In lieu of my pursuit to become a published author (heck, it’s hard enough just getting up the nerve to post here), I have decided to start writing prompts from various websites and posting them here, if I miss the original deadline and, at the very least, give them some air.

My first attempt is from the Writer’s Digest January 17 weekly prompt entitled “One Very Memorable Night”.  Read it, or head to the website to try one yourself.  Enjoy! 


 I don’t go to bars. However, as my friends and family advised, I’m supposed to be “stepping out of my comfort zone” more. Moving every few years is what made my childhood fun and exotic. Now, at 32 with a desk job and a split-level home that I’ve owned for five years, Atlanta—thrilling, happy Atlanta—was starting to feel like a box I’d wanted to claw my way out of for months.

“You just need a road trip,” everyone said. “Get out of here. Get some excitement!”

So now I’m here, in an open bar on the beach in South Carolina, chugging my third mug of something so green it’s glowing in the dark, and praying I can find my way back to the hotel. That, and getting whipped around on my stool, yanked by the neck, and tongued by a guy who could only be Ryan Morgenstern.

There were several reasons why we broke up after high school. The excess level of spit was just one of them. Julie Joyce and Christina Lancy were two more.

His hands tug at the string of my halter-top, and I shove him away. His eyes blink, then goggle as recognition floods his senses. I’m getting the impression that he didn’t realize who I was. I wonder why the kiss, then.

“You’ve gained weight, you dick.” My words are slumpy, and I stagger and wobble on the stool. Maybe I had four mugs of that green stuff. Who knows.

“Oh, my God. Holy crap.” He’s already stepping backwards, holding up his hands.

He’s not getting away this time. My dress is collapsing around my shoulders, and I clutch at myself. Suddenly, something slips down my neck, and I grab around behind me and pull back a silver bracelet with massive white jewels.   A tennis bracelet. “What’s this? You doing petty theft again, too?”

A hand covers mine. I look up into a pair of narrowed, authoritative eyes. Not Ryan Morgenstern’s. “This yours?” he asks.

I look back down and notice a bronze badge and holster on the man’s hip. “Um, well, no, officer. My boyfriend—from high school—he must have just put it in my dress while he was kissing me. He’s fat now with blond hair, and I haven’t seen him in, like, fifteen years! He kissed me, just now.” I pause and look around. The sorry-ass kissing fat man is gone. “He was just here.”

The cop leans forward and sniffs my mouth. “Have you been drinking?”

“I hope so, fuzzy. I am sitting at a bar!” In a flash of retrospect, I realize that’s probably not the best response.

Then, another revelation. When I pulled the bracelet to the front, the strings to my halter-top followed. Then, the halter-top itself.

“I don’t suppose indecent exposure is fully legal yet?” I give him my best, winning, neon green smile. Halter top still around my waist.

It’s amazing what stepping out of one’s comfort zone can do.