl of oatmeal

"GET OUT! You ungrateful American bitch!"
"I never want to see your ugly face again!"
"Darken my doorstep and I will call the polizei on you!"
The door slammed and the torrent of blistering German continued to spew from behind the door. As she bent to get her foot in her shoe, there was the crash of breaking glass and the strangled strains of Puff the Magic Dragon wound out of what could only be her now shattered music box.
Lauren struggled to get into her coat.
As she headed for the landing, she heard the click of Mrs. Baumhauer’s door closing. “Nosy old baggage” she growled as she passed.

A glance at the cheap digital watch strapped to her wrist showed the time as 11:49. Try as she might, she hadn’t gotten used to military time, or Nicolas’ anal-retentive adherence to schedules. She wore the watch so she knew what time it was, amidst his references to twenty hundred hours, along with so many other things she didn’t know.

It was just one more event in a long line of events that had caused this latest fuck-up in the long line of fuckups that was Lauren Morgan’s young life. Alone, damn near penniless and with nowhere to go, in a foreign country no less. Could it get any better?

Stepping out into the deserted street was like a punch in the chest.
“I’m utterly screwed” she thought, and headed down the street towards the bus stop, at least there was a bench there, so she could stop and tie her shoes. The bus stop reeked of fresh piss; someone, probably one of Frankfurt’s numerous homeless, had decided the bus stop was a toilet. Lauren put one foot on the bench to tie her shoe and paused to watch a big black Mercedes with pitch-black windows slowly cruise by.

Shoes tied and wishing for a scarf and gloves, she set off for the Hauptbahnhof; at least there’d be hot coffee and a place to sit for a while and think about what to do.
The bahnhof was a pool of yellow light, complete with a school of yellow taxis, drivers snoozing or smoking, a few late-night travelers wandering about. She entered the enormous building, and decided the café closest to the expanse of windows would be a fine place to sit for a while. A blonde, rather matronly waitress brought a menu to the table and Lauren ordered a coffee. Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered the last thing she’d eaten was this morning, a bowl of oatmeal consumed in the tiny kitchen of Nicolas’ apartment.

The coffee arrived, and to Lauren’s surprise, half a sandwich and two cookies had been laid on the side of the saucer. “What’s this?” Lauren asked, “I didn’t order anything.” With a heavy accent, the waitress said, “You look like you need to eat. No charge.” And with that she walked away.
“Geez, I must look pretty rough…a bahnhof waitress having pity on me.” She thought to herself. The sandwich disappeared quickly, and the cookies, like all German pastries, were delicious. The waitress refilled Lauren’s coffee twice, as she sat, numbly watching the traffic around her slowly crawl to a halt.

The next time the waitress happened to look up from her station – Lauren asked, “Where is the toiletten?” The waitress pointed silently towards a dark hallway. She found the toilet, used it, and then washed her face with cold water. She did look awful, with dark circles under her green eyes, like someone had died in her arms, or she’d seen some horrific accident.
Heading toward the table, Lauren noticed her coffee cup was full again. She knew that bottomless cups of coffee weren’t the norm in Europe, only America, where consumption was only a good deal if it was endless. Someone had left a Frankfurter Allgemeine on a chair, so Lauren scooped it up as she walked back.

She sipped the coffee and perused the paper, trying to delay the inevitable leaving of the café, which brought two choices; she could go back to Nicolas’ apartment and beg and plead to get him to take her back in, or she could call her mother, and beg and plead for a plane ticket home.
The coffee isn’t working, Lauren thought, as she yawned hugely. She slumped over the table, forehead resting on the newspaper.
The waitress watched for a moment, then pulled a mobile phone from her apron pocket, and punched in a number.
“Come and get her now – she’s passed out.”

Thanks for being patient. You are up for read and review first thing in the morning.

rose

This has a nice twist; i like that. Good characterization. Excellent playing of emotions. i will get your next assignment posted sometime this weekend, or Monday. Weekends can get hectic at Chez Dragon.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ophelia Fey;489844[COLOR="Red"

]"GET OUT! You ungrateful American bitch!"
"I never want to see your ugly face again!"
"Darken my doorstep and I will call the polizei on you!" (these could all go together in a single set of quotations)[/COLOR]The door slammed and the torrent of blistering German continued to spew from behind the door. As she bent to get her foot in her shoe, there was the crash of breaking glass and the strangled strains of Puff the Magic Dragon wound out of what could only be her now shattered music box.
Lauren struggled to get into her coat.
As she headed for the landing, she heard the click of Mrs. Baumhauer’s door closing. “Nosy old baggage,” she growled as she passed.

A glance at the cheap digital watch strapped to her wrist showed the time as 11:49. Try as she might, she hadn’t gotten used to military time, or Nicolas’ anal-retentive adherence to schedules. She wore the watch so she knew what time it was, amidst his references to twenty hundred hours, along with so many other things she didn’t know.

It was just one more event in a long line of events that had caused this latest fuck-up in the long line of fuckups that was Lauren Morgan’s young life. Alone, damn near penniless and with nowhere to go, in a foreign country no less. Could it get any better?

Stepping out into the deserted street was like a punch in the chest.
“I’m utterly screwed” she thought, and headed down the street towards the bus stop, at least there was a bench there, so she could stop and tie her shoes. The bus stop reeked of fresh piss; someone, probably one of Frankfurt’s numerous homeless, had decided the bus stop was a toilet. Lauren put one foot on the bench to tie her shoe and paused to watch a big black Mercedes with pitch-black windows slowly cruise by.

Shoes tied and wishing for a scarf and gloves, she set off for the Hauptbahnhof; at least there’d be hot coffee and a place to sit for a while and think about what to do.
The bahnhof was a pool of yellow light, complete with a school of yellow taxis, drivers snoozing or smoking, a few late-night travelers wandering about. She entered the enormous building, and decided the café closest to the expanse of windows would be a fine place to sit for a while. A blonde, rather matronly waitress brought a menu to the table and Lauren ordered a coffee. Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered the last thing she’d eaten was this morning, a bowl of oatmeal consumed in the tiny kitchen of Nicolas’ apartment.

The coffee arrived, and to Lauren’s surprise, half a sandwich and two cookies had been laid on the side of the saucer. “What’s this?” Lauren asked, “I didn’t order anything.” With a heavy accent, the waitress said, “You look like you need to eat. No charge.” And with that she walked away.
“Geez, I must look pretty rough…a bahnhof waitress having pity on me.” She thought to herself. The sandwich disappeared quickly, and the cookies, like all German pastries, were delicious. The waitress refilled Lauren’s coffee twice, as she sat, numbly watching the traffic around her slowly crawl to a halt.

The next time the waitress happened to look up from her station – Lauren asked, “Where is the toiletten?” The waitress pointed silently towards a dark hallway. She found the toilet, used it, and then washed her face with cold water. She did look awful, with dark circles under her green eyes, like someone had died in her arms, or she’d seen some horrific accident.
Heading toward the table, Lauren noticed her coffee cup was full again. She knew that bottomless cups of coffee weren’t the norm in Europe, only America, where consumption was only a good deal if it was endless. Someone had left a Frankfurter Allgemeine on a chair, so Lauren scooped it up as she walked back.

She sipped the coffee and perused the paper, trying to delay the inevitable leaving of the café, which brought two choices; she could go back to Nicolas’ apartment and beg and plead to get him to take her back in, or she could call her mother, and beg and plead for a plane ticket home.
The coffee isn’t working, Lauren thought, as she yawned hugely. She slumped over the table, forehead resting on the newspaper.
The waitress watched for a moment, then pulled a mobile phone from her apron pocket, and punched in a number.
“Come and get her now – she’s passed out.”

---

Thanks very much!