Holding Hands with the Ring of Fire

Zero to Hero (Blogging 101) Day Sixteen: Make a Prompt Personal
Today’s assignment: publish a post based on your own, personalized take on today’s Daily Prompt – Ring of Fire.
Do you love hot and spicy foods or do you avoid them for fear of what tomorrow might bring?

I do like a good meal, even more so if the necessary accompaniment is hot sauce. Watch me wipe away the beads of sweat because I’ve doused my quesadilla in tabasco, mixed sliced fresh chilli with my Pho, dipped my tofu dumplings in Sriracha and asked for extra jalapeno’s on my cheeseburger. You can have your bland sandwich while I work my way up the Scoville scale. I want the burn, need it activating my insides and clearing my sinus.

Side note: For those living in the UK, check out Fistful of Spicehttp://www.fistfulofspice.co.uk/ I’m partial to the Chipotle but the Caribbean Hot Sauce has the added fabulousness of mango.



Fistful of Spice


Daily Prompt : Unconventional Love.

He built useful things. Like kitchen benches. With his hands.

The appeal of someone who doesn’t require daily interaction with a computer or other technological beast was something I’d never thought twice about.

It could actually be, that for the first time in the longest time I’d met someone I was compelled to know.

He was leaning towards me the entire first few hours at the table as we drank. His confidence was mildly distracting. I was completely dumbfounded by his presence as I was having an ongoing internal argument about whether or not I even found him attractive. I don’t even like blondes.

On that date night, he took me on a journey to half of the most interesting pubs in my neighbourhood. Drinking bourbon to Johnny and June at places called Slim Jims. With every new pub, we got closer to my flat. He was not to know.

We walked in a tipsy state to the next pub. As he set off in front of me I noticed he walked like a cowboy. His leather jacket, so rock n roll. And that longish, unkept hair and scruffy beard. Don’t even get me started on that English accent.

Or the revelation he played guitar. In a band. Or two.

2am at the Lexington and I was ordering another round at the bar as Death from Above 1979 ‘Romantic Rights’ played. I thought the night had reached it’s peak.

But then he grabbed my hand and we danced through the smoke filled room like school kids at an underage disco. It’s about this time when I shamefully admitted to myself like a pathetic, lovesick teenager, I could have died happy. Six months of loneliness in London washed away by a guy like him, dancing to a song like that.

Arriving home at 4am my flatmate told me she watched a happy couple carrying on at the gate to the flat and wanted to be that girl. ‘They looked like they were having so much fun,’ she said. ‘And I realised it was you’.

But swiftly the promise of one perfect first date petered out to an average second date, followed by nothing.

He left me wondering what his favourite colour was, the foreign lands he’d travelled to, the albums he loved the most and the name of the girl who first broke his heart. He left me hanging on sentences, analysing conversational idiosyncrasies that meant something positive upon interpretation.

I started to create a fictional character based on filling in the blanks of who I thought he might be. A made up man I could have been falling in unconventional love with because the one I wanted, I would never actually know.

More unconventional love here>