Prompted Attacks
Part 1
::The Glass Upon the Handmade Doily::
Opening the door to his beloved study, a slight blonde with shaggy hair walked in carrying a tin teapot, cup, and saucer. The Coloration of the teapot matched his suit and trousers in a way that made the pot blend into his clothing. Walking to the opposite side of the study he loved so much, the emerald eyed Briton delicately placed the piping hot tea on the small wooden tea table. He straitened his back and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he noticed something out of place. A small glass on the side table next to his couch had appeared. He walked over to it quizzically.
Through squinted eyes, the blonde stared intently at the glass on the table. Lowering himself to be parallel to it with balled fists on his hips, we wondered of all the possible reasons it could have had to be there. It was a small clear glass cup set mathematically and theoretically perfectly in the center of the small round table top. The table it self was a rich mahogany one-legged round tea table that was no more than a foot in diameter. Topped with a hand made doily, it was a simple part of the well-decorated study it was located in. The room had a vintage feel to it from the bare wooden furniture, deep red leather couch, and brown velvet armchairs. The walls were lined with bookshelves stocked with classics, like Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare; the room was completed with a small tea table next to the large window over looking vast green gardens outside of the manor. The tin teapot on the table nearest the window and a steady stream of white wisps flowing from its spout as it waited to be poured into the teacup to its left.
Now, the Brit who had assembled the great room into its current layout was still confounded by the glass on the round, doily-topped table next to the red couch. Why was it there? He hadn't used it. He hadn't even entered his favorite study since a week prior to the current day. Thanks to a very busy work life, he had only returned to his beloved countryside manor hours before discovering it. So why was this cup sitting out like it was? It was put there recently since it still had condensation on its cool outsides and it had yet to leave a ring on the small delicate white doily underneath it.
The Brit sighed and straitened his back causing it to crack in a relieving way. The constant meetings he had attended played hell with his posture and caused quite a few pains. Still, with the world in it current condition and war on the verge of breaking out in more places than one, the meetings were very important. He adjusted the hound's tooth scarf around his neck before returning to his afternoon tea. The cup on the one legged table should be the least of his concerns at the moment. His closest ally was constantly under nuclear threat and he would have to act if the war did break out. And his economy was in no shape for another war so soon. The last had drain his resources, money, and population, but they had never given in to the horrible war machine that was the Blitzkrieg. And he had the scars along his chest to prove it.
As he sat in a velvet armchair he let his mind wander out the window he was situated next to. Maybe, just maybe everyone would get through this without a real war occurring. Maybe it would be all right like it would in a fairytale. Maybe, just maybe, it would be okay and the love of his life would not become a victim of the warheads that were constantly pointed at his heart. Nevertheless, the Brit realized that his thoughts were making his tea taste cold and fowl. Sighing, he set the cup down on the floral saucer awaiting it return on the tea table in front of him. He turned and noticed the glass was still on the table. Maybe the war would be like the glass. There and very real, but empty and without loss. When he had finished his tea, the blonde went to retrieve the glass to return it to the kitchen along side his tea dishes. But, just as mysteriously as it appeared, it was gone.
The Brit couldn't help but smile. Maybe the war would show up in his study on a doily waiting with questions to be answered and then leave as suddenly as it had shown up. Only god knew. And at that moment, 'maybe' was good enough for the smiling blonde because it was all he was going to get.
WOO. Gawd, curing writer's block is hard! D8 Prompted Attacks will be a collection of short stories about random things. This is the first. Anyway, if you couldn't tell, this story occurs while the American's were hiding in their bunkers away from Joseph Stalin during the Cold War. I'm using free writing prompts from the interwebs to help cure writers' block the way my dad does. Work on something else for a while the come back to where you're stuck. RnR plz? :3