Thursday Thoughts: From a Coffee Shop

Last week in my journalism class, we discussed descriptive writing, which is basically creative writing for journalists. They don’t use it as much, because basic news stories don’t need it. But sometimes they do, especially when they’re writing a feature story or a focus story or something like that. Anyways, the assignment in class was to go out and write what you saw. So, because I can’t think of anything else to write about for Thursday Thoughts, I am going to show you what I wrote. Feel free to ignore this post, as it is not applicable to anything else that I write about. Perhaps it will get you in the autumn spirit.

The coffee shop on Court Street warms patrons as they walk in. The smell of dark roasts fills the nostrils of hasty work-goers and tired students. Murmurs come from across the room as a pair works on an astronomy project. The cash register steadily beeps in the background and the barista sings along to “All My Loving” by the Beatles, tapping her foot to the beat of the music.

Two men sit at a long dining room table in the back. One is young, with glasses and a scruffy chin. The other is older, with thinning hair and a full gray beard. They discuss an essay on Atlas Shrugged over drinks in red mugs.

Autumnal colors decorate the shop, making the atmosphere cozy and comfortable. Squat orange pumpkins sit on tiny hay bales in the window next to bunches of artificial sunflowers and orange maple leaves. A cluster of dried wheat stalks as tall as the door stand in every corner of the shop. Despite the unseasonably warm weather outside, there is no question that within the walls of Court Street Coffee, it is fall.

The espresso machine whirs back to life and milk steams as the barista hurries to finish brewing an order.

“Small mocha with whip!” she calls, placing the drink on the counter.

A man wearing thick brown work boots, an old pair of Levi’s and a plaid flannel shirt retrieves his drink. When he takes a sip, he winces from the hot liquid and a bit of the whipped cream sticks to his black speckled mustache. He does not notice it though, and leaves the shop, the bell on the door ringing as he goes.

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