I put more detail into a previously written western opening. Here is the first start: https://krisendicott.com/snippet-from-a-western/

Western Whittling – A story start

Sheriff Clint McCade studied the block of properly-seasoned pine in his hand. His pocket knife made a small flick, and a tiny curl fell off the wood. Pale tawny eyes in a prematurely weather-beaten face studied the still indistinguishable shape and saw the bird beneath the surface. Much like the man saw between the lines of what people said and didn’t say.
He propped a boot heel up on the scarred desk. It rested comfortably in the worn notch as he leaned the matching chair back on two legs. Clint pushed back the brim of his battered Stetson. An onlooker might not think the whittling was at a stage where critical cuts were required. But the survivor of Gettysburg knew battles could be lost before the first shot was fired.
The lawman’s gaze drifted up to the shelves on the wall alongside his desk. In the decade he’d been in Ludlow Crossing, he’d had plenty of time to perfect his whittling. He liked the even rail the town ran on most days.
A smile of contentment snuck across his face as memories surrounding each figurine played in his mind. A cow when he’d seen his first cattle drive. A playful dog when the doc first rolled into town. He eventually got around to making a little statue for every major event or to symbolize each person in town.
He never told anyone that’s what his whittlings represented. He just did it to help him kept track of people’s personalities. His gaze stopped on the wild young colt he carved as he sat out on the front stoop of the jailhouse watching the Drakes build the new stable in town. Cora Drake, widow of a Union cavalry soldier, and her father moved west and settled in Ludlow Crossing in the aftermath of the war. Clint had been surprised to see the young woman swinging a hammer alongside her father and their hired hand, a freed former slave. Clint was even more startled the first time he saw her grab a frightened, lame horse from an inexperienced rider, calm it, and re-shoe it.
From the corner of his eye, his attention was caught by the figurine of an aggressive bull posturing in front of a carving of a sheriff’s badge. The happiness he’d been feeling disappeared and he went back to studying the wood in his hand.

Here is the second variation I wrote about the coffee shop. I posted the other one last week. Two completely different story starts born from the same idea. Now, do you see why I say I have “clutter in the attic” of my writer’s mind?

Good Vibes – A Story Start

Keke’s new bright-red Reeboks squeaked on the clean teal tiles of the coffee shop floor. The tile installer had looked at her like she was crazy the entire time he laid down the almost florescent ceramic squares. Keke hadn’t cared. She knew that it would look perfect with the vintage chrome and glass display case she had gotten for a steal at an auction the day after she bought this building. And she’d been right.

 She paused, flipped the hand-towel, with a printed pattern of big-eyed cats, onto her shoulder, and closed her eyes. She inhaled the faint lemony smell of the polish she’d used to clean the five wooden tables spaced a little too far apart in the room. The shop was big enough for double that number of tables, but she wouldn’t put just any furniture in there. It had to feel right in the space.

 She opened her eyes and looked around, pleased with the furnishings. Two of the tables had Singer sewing machine treadles as bases. The sinuous black cast metal a tribute to the unsung contributions of so many women in the past.

 Another table had the cement pedestal from an old birdbath she’d found at the curb on garbage day. She’d painted it a pale green and stippled a pattern of dark green over it to simulate moss. It had been her first try at something like that. If she closed one eye and squinted, it looked pretty good. But she’d had fun doing it, and it felt right in the shop, so it stayed.

 The two other tables were recently added and still in the shop on a trial basis. One was a big chunky square with a string of painted hearts around the edges. It was probably a little too cutesy, but she wanted to give it a chance.

 The last was a memory box table, at least that’s what she called it. The table was square with a four-inch deep compartment under the entire glass top. Resting inside in a massive jumble was an assortment of small children’s toys like a single Lincoln Log of ancient age, a hand-sized doll from the 1960s with a button on her belly that made her arm pop up in a wave, and a Wookie action figure with one leg chewed off.

 Keke loved listening to the little kids and the big ones who peered through the glass and discovered a new toy they hadn’t seen before. This table would probably stay. She got a lot of enjoyment from watching her customer’s being entertained. And without a single electron or digital button pushed.

 With a smile of satisfaction, Keke walked to the front to unlock the door for the day. Someone was already waiting at the door, but with the sun streaming in the large glass pane of the cherry wood framed door, the person was only a silhouette.

 She stopped halfway across the room when the person stepped back, and sunlight hit his face. Her heart skipped a beat. Ryan.

A story start about a coffee shop. I wrote two variations on this, trying out different details to describe. I’ll post the other one next week.

Enjoy another peek into the “clutter in the attic” of my writer’s mind.

Custom Coffee – A Story Start

Ashley’s new bright-red Reeboks squeaked on the clean teal tiles of the coffee shop floor. The cafe had been open less than two minutes, and there was already a line five deep at the glass counter where she’d put the delicious baked goods LuLu delivered twenty minutes before.

Two women in the front were clustered around the vintage chrome and glass display case pointing at the vanilla-glazed Long Johns arranged on green Depression Glass plates. Ashley had felt like a lottery winner when  she’d found several of them in mint condition at an estate sale last week. Other customers hung back, hard to see as the sunlight streaming through the front window threw them into silhouette.

Charise, or was it Charlotte this week? Ashley couldn’t remember. Her assistant changed her name as often as the young woman changed her haircolor, which for Char was exceptionally often.

Despite the clerk’s flightiness over her personal life, Char performed her half of their team choreography like a pro. She called out a coffee order, which Ashley started creating before the hand-written order slip came careening toward her on the miniature zipline above the serving station.

After giving the barista machine an extra quick purge, Ashley grabbed the dry hand-towel with a printed pattern of big-eyed cats and slid it over the machine’s grill before tucking it away and placing the first paper cup of the day under the spout.

Char and Ashley danced around each other in the close space. They made a great team. Char took the orders, kibitzed with the regulars, and served the yummy pastries. This left Ashley to do what she loved most, make coffee creations that delighted the recipient.

As the two women worked their way through the morning rush, Ashley made drinks, painted art on top of the coffee foam with cinnamon powder and barista magic, and swiped her varied collection of vintage towels over the machine’s spouts, grill, and the bright pink linoleum of the countertop.

Ashley was in her groove when Char called out an order that caused the café owner to bobble the manual press of the espresso cup. A tall Macchiato with half cow, half almond milk. Ashley’s head whipped around, and she scanned the waiting crowd. In all the time she’d owned the shop, only one person had ever ordered that drink that way.