Prompt Week Six: You haven't been there since you were little, now you go back....

             Until I was nine I lived with my grandparents in a large white house at the end of a dead-end street in Hampden, Maine. The house sat atop a steep hill, far away from the road. At some point my grandfather got the dirt driveway paved and it was a smooth, sleek black tar. At the top of the hill the driveway opened into a huge flat playground for hopscotch and games of HORSE. There was a basketball hoop mantled to the white garage and behind the two red metal doors there were hula hoops, jump ropes, and my blue plastic pool. To the left of the garage there was a picnic table, its red paint chipped with age. Here, I spent days reading about the adventures of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her life on the prairie.

Like many young children I played make-believe and during the lazy days of summer I reenacted my version of prairie life. The house provided the perfect, natural backdrop for my fantasy. Large pine trees offered the house shade at the height of the afternoon sun and in the summer lilac trees blossomed in pink, purple, and white. My grandmother had a garden; it was filled with fresh green beans, potatoes, tomatoes, turnip, and pumpkin. Literally any vegetable you wanted, she grew it.  I helped her in the garden, weeding and watering the plants, though I mostly chattered along her side as I snapped the ends of crisp green beans and popped them into my mouth. In the dewy morning, deer often grazed in the backyard as birds flocked to my grandmother’s birdfeeder. One spring morning, a doe and her fawns darted through the backyard on their way back into the woods. My grandmother’s husky often went hunting for “presents” for us and routinely dropped the poor, limp bodies of moles on the doorstep. We would find her sitting proudly next to her gifts, her blue eyes glowing, eager for praise.  

My favorite place was behind the garage. There was a narrow dirt path, overgrown with prickly weeds and shrubbery. Back here, the only sounds were the melody of waves crashing up on the shore of the Penobscot River and the upbeat songs of the birds. Behind the garage, squirrels freely ran up and down trees, playing a never-ending game of tag. Monarch butterflies flapped their bright wings and stopped to balance on crisp leaves; at night it wasn’t uncommon to see the flickering lights of hundreds of fireflies dancing through the air. There was also a rhubarb patch; it grew magically every year and every year I stumbled down the path to pick some so my grandmother could make her strawberry rhubarb pie. It was hands down my favorite thing to eat in the world, the perfect combination of bitter and sweet.

Three years ago my friend Meaghan and I hopped in her silver Honda for a Sunday afternoon drive to Belfast to grab a nice lunch and do some window shopping. It was early spring, the first warm afternoon of the year and we couldn’t wait to roll the windows down and breathe in the fresh air. We drove east, away from the dirty, familiar streets of Bangor and into Hampden, the town that houses my childhood memories. “Turn right up here,” I said as we drove up a hill towards the center of town.

“Where are we going,” she asked.

“This is the street I grew up on,” I replied. “The last house on the right.”

Meaghan slowly drove her tiny car down the road. She parked in front of my old house. It still sat atop a hill, though the hill wasn’t nearly as steep as I remembered and I wondered why I had been so scared as a child to sled down it. The red shutters were gone; the new owners had opted for neutral beige and as I looked at the looming pine trees in the front yard my childhood memories were altered. The house was small; one-story, shaped like a box. The yard was large, but not the prairie it used to be and the driveway had crumbled with age and was in desperate need of care. What was once beautiful and prosperous suddenly seemed average. As we drove away I didn’t miss the house, the garden, or the woods but the non-judgmental, open mind I had as a child; a mind that saw possibility in all things and never asked for more than what she had.

Prompt Week Six: The safest place in the world....

When you stand less than a foot off the ground and your only defenses are sharp claws and a deceptively vicious hiss, it’s important to have a safe place. Easily accessible but private enough to hide from threats like the roaring vacuum cleaner or the prissy cat that infuriates you when she slowly creeps by you, tail held high. For Peekah, her safe-haven is in a grey plastic tote in the bathroom. Sitting in the back of the linen closet behind a door that never latches, she is sure she can always get in with only the flick of her white paw. She easily darts past the cast iron heater and the large drafty window. In two seconds, Peekah is in the closet, crouched behind a pile of worn pink and green towels, safe. So safe in fact, she feels comfortable enough to curl up in a ball, close her old burnt orange eyes, and purr herself to sleep. There are too many obstacles one would have to overcome to find her to worry about the distant loud noises or that other cat’s nasty glares. Bags of bottles are piled on top of each other like unstable Jenga blocks, ready to fall in an instant. An open drawer, three feet long makes it impossible to step inside of the closet and a dozen coats for all four seasons hang on a wooden rod. An old broom leans against the back wall behind the tote and Peekah dreams happily without a worry in the world.

Prompt Week Six: When you arrived it was nothing like you imagined.....

                My wooden sandals clicked on the brick sidewalk as I walked down Spring Garden Drive in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I clumsily weaved in and around the swarm of people, mostly students arriving for the start of the school year. It was hot and the sun still burned late into the afternoon offering no relief; I was too far from the ocean to feel the salty breeze. Sticky and sweaty, my cotton sundress stuck to my legs as I explored my new home.

                The foot traffic was surprisingly heavy; few people drove.  People in khaki shorts and brightly colored polo shirts laughed with their friends as they strolled down the brick sidewalk. They gazed into storefront windows looking at bright pieces of local art and jewelry, scarves, and second-hand clothes. They stopped to read menus displayed on the front door of restaurants, looked at the long lines of people waiting for an outdoor patio seat and walked on, envious of the people sitting outside in black metal chairs drinking pitchers of beer and eating wings.

                I stopped at the intersection and pressed the “walk” button. Cars sped past me, up the narrow hill, in a hurry to get where they were going. Across the street, a man in a white and red striped tee-shirt had set up a hotdog cart.  His sliding glass window was open and a line of ten hungry people wrapped around his small but lucrative business. His patrons waited patiently for their thick hotdogs and greedily topped them with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, and fried onions. Some spooned hot chili on theirs; my stomach growled.

                The light turned green and sign told me to walk. I walked in the crosswalk across four lanes of traffic and down a block crammed with tall, cement buildings; apartment complexes with balconies in each one. Coming to another intersection, I was intoxicated by the smell of greasy pizza, blinded by bright fluorescent lights. Each corner was packed with people going in and out of the pizza joints. Large pieces of pizza spun in circles in their warmers and each shop advertised its own unique flavor. A young boy with long blonde hair squeezed by me carrying the largest piece of pizza I’d ever seen in one hand and a white, creamy sauce in the other. I had found Pizza Corner.

                I continued down the surprisingly vibrant street until I found a lush flower garden on my left. A bride in white silk and lace stood facing the love of her life in front of a white gazebo, surrounded by family and friends. The tears in her eyes genuine as she kissed her husband and everybody, strangers and invited wedding guests alike, clapped. Smiling, I strolled downhill towards the ocean as a kid on a bike sped past me. Young girls dressed in identical plaid uniforms and shiny black Mary Janes filed down the steps of a stone Catholic church to meet their parents. The street was filled with excitement, of positivity. Impeccably clean with trash cans labeled either “trash” or “recycling”, there was no litter on the sidewalk to ruin the beauty and perfection of the day.

Theme Week Five

                We woke up late that Thursday; the afternoon sun shone through the blinds creating a hazy glow in the small room.  It was warm and the blankets had been thrown off in the night. Covered by the thin, blue sheet, I was tempted to stay in bed and relax all afternoon but the warm breeze flowing through the window tempted me out of bed. Throwing the sheets off I padded to the bathroom and threw my wild hair into a low ponytail that rested on the nape of my neck. I grabbed my computer and went outside to soak up the early-afternoon sun.

                The end of June smelled sweet; the calm wind carried the aroma of fragrant lilacs and freshly cut grass. I waved to the neighbor sitting on his stoop across the street and logged onto my laptop to check the usual sites. My inbox was cluttered with junk mail, filled with free offers and notifications from websites that promised me they could find me love with a senior over fifty. I quickly perused the messages, looking for a reply to the email I wrote my mother a few days before. She hadn’t responded yet and I moved onto Facebook. I had received a message from my brother. I clicked on it; it was short and to the point. Two sentences wrought with urgency and as I read them, over and over, I was paralyzed with fear, panicked.

                I ran up the steps and flung the metal door open. “Where the hell is it?” I said as I searched for my phone. It wasn’t on the nightstand or in my purse. “Ryan. Where the fuck is my phone?” I yelled, shaking him out of his sleep.

                He looked up at my pale face, confused. “What’s wrong?” he ventured cautiously.

                “I need your phone,” I said, ignoring him. I couldn’t say the words to explain what was wrong. Not yet.

                “I think it’s in the kitchen charging.”

                I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I walked out of the bedroom and the tension escalated. The temperature in the house was rising and my hand was shaking as I dialed the number I knew by heart but rarely called. “Please pick up. Please pick up,” I thought as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

                “Hello?” My stepdad Mike’s voice was tired, his usual gruffness overtaken by stress.

                “What’s going on? Zak wrote me. Mom’s having surgery on her heart?”

                “Yeah, she’s in surgery now. We’ll know more in a few hours when she gets out.”

                Confusion overwhelmed me. I had no idea my mother had a heart problem, no clue she was sick. “When did all this happen?” I asked, thinking to myself how typical it was that I was the last to know.

                “She’s been here since Monday. They ran some tests.  Apparently she has a blockage in her heart. They’re going in today to see….,”

                “What? Monday? She’s been there since Monday. It. Is. Thursday,” I raged. "Why the hell did you not tell me about this sooner? Did you not think I’d want to know that my mother is in the hospital?” I pictured my Mom lying in a hospital bed, metal bars on each side, hooked up to machines and IV’s. Lonely and scared, I imagined how hurt she was I hadn’t visited her.

                How could they think I didn’t care? Yes, my mother and I rarely saw each other even though we lived less than a mile apart. In fact, we rarely spoke. Our relationship was strained and difficult but in no way did that mean I didn’t love her; that I wouldn’t care if she was in the hospital. I called. It wasn’t my fault she never called back. I invited her out to lunch. It wasn’t my fault she never wanted to go. I asked her to come see my apartment. It wasn’t my fault she had a migraine that day. The only thing I was guilty of is getting angry for her inability to communicate; for interpreting her actions as rejection instead of the symptoms of mental illness.

                Taking a deep breath, I asked Mike to call me when she was out of surgery so I could visit her. I hung up the phone. Resting my bare elbows on the wooden counter, I placed my head in the palms of my hands and began to cry. Sobbing, I felt like a horrible daughter. I was scared. Ryan crept up behind me; wrapping his arms around me, he held me close as the tears fell from my eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered. For the first time I didn’t believe him.

                Wiping my tears away I said, “I have to go get ready. I don’t know when she’ll be out of surgery.”

                “You’re going to go see her?” he asked.

                “Yeah, I have to, right?” I said, already dreading the visit, hoping I could genuinely give my Mom the support she needed. I prepared myself to do what I do best and pushing my feelings of rejection and hurt aside, I focused on staying calm to give my mother a stress-free, friendly visit from her daughter.

                I spent an hour creating an effortless, put-together look. I wore a flowy summer dress and cute leather wedges. Natural curls coated in a pound hairspray cascaded down my back. Five shades of brown and gold eye shadow and peach blush completed the minimalistic look; I looked like I had just rolled out of bed and thrown on a dress. My mother didn’t like it when I wore a lot of makeup.

                I was pacing across the cold kitchen floor when the phone rang. “Hello??” I said, hoping to hear the surgery went well.

                “She’s back in her room. Everything went well; they didn’t have to put a stent in her heart after all,” Mike said.

                “So she’s up for visitors?” I asked.

                “Yep, she’s in room 579.”

                On my way to the hospital I stopped at a store and bought my mother a bracelet and matching earrings. Beautiful green stones arranged artfully, handmade creations. Clutching the boxes in my hand, I walked down the corridor of the hospital. The sterile white walls and silent halls starkly contrasted with the blooming life of early summer outside.

                I lightly knocked on the door of room 579 and heard my mother’s voice. She was on the phone with what sounded like a co-worker and when I entered the small, private room she ignored me. Not a wave, not a smile. Holding back the tears, I intently read the signs on the wall outlining hand-washing procedures; I re-read the steps to take in case of an emergency four times. Unfortunately there wasn’t a pamphlet with instructions on repairing a broken relationship.

                Her room had a large window that looked out on the Penobscot River; the river was high and calm. My mother was still on the phone; I’d been there for ten minutes. I paced awkwardly around the small space, dying to leave; she obviously didn’t want me there. She finally hung up the telephone and I plastered a bright smile on my face to hide my irritation. “How are you feeling?!”

                “Fine,” she answered. “I have to quit smoking. It’s been three days now.”

                I knew that. Three days that she’d been in the hospital, three days until I knew she was sick. Biting my tongue I handed her the two boxes. “Here, I got these for you.”

                She accepted them, finally smiling when she saw the deep green beads. “Thank you. I love them. Did you make them yourself?”

                “No, I bought them,” I said.

                A heavy silence filled the room. “You have a nice room,” I said.

                “Yeah, it is.”

                The conversation was going nowhere and as the minutes passed, I became increasingly uncomfortable. I could tell she was too so I nervously chattered about books she should read and the weather. I told her I knew she’d be fine and it was good they found the problem early. I offered to come over when she came home to help her and she said nothing.

                I heard the familiar voices of my little brothers and stepdad, relieved. Harley and Jesse bounded into the room, chattering about their day at school, unaware of the gravity of the situation. My mother listened attentively about the book fair and baseball practice. Mike, quiet as usual, stood in a corner, the exhaustion written in the bags under his kind brown eyes. I watched too, an outcast in my own family, a stranger. I saw the way her face lit up when my brothers walked into the room and her immediate dismissal of me hurt more. I had tried.

                My mother grew tired; it was time for her to rest. She was going home the next day and I hugged her goodbye, happy I had seen her, happy to be leaving, not ready to process our relationship and at a loss of how to fix it. I went home and sat on the porch, watching the sun set, the sky a brilliant portrait of deep purple and hot pink. I looked at the sky, the beauty around me, and knew no matter how angry I was or how hurt my feelings were, that I would still try to communicate with my mother. I would reach out even if it hurt me, and it likely would. There wasn’t a magic potion to fix our problem or her heart; a heart that was more damaged than even the most experienced cardiologist could see.

Week Five Prompt: A Stranger Comes to Town

                “Remind me again why we didn’t take a cab?” Natalie asked without diverting her eyes from the snow-covered sidewalk.

                “We’re almost there, relax,” I said. “Five more minutes.” We trudged through the fresh blanket of white snow, proceeding cautiously with each step, weary of hidden cracks in the pavement and patches of ice. Arm in arm we walked past empty store-fronts with “for rent” signs in the windows. It was quiet, not one car passed.

                As we walked into the bar a curvy girl with thick brown hair greeted us with her rendition of Alanis Morisette’s “Ironic.” I twisted my once voluminous curls, curls that had taken me an hour and three volume boosting products to create, and rang the water out. I dug an elastic out of my clutch and piled my hair into a messy bun, ready to have a drink.

                “There is nobody here,” Natalie complained, looking around the sparsely populated bar. Three college girls giggled in the corner, making fun of the lonely man at the table next to them. He was thin, dressed in a striped white collared shirt, red suspenders, and a long, black trench coat. He wore a vintage hat on his head, adorned with a green feather, shiny pointed toed shoes and a cane. He looked like Oliver Twist, out of place in the casual pub. “It’s the same old people all the time. I mean, I just broke up with Brad; I want to have some fun! Where are all the hot guys?”

                “Whatever! Forget about meeting a guy. Just have some fun, be a little selfish for once! Wouldn’t it be so nice to only think about you? You can do what you want, when you want to without having to think about how it affects someone else. I’m seriously jealous of you.”

                Natalie looked at me, her hazel eyes wide with confusion and fear. “That’s not what I want,” she said, her soft voice trembling with loss.

                “I know doll. I know,” I said, and I realized I needed to do something fast to get Natalie away from the dark place she was rapidly going towards, a place combined with one more martini would end up in endless tears, desperate text messages, phone calls, and emails. “Let’s sing!”

                “No, no, no!!!” she begged. “Sam. NO!” I got up and she grabbed my arm, pleading “Have you heard me sing? Have you heard yourself sing???”

                I waltzed over to the woman running karaoke to put our names down for a song when the heavy, wooden door of the bar swung open. He sauntered in wearing dirty washed denim jeans and a black ski jacket. His blonde hair was covered in melting snowflakes and the water dripped down his face. I turned to the woman who was ready with her pen and said, “Natalie and Sam. We’re gonna sing “Since You’ve Been Gone.” The strange, handsome man was gone and I turned around to find Natalie. My eyes scanned the bar and I caught a glimpse of her porcelain skin glowing as she introduced herself to the unidentified gentleman. Her eyes sparkled and she lightly touched his arm, laughing. “Nevermind. I don’t think we’re going to sing after all,” I said to the woman and walked outside to smoke a cigarette.

Week Five Prompt: The Beginning of a Journey

                “Card number please?”

                “4496 7712 8269 7872.”

                “Expiration date?”

                “January, 2013.”

                “You’re all set Ms. Cox. Please arrive at the airport at least two hours early to allow yourself enough time to go through security. As always, thank you for choosing Jet Blue.”

                I hung up the phone, shocked at what I had just done. In one second, my life changed and in three days I would be flying away from rocky beaches, fresh seafood, and aromatic pine trees to the landlocked mountains of Colorado. I’d be flying away from the pain and bad memories embedded in the walls of my apartment. I’d have a clean slate and more importantly, I could finally forget everything I’d lost. An icicle crashed to the ground outside the drafty window, its fragile beauty shattered as it hit the unforgiving frozen dirt. I stared at the black screen of the television and wondered why I wasn’t excited to leave.

                Panicking, I realized I hadn’t thought this plan through. There wasn’t a plan. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my cat, my furniture, or money. I was signed up for classes that were starting in a week, I had a job. The impulsivity of my decision scared me almost as much as moving two thousand miles away but as a scared as I was, I knew I couldn’t stay.

Week Five Prompt: I Lost It....

                The sliding doors opened and I rushed out of the Hannaford, in a hurry to get back to work. I was sent on a mission by my militant boss to buy corned beef and it took me longer than I wanted it to. The first meat counter I went to said they didn’t have it, that I had to go to another department. The young kid they sent me to assured me the package of meat I bought was what my boss was looking for but I wasn’t sure; the package didn’t look like anything I’d seen in the restaurant before. In fact, it looked like it was meant for a broiled dinner, not a Reuben. What did I know? I wasn’t a chef.

                It was a cold, windy day in Maine. The sky was grey and the air was bitterly cold. Each gust of wind was as subtle as a cinder block hitting me in the face and chilled me to my bone; the second I passed through the automatic doors of the grocery store, I couldn’t wait to find the car. Where was it? A sudden panic overwhelmed me and I no longer felt the cold. I had no recollection of where I had parked. I had lost my boss’s van. I could hardly remember what it looked like, how was I supposed to find it?

                I walked briskly in the direction I thought I parked and saw a silver van similar to the one I drove. With hope in my heart, I hurried up to the driver’s side door only to find an elderly woman sitting in the passenger’s seat, visibly alarmed by my sudden approach. Embarrassed, I casually walked away to diminish my awkwardness, as if I meant to walk up to her van in the first place. In my mind I visualized Gaby’s van. It was beat up with a dent in one side. What side? I thought it was the passenger side, but…it could have been the driver’s side….

                I knew I had parked far away from the Hannaford in a secluded parking spot, far away from other cars. Even though my boss told me before I left that “The van’s a piece of shit. Don’t worry if you bump it up a little bit, it’s old, there’s nothing you can do to hurt it,” I didn’t believe him and, not being the world’s most accomplished driver, I had been nervous I was going to crash his car. Now I wasn’t going to lose my job because I crashed my boss’s car, I was going to lose it because I lost his car. “This cannot be happening,” I muttered to myself and I willed myself to think. “I know I parked near the Hallmark store…” and I continued to walk aimlessly up and down the rows of cars.

                Looking for a silver van with a dent in one of the sides, I felt like a desperate pet owner who had lost their dog. If only Gaby’s van responded when I called its name….My eyes gravitated towards cars parked in distant places and somewhere near Planet Fitness I ran into the dull silver van that belonged to my boss. It was now surrounded by two cars, a Honda Civic and a black CRV and a new worry overwhelmed me. Could I get out of this parking space without crashing into one of those two cars? I was yelling at myself for ever taking on the task of going to the store, angry I had agreed to go get the pastrami, disappointed I had overestimated my driving abilities.

                “Focus. You can do it. You have your license. You can drive. Just because you don’t drive doesn’t mean you can’t drive.  It’s your choice not to drive. You don’t like it. You don’t not drive because you’re not good at it….you don’t drive because you don’t want to…” My pep talk didn’t do much for my confidence as I backed out of the parking space I had initially chosen because I could pull out of it.  A blue Subaru appeared out of nowhere and honked their horn as I was backing out. All I could think is “Thank God they’re a better driver than me. Thank God they saw me and stopped,” and slowly accelerated towards the bright lights of Broadway.

                “A few more feet and we’re there,” I thought as I pressed my left foot down on the brake. “All I gotta do it turn left here…” and realized I would never be able to turn left on Broadway at lunchtime. A good driver would be able to, they wouldn’t think twice about it. Me? I turned right when the light turned green and pulled into the convenience store up the road to turn around. As I pulled into the narrow drive at Jimmy V’s, I breathed a sigh of relief. Gaby’s van was back, intact, no extra dents. I had found his van, didn’t get pulled over, and had only had one person honk at me. I had survived the horrifying ordeal. I never wanted to drive again.

                “What the hell took you so long?” Gaby barked the second I walked through the swinging white doors in the back of the restaurant.

                Unwilling to admit I had lost his van I said, “They said they didn’t have it in the meat department so they sent me to another department where I got this.” In a desperate attempt to save myself I added, “It was really busy there!”

                I showed him the bag of meat I had bought and he grunted his disappointment. “That’s for broiled dinners. That’s for corned beef and cabbage. We can’t slice that. What meat counter did you go to?”

                I tried to explain that the people at Hannaford told me this was what I was looking for but he didn’t want to hear it. Muttering something about how if he wants thing to get done he had to do them himself, Gaby rushed back to the Hannaford and I watched the clock until it struck two so I could go home.

Theme Week Four, Part Three: Fiction

It was 6:30 on Saturday night when I heard Ryan’s silver Mercedes pull into the drive. “Sshhhh everyone! He’s here! Hide!!” It was Ryan’s birthday and he had no idea what he was walking into. Not one for surprises, I wasn’t sure how he was going to react, but I wasn’t too worried; what I had planned would negate any negative feelings he had towards surprises. There was no way he could stay mad.

Friends and family crouched behind the leather couches and chairs; they stood behind the silk drapes, ready to jump out the second he walked through the door. In the quiet room, the sound of his key unlocking the deadbolt was loud as we all held our breath for his entry. He flicked the lights on and the look of shock on his face as everyone yelled “Surprise!!!” was priceless. I rushed over to him and gave him a light kiss. “Happy Birthday, Babe. I know you don’t like surprises, but I promise you, you’re going to loooove this one!” His face was flushed from embarrassment as he shrugged his overcoat off and hung it on the coatrack in the entryway.

                “It better be…” he muttered to me under his breath, putting a grin on his face for his guests. “Hey Mom!” he said, bending over to embrace his mother, Becky. His tall frame enveloped her small stature and he walked her over to say hello to his father and grandparents.

                Guests snacked on bacon-wrapped scallops and devoured the coconut shrimp while listening to the folk guitarist play. Wine glasses were raised to the man of the hour and he graciously thanked everyone for coming to his birthday. Everything went smoothly; people were laughing as they reminisced about old times. I felt a tap on my shoulder and Elise, my party planner, grinned. “It’s time,” she sang and butterflies filled my stomach.

                I slowly walked to the front of the room where the musician was playing and motioned for him to stop.  My hands shaking from excitement, I picked up the microphone and said, “Okay everyone! If you would all take a seat at the table, dinner will be served! I want to take this time to say a few words about my husband. I know I don’t have to stand up here and rave to you about how great he is; if you’re here, you already know how intelligent, creative, and kind he is. I will say, I am lucky to be married to this man because every day I feel loved, like a princess. I love you, honey. I wanted to do something special for you so…..tonight, dinner is more than a meal. It is a work of art, an inspiration created by the one and only Guy Fieti!”

                Everyone clapped and Ryan’s mouth dropped. From across the room I could see him say, “You’ve got to be kidding me?!” and I gleefully clapped by hands like a giddy child.              

                When I sat down at the table, he asked “How the hell did you pull this off?”

                Laughing, I said “The logistics aren’t what’s important. What’s important is do you like your surprise?”

                “I love it,” the shock still evident on his face.

                The kitchen doors swung open and Guy came strolling out in a wacky blue and green apron, his hear newly bleached and full of hair gel. He was followed by an entourage of chefs dressed in stark white aprons, their hands filled with plates of juicy spare ribs with pineapple and orange and colorful salads. More people followed with trays of crab cakes with a decadent sauce and bowls of creamy bisque. The smell that filled the air was orgasmic and everybody eagerly anticipated taking their first bite.

                Guy took a seat next to us at the table and entertained us with his vibrant personality and easygoing demeanor. He told us about his famous red convertible breaking down in small town Kansas and about the cookey people he’s met along the way. He told us how blessed he feels to be able make a living in food, his greatest passion. He said he doesn’t get a chance to cook as much as he’d like and he was happy to cook for us that night. We were all invited to the taping of “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives” tomorrow at Nicky’s. His company was almost as good as the food. Almost.

Theme Week Four, Part Two: Embellished Non-Fiction

It was 9:30 on Saturday night when Ryan parked his old Ford Ranger in the Texas Roadhouse parking lot. Both of us were starving, so hungry that it had taken us an hour to decide where we wanted to eat; every sandwich shop, diner, and restaurant got our mouths watering.  We were riding up Stillwater Avenue on the way to Oriental Jade when the bright lights of the Texas Roadhouse caught our eyes. In a second, our plan was changed and we were excited to indulge in the juicy steaks the restaurant is known for. It was Ryan’s birthday and before we got out of the truck he made me promise not to tell the waitress; he was terrified the servers would join forces to sing him an embarrassing happy birthday song. Instantly, my plan was foiled and while I was tempted to order a birthday cake anyways, I ultimately decided that on his birthday I would respect his wishes.

Hand in hand we walked into the surprisingly empty restaurant and were greeted by three bored hosts. All of them were dressed in dark denim jeans and a black Texas Roadhouse tee-shirt that said “I Love My Job!” on the back. The second we walked through the heavy wooden doors, the hosts, on autopilot, plastered smiles on their faces as they chimed “Welcome to the Texas Roadhouse, have you eaten with us before?”

                “Yes we have,” Ryan answered.

                “Terrific! I can seat you right now,” a thin girl with dark brown hair chirped. Leading us past a sparkly glass display case showcasing the prime cuts of steak she asked, “Would you be interested in picking out a steak for you meal tonight?”

                “No thanks,” I said.

                We walked past the nearly empty bar, vacant except for a group of three young men who were watching the basketball game on the flat screen TV’s on the wall. The host led us to an empty booth on the other side of the bar and said, “Lea will be right with you guys. Enjoy your meal!”

                The hot buns waiting for us on the table were irresistible and I instantly reached out for one. I used my steak knife to butter the top of it with cinnamon butter and my stomach was satisfied for the first time all day. I grabbed a menu and began to peruse it. Tempted to order a burger, my usual standby, I made myself stick to my new rule of trying something new every time I went out to eat. “How come you’re not looking at the menu?” I asked Ryan who was intently watching the game on the mounted television behind me.

                “I already know what I want,” he said. “An 11 oz. steak with a baked potato and a house salad.”

                “Mmmm, the steak sounds good. Do they season it nicely?” I asked.

                “Yeah, it’s pretty much perfect,” he claimed.

                Trusting his judgment and hungry for everything, I decided to order an 8 oz. steak cooked medium with a loaded baked potato and a Caesar salad. “Are you sure you don’t want a bigger one,” he asked.

                I shook my head. “Nah, I think that’ll be big enough.

                Lea, our server promptly arrived, greeting us over the loud country music. Even though it was too loud to think in the dining room, she rambled off her spiel like a pro, offering us margaritas for only $2.99. We ordered our food and two drinks. While we waited for our food to arrive, we munched on peanuts. Next to us, the section had been closed off and another thin server with dark brown hair furiously swept the floor littered with peanut shells and crumbs. “Is it just me, or does every single person who works here look exactly the same?” I asked Ryan.

                “No you’re right. They’re like twins. At the Olive Garden you have to be blonde,” he said and I realized he was right. Every time I indulged in the Olive Garden’s soup, salad, and breadstick lunch my server was blonde, usually out of a box.

                “You couldn’t work here,” he said. “Your hair’s not dark enough; you’d have to die it.”

                Another brunette server arrived at our table, delivering our salads. The lettuce was perfectly crisp, a bright, healthy green and the kitchen had sprinkled it with generous amount of freshly-grated parmesan cheese. The homemade dressing was creamy but not too thick; it only took me three minutes to eat the entire bowl. Ryan doused his house salad with the Roadhouse’s homemade blue cheese dressing and after his first bite he let out a sigh of satisfaction. A different brunette server arrived with our steaks. They were seasoned perfectly and cooked to order. Mine was juicy and bloody; full of flavor. The potatoes were covered in sour cream and melted cheese, topped with crisp bacon bits. I slowly ate my meal, enjoying every bite until I couldn’t eat anymore. Ryan ate his quickly and finished my steak. “I told you I only needed an 8 oz. one,” I told him.

Conversation was difficult over the loud country music and Martina McBride belted out her hit “Independence Day.” So what do you want to do tonight?” I asked him.

“I’m not sure. It’s so cold out; I don’t really want to go out.”

“So you just want to go home?”

“Not sure yet, we’ll figure it out when we get home,” he said. “Besides, I’m happy just to be with you.”

The perky waitress checked in a few times to refill Ryan’s Coke and to remove our dirty plates. “How about a piece of homemade apple pie or a fudge sundae?” she asked.

Shaking my head I said, “No way. I. Am. Stuffed.”

“Alright then, I’ll be right back with your bill.”

Ryan looked at me from across the table. “I had a really nice time with you tonight. I was wondering if you wanted to get together again sometime. Say…tomorrow night?”

Laughing, I said “I’d love to, but I kinda have plans with my boyfriend. I could ditch him though…”

“Do it,” he said, a wide smile on his face.

“Do you want to meet at your place or mine?” I asked as we were walking to the truck to go home.

Theme Week Four, Part One: Life in Black and White

It was Saturday night around 9:30 when we pulled into the Texas Roadhouse parking lot. Both of us were starving and we were excited to eat the steak that the restaurant is known for. It was Ryan’s birthday and before we got out of the truck he made me promise not to tell the waitress and have the servers perform their ritual happy birthday cheer.

Hand in hand we walked inside and were greeted by three hosts. Smiles plastered on their faces they chimed “Welcome to the Texas Roadhouse, have you eaten with us before?” We had and politely declined their offer to pick out a steak from the butcher. A thin girl with dark brown hair led us to our booth and we settled in to watch the basketball game on TV and chat. Conversation was difficult over the loud country music but the waitress rambled off her spiel like a pro.

Hungry for everything, it was hard to decide what to order that night and I eventually treated myself to an 8 oz. steak cooked medium with a loaded baked potato and a ceasar salad. Ryan ordered an 11 oz. steak cooked well done with a loaded baked potato and a house salad with a side of blue cheese dressing. We devoured our salads in minutes and chatted about the superbowl, my classes, and if we were going to move when our lease runs up in July.

The perky waitress checked in a few times to refill Ryan’s Coke and to remove our dirty plates. Another server with dark brown hair happily brought us our steaks.  They were seasoned perfectly and cooked to order; a real treat. The potatoes were covered in sour cream and melted cheese, topped with crisp bacon bits. I slowly ate my meal, enjoying every bite until I couldn’t eat anymore. Ryan ate his quickly and finished my steak. “I told you I only needed an 8 oz. one,” I told him. "I'm stuffed, I can't wait to get home. Happy Birthday, babe," and he smiled in gratitude.

Prompt Week Four: The Truth Stings

He drank the mystic purple drink in one gulp and slammed the glass down on the table. Looking at me, his lips puckered slightly, the drink's sourness shocking his taste buds as the warm liquid flowed down his throat and past his heart. The scowl on his face was hidden behind his beard but betrayed by the flat, icy look in his blue eyes. He opened his mouth and the words tumbled out, each one hurting more than a thousand bee stings in the eye. He laid it out his frustration, didn’t hold back.  “I told you from the beginning I never wanted to get married. I tell you the truth but you constantly accuse me of lying. You think you can change me; it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do. Honey, I can’t be changed. The worst part is, you don’t love who I am, you love who you want me to be. The idea of me but not me. Knowing that, it’s a shitty feeling. You ask why I don’t come home? You whine and bitch that we don’t spend enough ‘quality time’ together but when we’re together, all we do is argue. We spend more time talking about the relationship than actually having one. We talk about you, what you want, what you need me to change so you can be happy. What if changing doesn’t make me happy? What if these changes you want make me miserable? I’m sure that doesn’t matter to you as long as you get what you want. I have to tell you right now, and I’ll only say it once. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not in love with you anymore and at this point, I don’t know if I ever loved you at all. You know when I admitted that to myself? The second I accepted that you aren’t in love with me.” His eyes never wavering in their steadfast stare, he poured himself another drink, its purple hews more stunning than the setting sun.

Prompt Week Four: If My Shoes Could Talk

There is a pair of orange heels perched on a shelf in my closet, collecting dust. Beautiful shoes. Look-at-me shoes. They’re fun, flirty, and uncomfortable. Every time I swing the closet door open and reach for my brown, faux leather boots with a short, functional heel, the orange shoes scream “Wear me! Wear me! I never get to go out and have any fun….I was made to party and all I ever do is hide inside of this dark, crowded closet!! You think those old boots are so special but if you really want to know, they don't make your legs look nearly as good as I do. Girl, when you wear me, your legs are long and lean, you're tall...soooo much better than the boots! You might want to re-think your priorities....comfort phffft!”

Prompt Week Four: Writing is like.....

                Writing is like cooking; words on the page are the ingredients that make a unique recipe that satisfies the reader. Just like chefs combine spicy red paper flakes with sweet honey for an exciting eating experience that satisfies multiple tastes, writers put words together to extract positive and negative emotions in their reader. Like cooking, writing is relaxing; an outlet for the stressed out soul to channel their tension into a positive, gratifying experience. Both cooking and writing have the possibility of turning out badly. It’s just as easy for a fresh-caught fish to be burned on the grill and thrown in the trash as it is for writers re-read their words and delete them with disgust. Luckily, both arts have the possibility of turning out great. There is a sense of pride one receives after cooking a mind-blowing meal or writing something clever or meaningful.  Both cooking and writing can be sensual and enticing; chocolate covered strawberries and steamy love scenes. Both have the ability to be in your face; hot wings and vulgar dialogue, laced with swear words and blatant insults. Both can be mysterious; subtle hints of mint cleverly hidden in a flavorful potato salad or suggestive imagery that force the reader to dig deep inside the context. Both cooking and writing are subjective; people will love it, people will hate it, people with think it’s so-so. Two things that on the surface appear to be worlds apart are not so different after all….

Theme Week Three: Dialogue and Setting

                I woke up early to snow falling in large clumps outside the double glass doors in my room. The sky was blue and the sun was shining, highlighting the tall mountains in the distance, their peaks covered in thick blankets snow. Though the glass I saw my neighbor, Rhett cleaning up the fire pit in a pair of khaki pants and a tattered tee shirt; I could faintly hear him singing the Friends theme song  as he worked.

                Stretched out luxuriously in my bed, I grabbed the remote and flipped the TV on. Seeing that it was only seven in the morning, I groaned and willed myself to fall back asleep. “This time change is messing with me,” I muttered as I covered my face with a pillow. I had only been in Colorado for a few weeks; I woke up early and was exhausted and ready for bed by eight every night.

I was about to doze off when I heard my roommate Meaghan’s voice call out to her boyfriend, Jason. “Jay….will you get me a glass of water?” It was silent for a minute or so until Meaghan impatiently said, “Jason! Did you hear me? I need a glass of water!”

                “Jesus Christ, Meaghan. I’m GETTIING it. Wait a minute.” The faucet turned on and ran while Jason waited for the lukewarm water to become cold.

                “What the hell? How long does it take you to get a glass of water, Jason? You are literally the slowest person I’ve ever met in my life.”

                I could hear Jason pad back to their room and waited for the explosion. “There’s no ice,” Meaghan complained.

                “God. Nothing I do is good enough for you. I could get you a glass of water with ice in thirty seconds and you’d complain it was too cold. What do you want from me, Meg? This is getting really old.”

                “Jason. It’s not like you EVER do anything for me on your own. I have to ask you. What I want is for someone to wake up and think, ‘Maybe Meaghan’s thirsty. I think I’ll get her something to drink.’”

                “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not a fucking mind reader. You’re crazy. You’re crazy. I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “Nothing I do is ever enough…”

                Meaghan’s voice quivered and in a high-pitched voice she said, “You don’t want to be with me anymore?” I could picture her tired brown eyes watering with tears, her lips trembling as she tried to maintain composure.

                “I never said that,” Jason replied; he knew he was walking on thin ice. “I said I can’t be treated like this anymore. You’ve got to try to be more appreciative of the things I do for you. All you do is focus on the things I do wrong and never the things I do right.”

                “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said, her tone cold and emotionless. “So I assume this rule goes both ways. Because I’m pretty sure you never say thank you to me when I do things for you. I feel like you take advantage of me all the time but I’m not sitting here complaining. You’re selfish, everything’s always about you.”

                “You’ve got to be kidding, Meg. I ALWAYS thank you for what you do. I’m getting out of here. This is crazy. You’re crazy!”

                I got out of my bed and wrapped myself in a blue, fleece blanket. Sliding my feet into a pair of slippers, I opened the glass door and wandered outside into the snow. Through the glass, I could barely hear the frantic voices of my roommates. “Morning, Rhett,” I said. “How’s it going?”

                “Good! What’s going on with you today?” he asked.

                “Not much. Work later. Tried to sleep in but that’s not happening with World War Three going on inside.”

                “They’re fighting again?” he asked sympathetically. “I thought I heard something but was hoping it was too early. For your sake…”

                “I know, right? Hey, at least it’s a beautiful day. I still can’t get over how it snows when it’s sunny and that it’s WARM out here in January."

                He looked down into the valley of lush trees and rocky crevices; at the mountains, purple under the bright sun. “You never really get used to it. It blows my mind every time I look around me.”

                “How can anybody be unhappy here?”  I wondered out loud, thinking about Meaghan and Jason. “It’s too beautiful.”

Prompt Week Three: Conversations in Crowded Public Places

                The thing about doctor’s offices is that nobody in the waiting room ever wants to be there. First of all, you can pretty much count on waiting; appointments never start on time. Secondly, you’re either there because you’re sick or worried you might be sick. Sometimes, people in the waiting room are there to support their loved ones, though they are probably just as nervous as the person with the appointment. People sit still in their uncomfortable chairs, trying to hide their worry as they play with their phones, avoiding eye contact with the person next to them.

                Even though most offices attempt to create a calming environment, the décor does little to relieve the restless nerves of patients. Sage walls and rows of pink, padded chairs don’t take away the impending dread of going to the doctor. Neither do the magazines casually strewn on top of the wooden end tables or the sight of young children playing with brightly colored blocks in the corner. At the doctor some people try to make casual conversation with strangers as they wait for their appointment. Elderly ladies complain to the person next to them, “My appointment was at 9:30 and it’s 10:15! Forty-five minutes to see the doctor…”

                Strangers murmur in agreement. “I know. I’m only here for blood work and I’ve been waiting for half an hour! You’d think we’d get in on time, it’s seems too early for them to be this backed up.”

                Everybody nods and the conversation turns to the weather. “It’s so nice outside today, such a waste to be in here…” a woman in her thirties with two young children comments. “Especially with these guys!”

                More people nod in sympathy and the elderly lady says, “Such beautiful children. How old are they?”

                The mother places her hand on her daughter’s blonde head. “Emma is three and Taylor is two,” she says proudly.

                The elderly woman’s pale blue eyes sparkle as she repeats, “Such beautiful children...”

                The wooden door opens and a nurse dressed in blue and white scrubs says, “Victoria?”

                The elderly woman grabs her metal cane and slowly stands. “That’s me….finally!” she says with a smile and with her departure, conversation ceases as the others go back to playing with their phones or pretending to read magazines.

Prompt Week Three: A Conversation

                When I walked into work on Superbowl Sunday I was prepared for a chaotic evening. What I wasn’t prepared for was a person calling in sick and a hung over manager, who used his authority to pawn his work onto his frazzled minions. The phones were ringing off the hook at Papa Gambino’s as excited Patriots fans prepared for the most anticipated game of the year.

                “Papa Gambino’s on State Street, is this going to be pick up or delivery?” I asked.

                “How long is the wait?” a young girl asked me.

                “Right now, it’s going to be about forty-five minutes,” I answered.

                “Usually it’s only like twenty minutes.”

                “I’m sorry, we’re really busy because of the game,” I answered, irritated.

                “Well I don't know if I want to wait that long. Do you have any special deals today?” the girl asked.

                “Just the normal pick-up deals. You can get four one-topping small pizzas and a two-liter of soda for only $14.99, the Hungry Man Special which is….”

                “I KNOW what it is,” she interrupted, snottily. “I meant, do you have any other special deals for the game. Like wings or something.”

                “No, we don’t. We don’t have wings. Ever,” I answered sweetly to cover up my impatience.

                “I’ll call you back,” she said and hung up the phone.

                I placed the phone back in its cradle and turned to help the smiling woman who had just walked through the door. “Do you have an order in?” I asked and before the woman could answer the phone rang again.

                “Sam, will you grab the phone?” the manager called out.

                I smiled apologetically at the patient customer. “I’ll be right with you,” I promised. “Papa Gambino’s on State Street, will this be pickup or delivery?”

Prompt Week Three: A Conversation With Myself

It was a lazy Sunday morning; the sky was grey and with the wind whipping outside my window, it was safe to assume it was too cold to go outside. I was curled up in bed, my cat Sasha snuggled up against my legs; her soft snores were the only thing I could hear in the comforting silece of early morning. My stomach grumbled but I forced my hunger out of my mind, unwilling to leave the comfort of my bed and the mountain of pillows surrounding me. The dog next door yipped happily and I thought it would be fun to get a puppy. “Maybe something from the Humane Society…” I thought. “Nothing too big, something that can still sit in my lap.”

 “Not tooo small,” as I thought about my friend Meaghan’s Chihuahua, Cortez. “He’s so afraid of everything. All he does is shake, with his skinny, little tail between his legs anytime you go near him,” and I pictured his four pound frame shaking like a leaf, his soft brown eyes bugging out of his pointy head displaying his nervous excitement. I felt bad for my judgments of Cortez. “He really is the sweetest dog ever though… Such a little cuddlebug. He used to lay in my lap for hours…he used to get so excited to see me that he would pee all over the floor! That's like the greatest compliment a dog can give you.”

I was getting confused, the only thing I was sure of was that I wanted my dog to have good bladder control, no matter how happy he was to see me. “Maybe finding a puppy is just like finding a husband. When you meet them, you know it’s meant to be. I probably won’t know what kind of dog is perfect for me until I meet him,” and my confusion melted away as I crossed my fingers I’d have better luck finding the perfect dog than I had in the romance department.

“Wait. I used to have a vision of my perfect dog in my head. He’s all white and looks like a Husky, except he’s miniature. Like an adorable Husky puppy that never grows up,” and decided it was important to keep in mind what I always dreamed of. “It’s not a bad thing to know what you want….Or is it more important to stay flexible and open-minded? Sometimes if you’re too picky you miss out on some great things,” and the numerous intelligent, good-looking men I’ve overlooked because they didn’t meet my ridiculous criteria popped into my mind. “Probably should have given some of them a chance,” I mumbled as Sasha stretched her body gracefully next to me. Absentmindedly, I reached out my hand to pet her.

“Sasha wouldn’t really like a dog,” I though as she purred loudly, thoroughly enjoying her morning massage. “She despised Rocky and Cortez. She never even came out when they were around,” and my decision was made. “My princess wouldn’t be happy with a puppy; it would be so unfair to her to have a dog around when she’s so afraid of them.” As if Sasha read my mind, she began to purr louder as she looked up at me with her wide green eyes thanking me for making the right decision.  

 “Besides, I don’t even think the make dogs like that. I’ve never seen a full grown, miniature, all white Husky. I’ll never find what I want. It doesn’t exist...”