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...”