A meteor shower that only occurs once a millennium.
It is said that if you are struck upon its brilliance, you may walk the border of another dimension.
"What a load of crap." I scoff and scrunch up the flyer, throwing it in a nearby garbage can.
The young woman occupying the cash register rolls her eyes and leans over the counter, pulling the crumbled flyer out of the trash can. She unravels the paper and attempts to straighten it, admiring the black print.
"You just 'on't get it 'cause you've never been in a relationship before. You need to live a lil'. Me n' this guy I'm seeing righ' now er gonna check out the meteor shower together." The girl chimes in her thick Southern dialect.
"Did you already move on from the last guy?" I ask backhandedly while I place a few bags of chicken feed on the counter.
"Do you ha' to say 'at? Y'know, 'at's kind er rude." The girl shoots me a look and lazily scans the chicken feed.
"It's not easy being in a relationship when work is the only thing you have time for, so enjoy your love life while you can Lin- register girl." I say without looking up from my wallet while I fish for the correct amount of change.
"I bet'cha you speaking from experience."
"Please shut up. Besides, you're always jumping from man to man- what am I supposed to think?" I say and hand her the amount due.
"I gotta ha' all the fun I can before I head to California and get famous an' all 'at jazz, y'know." She defended.
"You don't have the voice of a celebrity."
"An' you 'on't sound like your from 'round here."
"touche."
"I know wha' 'at one is-- 'at's French."
"Can you finish ringing me up? Please." The girl gives me my receipt and I pick up the bags of chicken feed and walk out of the store.
"Yuh can least try doin' something fun when the meteor shower hits." The girl calls out to me as I walk away.
"I'll consider it, register girl."
"Yous come here all the time; how do you still not know my name? My tags righ' here." She says defeated.
I walk out of the Golden Harvest outlet and load the rusted trunk bed of my old Ford with a few bags of chicken feed then latch it closed. I walk around the truck and open the passenger side door then grab a roll of duct tape from under the seat. I tape the seams of the tailgate to reinforce the latch as it has become unlatched and allowed everything in the trunk to fall out before. Entering the driver's seat, I insert the key in the ignition and start the truck. The engine putters to a start, the exhaust pipe following suit. It lets out a grey-blue fog of emissions, much like the puff of an aged cigar.
The truck creaks as I pull out of the Golden Harvest parking lot and as I turn to merge with oncoming traffic. The muffled sound of wind runs up against the truck and rattles the windshield and passenger windows. Snow-covered farmland and marsh-grazing land quickly take up the expanse of my surroundings as I depart from the outskirts of town. The oxitidized and neglected asphalt road transitions to an unpaved, dirt track as I drive up to my property. My truck reels to a stop in front of my house, the exhaust pipe sputtering fumes and coughing up exhaust. The house's sun-bleached gray shingles are slowly becoming disembodied from the roof and the white paint is yellowing and peeling and chipping off of the house.
"There's always something else to fix, isn't there?" I sigh and tiredly rub my temples with the palms of both my hands.
I get out of my truck and slam the rusted truck door; a small cloud of weathered metal dust emerges from the impact. I peel the duct tape off the tailgate and pull the chicken feed out of the trunk bed. Distancing myself from the truck a few feet I grab my pocketknife out of my tan, Carhartt cargo pants and stab the bag of chicken feed, effectively allowing it to pour out on the ground. Within moments my chickens flock over and feast on the quality feed, which is full of grains, protein, meat, and fiber. I sheath the pocketknife, throw the two remaining bags of chicken feed over my shoulders, and carry it to a shed adjacent to a large barn. Looking into the barn, a wood panel that served as a makeshift patch for a hole in the freestyle barn had fallen off again. The cattle might get out.
After a few hours of manual labor, I addressed all the major chores of the farm. Exhausted, I collapse on my green couch. My Carhartt pants and black tank top are both slick and soiled with mud, dirt, and sweat. There is a crunch in my pocket as I adjust myself on the couch. Instinctively, I reach into my pocket and pull out what seems to be a piece of paper but upon closer inspection, it is the same flyer the cash register girl was so infatuated with.
"She must have stuffed it in my pocket before I left," I note tiredly before reading it over.
Don't miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime event!
Bring your family and loved ones out to watch the meteor shower on the 25th.
A meteor shower that only occurs once a millennium.
It is said that if you are struck upon its brilliance, you may walk the border of another dimension.
"That's so cheesy." I sigh and dryly chuckle to myself. I stare at the flyer for a few more moments before I let my arm fall to my side.
"But as cheesy as it is, I wish it were real," I say and rub my eyes with my hand. I glance at my wall plastered with sticky notes, pins, and paper. Each a record, a document of my work. The wall itself is covered in ink smudges and littered with recipes and pastry combinations, small fragments of my dream.
"I need to get a grip," I say and sit up on the couch, scratching my head.
I stand up and walk over to the kitchen and open the fridge. The contents are as expected: milk, eggs, vegetables, leftovers, and a variety of ingredients. A plate of blueberry lemon muffins sprinkled with poppy seeds was my closet option; I had spent the majority of the other day baking muffins to my heart's content. I opted for the store-bought banana bread on the shelf above it.
I close the refrigerator and pull out a butterknife from a kitchen drawer. I walk towards the dining table and shove the stacks of newspaper and produce aside; I brush the crumbs and debris off the saddened table with my hand. I place the plate of banana bread on the crowded table, peeling back the saran wrap. Gently slicing through the bread, I serve myself a portion of the pastry. The bread did not need to be finely chewed to become mush in my mouth nor did it take much effort to swallow. I stood alone in the kitchen, eating alone. It did not take much effort to become lonely in this house. The light gave out as I came to the premonition, as it usually does. It is as if the house mocked me. The flickering lights, electrical buzzing, and creaky floorboards are all ploys to remind me of the house's true nature.
My attention is drawn to the crinkling sound of paper as it is toyed with by the steady pulse of air coming from the vent behind the refrigerator. The light flickers back on moments later. The appliance is coated in off-white epoxy paint, though barely visible beneath the paper and magnets. The entirety of the fridge is obscured with recipes and my critics of various pastries. I ate the banana bread while scanning the papers when a specific flyer caught my eye.
International Baking Seminar on September 25th
"The 25th- isn't that tomorrow?"
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When Worlds Collide | Katakuri x Reader
FanfictionA woman lives on a farm by herself and dreams of becoming a baker in the big city. A man who struggles with insecurities must live up to unrealistic expectations to maintain his perfect reputation. What happens when a meteor brings these two togethe...
