Sketches

She was literally bursting with inspiration as she steps out of the café. Way too much life for a cold Monday morning in Chicago. Must have been the cappuccino she took a while ago. Cappucino makes everything better. The door bell at 'Addie's Stitches and Spark’ jingled a cheerful, slightly off-key tune as Addison swept in, her heart still buzzing with the sophisticated hum of caffeine, milk and divine inspiration. The air in her little workshop smelled of lavender starch and pure, unadulterated potential. It was a delightful chaos of different fabric bolts, shimmering threads, and a manequinn she liked to call Gladys. She’d just spent forty-five minutes at the café down the block and in that time, a vision had descended upon her with the force of a heavenly trumpet— That is, if a heavenly trumpet sounded at least a little bit similar to the steam of the espresso machine that produced her cappuccino. It was a gown, all liquid silver and obsidian lace, with a train that whispered of midnight gardens. It was, she was sure, a masterpiece waiting to happen. And she was definitely going to make it happen. “Okay, Big Guy,” she whispered, plopping into the well-worn chair at her design desk, its surface a map of it's own. Scratches, ink stains, and one unfortunate glitter-glue incident that was just waiting to repeat itself. Then she closed her eyes, to pray before she started. God was her driving force and she couldn't imagine not having him in her life “God, Please don’t let me mess this up. Let my hands be just like your hands, But, you know, with smaller size and more inclination to sewing. Amen.” She took a deep, centering breath and reached for her trusty ceramic cup where she kept her drawing pencils. Jade, her neice made her one when she was taking pottery lessons last fall. And it was not exactly suitable for normal drinking purpose due to it's...um unique design so she found something much more useful for it. Keeping pencils. Her hand swished through empty air. Frowning, she peered inside. Nothing. A quick, frantic rummage through the top drawer yielded only a few dried-up erasers, a lone highlighter, and profound disappointment. Then, at the very baack of the desk drawers, her fingers closed around a single, solitary object. She pulled it out. It was a wooden pencil. Not a sleek, reliable, chic mechanical pencil. Oh no. This was as good as a relic, a yellow, number-two embarrassment from a bygone era. The eraser was petrified, a tiny pink stone that promised only smudges. Addison stared at it with the countenance of a chef handed a spork to prepare a five-course meal. “Alright, you ancient drawing stick,” she muttered. “We can do this. We’re professionals, doesn't matter what kind of pencil I use” Apparently it mattered. It was literally killing her vibe. "Compromise Addison, just compromise" She positioned the pencil in her hand, her grip immediately feeling wrong. Too much pressure? Too little? She was a sucker for wooden pencils. They had no respect for creative flow. She began to sketch, the initial lines of the bodice appearing on the thick, creamy paper. It was… okay. The line was a bit fuzzy, but the vision was there. She started on the intricate lace pattern, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a sickening c***k. She looked down reluctantly. A fracture had appeared at the top of the pencil. “Oh, for the love of cappuccino!” she groaned. This began the Great Sharpening Saga. She attacked the pencil with her desktop sharpener, the frantic movement of her hands combining with the age old pencil to five a screech that sounded like a a cry for help. She’d sketch two more lines, only for the point to become blunt again. She sharpened again. Another three lines and it broke again. Blunt. Sharpening agai and again, she was locked in a vicious, time-sucking cycle, her only pencil fading away, literally, into a pile of wood shavings that was starting to resemble a small birds nest on her desk. The pencil, now a comically short stub, was a testament to her struggle. She gripped it, her knuckles white, determined to get at least the silhouette of the skirt down. She pressed just a little too hard, and with a final, pathetic snap, the pencil broke clean in two, the lead-end disappearing into the fabric jungle below. Totally unbelievable Silence. Addison stared at the two halves in her hands. It was devastating. The cappuccino inspiration, once a roaring river in her mind, was now a distant trickle. There was only one thing to do. Restock on her pencils. And hope she didn't forget the idea that had formed in her mind. Mentally noting that next time, she'd take her inspiration coffee when she was sure she had enough pencils to work with.