Crushed—But Not to Death

Camilla sat at the outdoor café and listened to the twittering of the birds and the distant rumble of thunder. How was possible that the two co-existed yet seemed so oblivious to each other? Did the birds worry about an approaching storm? Not so you’d notice—they flew and chirped in their usual abandon. And the storm clearly wasn’t about to alter its course to avoid a flock of happy birds.

“Perhaps it’s a grace…”

“Excuse me?”

Camilla glanced up. A man in blue jeans, a white shirt stretched over defined muscles, with wavy black hair, intense sparkling eyes, and a charming grin stood before her table with a tray in hand. A hot flush swept up her cheeks. Lord, don’t let me blush…please… Too late.

“Uh, oh, nothing…just talking to myself. Odd. Me.” She glanced around. All the other tables were full. A quick glance at her purse loitering on one empty chair and her foot absently propped on the other. Selfish slob. She dropped her foot, snatched her purse off the chair, and blushed. Again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—” Oh, Lord, he’s sitting down…at my…table. Not mine. Just…a table…

“Do you mind?” He gestured to the unencumbered portion.

She scrunched her books closer. “No, course not.” She swished her gaze around the bustling café. When did it get so busy? She glanced at her watch. “No, can’t be!”

Arranging his breakfast plate and hot coffee, the man peered up. “Something wrong?”

Camilla swallowed. “I just lost three hours.” She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I came in when they opened at 6:30 and now my watch is telling me that it’s 9:30. That can’t possibly be.”

After slathering his wheat toast with grape jelly, the man proceeded to take a large bite. He chewed, swallowed, and tapped his watch. “What day is it?”

Frowning, Camilla blinked. The dark clouds and their faint thunder had veered north. Sunshine reflected brilliantly on every surface. “Uh, Friday, November eleventh.” She grinned like she had just won the final match of a tennis game.

“Nope. It’s Saturday, November the twelfth.”

Shock drained all thought from her mind as Camilla shot to her feet. “It can’t be! I’d have missed my class and mom’s evening medication—Oh God!” She practically inhaled her notebooks in one encompassing swish.

A strong hand reached out and gripped her hand. “Sorry! Really.”

The grin was still there, though a little sheepish now. “I was joking. Didn’t think you’d take me seriously. Please. Sit down. It’s Friday. No time warp or anything.”

Camilla thrust her hand against her chest as if she could put it back in place manually. “Lord, have mercy.” She glanced at him as she sat down. Such a sweet face, too. Kind or cruel…

He cut his egg into bite-sized pieces with the side of his fork, dropped a bit of bacon onto each piece, and enjoyed.

Camilla pursed her lips. “You like to traumatize people before you eat?” She thrust out a hand. “Camilla. Just so you know who you almost sent into coronary arrest.”

He swallowed. “James.” Then he took a sip of coffee and leaned back for a moment’s respite from the exhausting labors of eating and teasing. “So tell me, Camilla. How did you manage to lose three hours on such a glorious morning?”

Clutching her notebook against her chest, one shoulder doing its own little shrug, Camilla glanced across the campus. “I was writing. It’s like that Narnia story where you go into another world for a few days and thousands of years pass back home.” She met his intense gaze. And blushed. Again.

“What do you write?” He sipped his coffee, his hands cradling the cup, but he seemed interested.

Camilla swallowed panic. He’s really bored. Waiting for his girlfriend to get here. Or his wife… “Oh, just stuff. Stories that never get published and sit on my laptop languishing for—”

His gaze followed another student as she sauntered by.

Hot lead burned in Camilla’s stomach feeling strangely akin to jealousy. Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even know this guy! She gathered her notebooks. One slid off the top and landed on his jellied toast.

He glanced up and met her gaze. “Why do they languish? Stories are meant to be read.” With care, he used his napkin and wiped the notebook free of jam.

Camilla laid it back on top. She peered at him. “To be perfectly honest, I’m ridiculously sensitive—totally crushed by rejection.”

“Not totally.” He started on his second egg.

Camilla clutched her books tighter. “Yes. I am. I know how I feel about my writing. I’m sick for days when my professors correct my papers. I hate it when anyone finds fault—”

He took another sip and frowned. “I didn’t say you liked it. I said you wouldn’t be totally crushed. You’ll be a better writer by hearing what others think of your work.”

Oh, really? Camilla tried to take the edge of sarcasm off her tone and slipped back onto her chair. She leaned forward, her hands clenched tight around her stack. “I got something published once…in a magazine. You know what happened?”

James bit his toast and raised an eyebrow.

“One reader wrote in and said that my beginning sucked, it was boring and flat. But then, some other guy wrote and said he loved the way it began and thought I had an artistic touch.”

James wiped his mouth and drained the last of his coffee. “So?”

“So, readers mess with my mind! I didn’t know what to think or who to believe.”

“Do you like your work?”

“I love my work. That’s the problem. Each story is like an innocent child—and when I send them out in the world…they get throttled. Or ignored. Which is even worse.”

“Was your next piece a little better?”

“That’s generally the goal.”

“So you weren’t crushed.” He looked around. “I wish they had waitresses who came around with coffee.”

Camilla kept her gaze steady. I will not roll my eyes…I will not roll my— “It’s self-serve, here.”

James stood with his plastic coffee cup in hand. “Yeah. I get that.” He glanced at the table and her empty cup. “Want some more?”

Camilla glanced at her watch. “I have a noon class.”

“So you’ve still got a couple hours—right?” He started away. “You said it. Self-serve. Gotta take a chance. That’s what writing is all about—isn’t it?”

Swiping up her empty, she trotted to his side and filled her cup with just enough room for three scoops of sugar and a dollop of cream. “How do you know so much about writing?”

“I’m an architect. I plan beautiful buildings and cities and—” Stirring his coffee, James started back to the table. “You know what happens?”

Camilla shook her head, frowning.

“Everyone makes suggestions. Helpful hints. Monetary considerations. Historical reflections…” He slid back into his chair. “No one gets to have it their own way.”

“But you’re not crushed?”

“Crushed. But not to death.”

A shadow dimmed the light. Dark clouds swept in and a rumble of thunder rolled overhead.

Camilla laughed. She glanced at James. “Perhaps, it is grace…”


Novels by A. K. Frailey

Science Fiction

Last of Her Kind

Newearth: Justine Awakens

Historical Fiction

Melchior—Vengeance Is Mine

Historical Fiction & Science Fiction Blend

OldEarth ARAM Encounter

OldEarth Ishtar Encounter

OldEarth Neb Encounter (In production)

OldEarth Georgios Encounter (In production)

Children’s Book

The Adventures of Tally-Ho

Inspirational Non-Fiction

The Road Goes Ever On—A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings

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