Seasons CHALLENGE: Winter
Okay, so around 800 some words of this 1000 word monstrosity was done more than a few days ago. But just yesterday (when my internet died and stayed dead until an hour ago) I finished it up, as well as coloured two pictures. (Those will be posted… tomorrow)
Anyway, I’m sure that what you guys want is not my halfhearted apologies, but the actual story. HERE IT IS; WINTER.
The seasons. Each unique, each captivating, each encasing a story of their own.
Winter: Crack in the Ice
The wind ruffled the fleece scarf, tossing it about behind her. Aurua raised her arm, making a sad attempt at nudging the wayward piece of soft fuzziness back into place. She let out a sigh, watching her breath mist in the cold, mingling with the tiny crystals falling leisurely from the moody sky. Winter was closing in, the snow laying down new sheets every day, painting the cityscape white anew. Warm boots kept the cold out, but the chore of trudging through snow was just a fact of daily life. Even knowing that, she silently cursed whatever higher being had created winter.
Why was she making this journey through the powdery white cold stuff every day you ask?
It’s simple, really. Aurua, being the kind soul that she is, found in the first week of working for the uptight heir to a multi-billion dollar company, that he was not only uptight, but also a chronic workaholic. And workaholics don’t eat lunch.
The first few days, she was blissfully ignorant, eagerly prancing out of the stifling office and dashing past people to the small café three blocks away. It had the most amazing coffee, flakey pastries, and illegally sinful cakes. The shop owner, after three years of near religious visits, was practically Aurua’s best friend (admittedly, this shop was part of the reason that A·S·D was such an appealing prospect) and most beloved half artist half chef person in the world. They spent the noon hour chatting, leaving her poor employee to handle the noon rush, but by now, he resigned himself to the abuse, since the first time he complained, all they told him was to “cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it”.
As the days wore on, Aurua noticed something odd; Mr. Vante wasn’t eating at lunch, or at least, she’s never seen him do so. The first day after said observation, she quickly checked the garbage cans for any discarded traces of wrappings, then left a slip of paper in the crack of the door, then eventually, she resorted to buying her food in the morning, then staking out in the room for the lunch hour doing little more than stare intently whenever the silver haired man reached into the depths of his –oversized- desk. (Though, the boy at the café was certainly glad for the break.)
When the clock clicked to the appropriate hour, Aurua tossed up the figurative towel and flat out demanded an answer as to why he didn’t eat.
“There is work to be done.” He breezed.
“There is work to be done” he says! Work?! There was LUNCH for a reason! Thus, the kind and warm hearted secretary gone and bought two coffees, and two of whatever special was on the menu that day- with her own money. When the counter-boy realized that it was going to be a daily occurrence, he literally jumped for joy.
Three whole days; he had stared, with that frustratingly stony face, then raised an eyebrow- the Kassen Vante equivalent of grabbing someone at their shoulders and shaking them until their brains pour out of their ears- at the condiments piled on the corner of his desk, turned, and blatantly ignored the sweet, irresistible food. To her satisfaction though, he always did drink the coffee.
Later, he had fallen to the absolute delightfulness that was lunch from Phantasy Café and left a ten dollar bill with some change on the corner of her (blissfully clean) desk, along with a note of what he wanted (in irritatingly precise font) after she had brought back a triple chocolate fudge delight for him the first time, and she was fed doubly well that day. Feeling that her desk lacked pizazz, she bought and decorated a small wooden box to grace his deposit spot, complete with pair of mini-me children pasted to the front. (To which he had also raised an eyebrow to. Goodness, was it a good thing he was who he was, or there might now be any of her poor brain left!)
Another gust of wind blew past her face, and she took another sip of her mocha cappuccino. It was just a half block now from the huge skyscraper; the quickly darkening clouds a gloomy indication of what’s to come. The automatic doors slid open, and shaking off the collected snow, she stepped into the building.
Cold had evaporated from her mind with entrance to the building, a chip in the ice of the frozen winter.
The hall was no longer empty with the echoing whiteness, filled instead with splashes of red Christmas bustle. Now, when she walked by, it was no longer the stark silence, but people waving hello, and well humoured jokes about being a snowman. Aurua’s finger traced over the rim of the still hot cup (magical, those cups were) and smiled to herself. The ride up to floor 46 didn’t seem lonely anymore, but soothing voices of well-chosen music provided a place to relax.
Open oak office doors greeted her once in the hallway that was marked with a cursive (handwritten by her) Kassen Vante; Disturb not his Grouchiness, and little paper children with too large heads ran rampant on the bold wine coloured page. And again, she smiled, and tucked the box of warm treats closer to her side. Soaked through boots and all, she strode into the carefully organized office, stopping directly in front of the very large desk that held everything the stony faced heir held dear. The small, blue box of food landed with a thump on the wood, followed shortly by two cups.
“Hello. Mr. Vante.”
He looked up, and his face transformed with the slight quirk to his lips and the warming of frozen over eyes of gold.
“Welcome back; what’s for lunch today?”
And the slight twinkle of childish excitement.
She tossed her scarf onto the clothing rack in the corner, and sipped her coffee.
A crack in the ice, indeed.
That’s exactly 1000 words for you! I know, Mr. Vante needs more screentime… I WILL TRY. SORT OF.