The Daily Prompt: June 5th


1. Use the prompt in the way it’s intended (starting a sentence, the title of the piece, theme, etc)

2. You may write in any format you see fit (fiction, non-fiction, poem, song, script, etc.)

3. Post your piece of writing in the comments section of the website to be considered for the ‘Best Of’ section.

The Prompt:

Write a piece that involves or is inspired by this line:

“Come on in. We’ll talk about it after dinner.”

2 thoughts on “The Daily Prompt: June 5th

  1. “Come on in. We’ll talk about it after dinner.”
    The nerves struck me like lightning, I knew what this meant.
    It wasn’t the first time I’ve heard the same line, the foreshadowing of my lecture
    How I’d have to sit, idle, mindlessly agreeing with everything I heard

  2. “Come on in. We’ll talk about it after dinner.” Although I had a plastic smile stuck to my face and a cheerful voice, his solemn blue eyes and decided stance showed he was having none of it.

    “You cheated on me.” His voice was dead, with no feeling or emotion. This was not going well.

    I struggled to keep a positive look on my face. “I made ribs, your favorite. Come on, let’s eat it before it gets cold.”

    I reached for his hand and he pulled it back. “No. We need to talk.”

    I sighed and my smile dropped. The act was over. “Well, what? What do you want to know?”

    His face twisted in the pain of betrayal, mouth open, struggling to find the words to say. Seeing him like this made me regret everything, made me want to go on my knees and beg him to forgive me for my mistake. But my mother taught me never to apologize, so I tapped my foot and crossed my arms, waiting.

    He stared at me and with the voice of an innocent child, asked; “Why?”

    No. None of my mom’s boyfriends got closure, and neither would he. “I think you should go.” I closed the door in his face and locked it before he could even utter a word in protest. I collapsed on the floor and began to sob, black mascara mixed with tears and ran down my face. I sniffed, wiped my face on a sleeve and returned to the kitchen to eat cold ribs by myself. My mother would be proud to hear how I handled the confrontation, but I wouldn’t tell her how I cried. She always told me that crying was for the weak, and I needed her to believe I was strong.

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