That is one of the cool things about these exercises, they push us through blocks. And you wound up with some really cool imagery here. The “grease lined” is neat because we can feel and smell it. Bringing in that instinctual directional sense is another great internal feeling. Really good writing.
Absolutely, half of the point of these exercises is to unclog ourselves - so very well done for pushing through! The grease paints a vivid picture and smell in our minds, I can even hear the crackling of oil in the frying pans without it being explicitly mentioned through the natural association. I would say “her hand on my shoulder fills me with joy” is more telling than showing. Overall good job!
The lady drowns in her infant’s eyes as she feeds him, while the toddler bawls for her attentions, the group of teenagers with rainbow hairs and pierced lips cackled. I scurried from one table to the other, slipping my hands on the tiny pad as I scurried to the kitchen window, waiting for the order. With pepper & chilly in the air, vegetables sliced with a sharp thud on the wooden board, fish sizzling on the pan as smoke dances before dissolving in the chimney. My eyes snaking from one corner to the other, damping my parched lips, almost tasting the food
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This is interesting. The use of infant, toddler, teens, and lady kind of show a momento mori type of image. That is a cool underlying image. All of the sounds and smells are impactful and really draw us into the restaurant. Well done!
The alarm bell goes off as I step into the latest issue of 60’s Dining. Heads turn momentarily to assess the threat. Good thing I decided to go with plaid today, the camouflage of zip code 84312. I make my way cautiously over the grease laminated floor to claim my booth. A scout glides past cocoa fields and Maple trees to me with an efficiency only matched by the speed of her notebook fluttering out. She had surely come with the diner as part of a collector’s complete set. ‘Betsy’ pinned her sun-kissed apron and her shoes laughed comfortably at high-heels. A smile masked her face but left her etched eyes untouched. She took my order only faltering due to my off-script deviation requesting Oat Milk. The nostalgic peripheral accounts of the famous 1996 87-yard TD return stopped in their tracks, harumphing at my outlandish request, before returning to the glory days.
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I definitely like the line about the lady kind of in her own world with the infant.It game me vibes about the song “Tom’s Diner”.
The sense of nostalgia is strong in this one. The association of “plaid” to “camouflage” is great. The greasy floor is a good image because it evokes a scent and a feeling of slipperiness. Her shoes laughing at high heels is really neat, great visual and tactile senses are hit on there. Good job!
Another ding pierces the chattering of customers and clattering of dishes, and I turn to collect the hot plates. The smell of fried grease teases as my heels click staccato against freshly mopped tile. Bitter char from two black coffees linger on the tongue and course through my veins as I scan the booths like a hawk, noting who is waiting for menus, waters, or checks. My shoulders sign relief after I lower the plates, and a trail of salty truth betrays my façade of pep as I escape lingering desperate eyes.
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Loud, sweaty, hot, she moves moves quickly from table to table smiling filling notepad with lists of customized customer orders. She speeds past the table and chairs and diner bar stools made of green to the kitchen filled with grease and pirates men on the wrong side of the law she delivers the long order from the big ten top table who are yelling laughing
A cigarette hangs between two thinned lips from her mouth as the sun rises on the horizon lined by dumpsters and desert. The cigarette drops from her mouth, and the dust clings to the wet red lipstick stains on the filter. She returns inside with the affectation of just having lost a child. She greets the usual men eagerly waiting for her. She is their salvation, the only real woman they’ve seen beyond the unforgiving black tar. Her smoky voice demands their orders, they usually go for a coffee drowned in cream and sugar, a slice of cherry pie, and the farmers special, 2 eggs, bacon extra crispy, rye toast, and homefries. Her thin lips curl up, all men are the same. When she comes by to give them more joe, they’ll ask for white bread instead of rye, and she’ll give them both. “C’mon baby”, they plead like babies asking for milk. They always tug at her apron, didn’t they see the orange oil stains? or did the not care? (Timer ended)
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Rain cascading down the windowpanes makes a painting of the asphalt plain outside, red brushstrokes appear here and there as truckers pull off, park, and run in. Smells of meat frying and wet dog are like the thunder which shakes the chrome siding. The waitress squints past this impressionist scene for her bus stop farther up 19 and plots her escape. Checks not totaled, coffee warm-ups ignored, greasy plates grow soggy under the heat lamp behind her. The chatter of those with somewhere to go seeking refuge matches the din of the storm outside. She can’t take it. Last check in her right breast pocket, raincoat already donned, she makes a mad dash out the door without a look behind her, out into it.
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A person whose mouth is like a piano, speaking every agreement in song. A person whose skin is like paper with ink stains, rips, and tears that create a collage. A person who produces a constant stream of poetry lines from their fingers; the same fingers that clenched into a fist as to escape unmerited voices raised in her face, the same fingers that used to tear through the packaging of a new instrument or paint tube or jazz shoes, the same fingers that carry a tray of your appetizers and drinks as the mouth that so often operated through song now flatly says “can I get you anything else?”
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