In lieu of class

The peppers are lined up like tin cans waiting to be targeted by a distant shotgun. He grabs them one by one and sections them off into bites of perfection. The smell of browning fat bubbles in the background over an open fire. The pick nick table cutting board is a rainbow of fresh produce. His hands move by memory, handling the blades with ease. Cast iron cackles and cloves pop so he knows the time has come. The heat releases sweet smells that sizzle like an invitation. Wooden spoons mingle the mash together- it is his humble masterpiece.

She sits in crowd, hood-ridden and cowering from the echo of a microphone. Radio music blares to compete with rampant screams of joy. She remembers the neon ear plugs sitting next to her tooth brush and grumbles at her loss. Non-dancers compete for the idea of a trophy, but the real competition is at the end of an empty bottle. Celebration surrounds her but fills her with dread because all these people want is a friend. A man behind shades reads a sorry poem made up of recycled lines and lazy rhymes. In the end, the winners choose themselves and the night is wasted in the name of spirit.