White Out | ✓

❝ I think ice cream and waffle cones are a good representation of soul-mates. ❞ - Fletcher Parker, Waffle Cones

dedicated to evethespy for her waffle cones contest, for creating these phenomenal characters, and for allowing me to use them. characters and setting belong to evethespy. this entry's plot belongs to clato_maroondiamonds.

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white out /ˈ(h)wītout/
1. (of vision) become impaired by exposure to sudden bright light.
2. a blizzard, especially in polar regions, that reduces visibilities to near zero.

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s t o r y i n f o

status - completed (December 2016)

genre - short story/contest entry/fanfiction

author - clato_maroondiamonds

cover - self-made

writing events affiliated - evethespy's waffle cones one-shot contest

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The evening rush had quieted down, leaving a slow trickle of clients through the glass doors and spreading a soft wash of quiet over the dimly lit restaurant. A small neon sign shaped like an ice cream cone was just visible some feet beyond the restaurant's doors. Where an illuminated bar that formed the top edge of the cone should have been, a portion of the sign was dark, undoubtedly a result of a failed lightbulb and insufficiency of repairs.

The two remained where they had seated themselves at a quiet booth in the corner, the remains of an ice cream order spread out before them. Fletcher was stuffed into a tight button-down, the top few buttons already appearing to rebel against his hold. Emily sat opposite him, bedecked in a fitted, no-nonsense sleeveless black dress with a collar that hugged her neck. An absent-minded arm shyly tucked a few strands of light brown hair behind her ear before quickly retracting just as Fletcher's eyes met hers.

"What?" The question was thick, tense.

"Nothing," Fletcher mumbled, giving a final weary shake of his head before resuming the agitating spoon-tapping he had just been occupying himself with. There was a pause. "This place is really nice," he murmured, eyes flicking up toward the inlaid bronze framework and heavy dangling lamps. "Severely inferior to Waffle Cones, obviously, but standing on its own it isn't terrible."

Emily glanced around, observing the ornate fixtures reflecting the faint lights from above. The entire room was cast into a dim haze that made her feel as though she were inside some high-class restaurant rather than a simple ice cream parlor. The place had no claim to fame, only having stood in Westerden's mall for a single insignificant month. Nevertheless, during that time it had managed to attract most of the community that had, at one time, made regular stops to Waffle Cones, the slightly more traditional ice cream outlet just opposite the front doors. 

Just a few feet beyond--so close, yet so far--Waffle Cones sat, appearing painfully simple beside its extravagant neighbor.

"Why do they call it the Eggnog Parlor?" Emily mumbled condescendingly, poking at several of the nuts in her sundae with the tip of her spoon. "No one even drinks eggnog outside of December."

"Exactly," Fletcher countered. "People like the appeal of an exotic place that makes any time of year feel like Christmas." As if in response to his words, the glass doors of the cafe opened to admit a brawny Santa, the front of his scarlet coat jutting out at an exaggerated volume.