"Everything she liked was either illegal, immoral, or fattening" (writing exercise)

Everything she liked was either illegal, immoral, or fattening.  Some of the things she liked were all of the above.  For some reason she'd conveniently left this crucial information off of her online dating profile.

I was trying to maintain my svelte two-hundred fifty-eight pound, five foot eleven inch figure so I took personal offense to her love of all things fattening.  I was trying to drop the weight.  I don't see the one-hundred seventy pounds I listed so much a lie as a personal goal.

I didn't mind that she suffered from a mild case of kleptomania.  It saved me a lot of money on dates after all.  She may have been immoral but she was really good at it and that's something.  Isn't it?  I mean we all have to be good at something.

Our first date was at a coffee house and she'd somehow managed to procure two super large white chocolate Macadamia Nut cookies from behind the glass (hey, I told you she was good!) before I arrived.

On our second date we went out for German food.  I never realized there were so many different types of delicious sausage before that night and the latkes we had as an appetizer had been deep fried. . .  in bacon grease.

As our dates progressed I noticed my weight creeping further away from my goal.  I knew I had to draw the line somewhere.  But other than the issue with the fattening foods and my rapdily escalating weight and rapidly decreasing health (not that it was great to begin with) we got along famously.

I loved her red hair. When she'd fall asleep in my arms while watching TV I'd start looking for constellations in her adorable freckles.  I wasn't sure whether or not to be alarmed when I noticed Orion the hunter on her left arm.  In the end I let it go though.

I'm still wondering why she never made issue of the discrepancy between the weight listed in my profile and the reality.  I let that go as well.  She was willing to forgive my wishful thinking and goal-setting.  Who was I to nitpick about her extra-cirricular shoplifting and her wholly unhealthy diet.  The difference between us, she could get away with it.  She had the kind of metabolism where she could burn off a jelly donut and a four egg omelet between the breakfast table and the loo.  I honestly don't know where it all went as her body lied far more about her diet than she actually did.
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The prompt was a framed vintage ad that read simply "Everything she liked was either illegal, immoral, or fattening."  While I wasn't inspired by the picture on the ad, I was inspired by the text.

Premonition (writing exercise)

As soon as I see the flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror, I have a premonition... I'm about to get a speeding ticket. It's almost like that time I spilled a glass of water on my pants at work and had a premonition that I'd theretofore be THAT guy. I'd have to tell people that no, I did not have an accident, that I merely spilled a glass of water... but despite my protestations I would endure a barrage of playful ribbing about my bladder control or lack thereof.

But now, here I am, about to get pulled over. I KNOW I'm about to get a ticket and all I can think about is how I ended up with the nickname "Puddles" and how wouldn't it be ironic if this time I actually earned the nickname.

So I start thinking about deserts, towels and other things that are dry. Anything at all to prevent my premonition and my history from colliding in some weird karmic way that will end up with a speeding ticket and a trip to the local car wash to have my driver's seat shampooed. Heaven forbid my friends find out as then I'll forever be known as "Puddles." Oh and this time I'll actually have legitimately earned the nickname!

*TAP*TAP* The officer gently knocks on my window.

"License and proof of insurance, please."

"What seems to be the problem, officer?"

"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?" I wonder if the officer realizes that yes actually I DO know exactly how fast I was going, that I DO realize I was speeding. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I decide to play the honesty card.

"Yes, I was going approximately twenty miles over the speed limit."

"Yes that sounds about right." The officer replies somewhat surprised with my honesty. "Is there a reason you felt the speed limit did not apply to you this afternoon, sir?"

"Oh I know it applies to me the same as everyone, but please officer could we please move this along? I understand I deserve the speeding ticket but if we keep talking I'm not only going to have to pay for the speeding ticket and probably a larger insurance bill every month for the next few years, but I'll also be spending the rest of my life known as Puddles."

He didn't need to know that I already had earned that nickname through no fault of my own.

The officer looks at me quizzically.  I'm not sure if it's that my face is red and grimacing in pain from holding it far longer than I anticipated needing to do so or if it has to do with my unconventional responses to his questions.  At this point I don't care about the ticket.  I just want to find the nearest McDonald's, Gas Station, shrubbery, potted plant... whatever, wherever I can end this torture. 

The Spanish Inquisitors have nothing on this guy.  He's taking his time.  I still can't tell if he gets it, if he really understands what I'm going through right now or if he's really that oblivious.  With some people it really is difficult to tell. 

He walks back to his car... And I'm sure it's just my imagination but he seems to be walking especially slow and his car for some reason seems to be about 100 yards further away from mine than it was when he first pulled me over. 

I turn the radio back on while I wait.  I try to pay attention to the radio, to the birds in the trees, to anything but the unbearable pressure. 

Then I check my rearview mirror...  Is he flossing his teeth?  Is that a can of Barbasol?  Is he about to shave? 

Eventually he gets out of his car and I feel like a dam about to burst.  He has my driver's license and proof of insurance in one hand and a disposable razor in the other hand and a towel around his neck!

My seat starts getting a little wetter and the pressure rapidly subsides.

"I'm going to let you off with a warning this time, Mr. Puddles-" he stifles a laugh as he dabs some shaving cream off his cheek with his towel, "but be more mindful of your speed in the future."  He hands me my license and proof of insurance and walks away red in the face, tears rolling down his cheeks and a deep belly laugh.

I almost wish he'd just given me a damn ticket.
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Write about a premonition.  I lost what I'd originally written from this prompt.  The first 2 paragraphs were re-written from memory... and the rest of it is where I went with the story after my writer's group.

"You are standing in a doorway..." (writing exercise)

You are standing in a doorway. It feels almost like an Edward Hopper painting. The bright light from inside casts a warm glow on the car lined street. From the glow you could almost read the license plates-- that is if you had better eyesight.

If you were in a classic movie this is the part where you'd light a cigarette and slip into the shadows to share secrets with Jimmy Cagney types. But there's nothing quite so glamorous here.  Life is not film noir.

You're in the doorway with light fading and casting shadows outside. There's more than a slight chill painting a scent of fresh air against your nose. You're sure you're creating a draft, but not sure you really care. The wait will be over soon and you feel paralyzed by the ambivalence-- torn between the sense of finality and the hope for a new start.

Things ended months ago. You're about to make a fresh start but not until these last few loose ends get tied up. You suppose you should be angry. For some reason you're not. When all is said and done life is just too short to carry a grudge. Besides she couldn't help that her feelings for you had changed any more than you could help that yours hadn't. But that was then. You'd both since moved on. For you at first, reluctantly. You were the jilted one after all. For her it came a bit easier.

Enough time had passed that the fog of numbness had lifted. You'd started seeing someone else, long distance. In a few weeks you'll be joining her. Then you can close this chapter of your life, completely.

But here you still stand in the doorway waiting for this ghost from the past to arrive, to give just a little more closure. Truth be told, as long as you've stayed here you've remained tethered, albeit increasingly more loosely to the past.

When she arrives, you're taken aback. She's blonde. The whole time the two of you had dated she'd been a redhead.

"I dyed it red but we've spent so much time outside this summer the sun bleached it." She noticed your curious expression. A pregnant "we" had been uttered, insinuating all manner of new familiarities and intimacies.

There's an awkwardness hanging in the air as you invite her in. It all seemed so stiff and formal after the intimacy the two of you had once shared. You know that your new girlfriend is understanding of the situation, even if she's not exactly happy about it. You're guessing the new boyfriend involved shares your girlfriend's sentiments. As the two of you share idle chatter and small talk it's evident neither of your respective others have anything to worry about. The cordiality and friendliness is present but the heat that had once burned between the two has completely burned out.

It's not like old times, more like ships passing in the night. The two of you wishing each other well as your lives continue on their divergent paths.

So you show her to the door and part with a friendly but vacant hug before she walks away. Once you pack and are on your way you know you'll finally be able to shake this feeling of a life lived in limbo. Your heart was already packed and shipped to its new location. Now it was time for the rest of you to join it.
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This is the product of an exercise from my writer's group.  Write a story with "You are standing in a doorway" as an opening line or just write a story about standing in a doorway.