Wayne Michael DeHart  (June, 2024)

Writer’s Introductory Note:
In March of 2024, I was one of several veterans in a recreational writing group who were provided  a list of 56 random words from which to choose the “ingredients to develop a recipe for writing.” Prompts, if you will. A few months later, I decided to try my hand at working all 56 of them seamlessly into a short piece of fiction (not to exceed 1,000 words) to enter into a competition. I was able to do so, and enjoyed the heck out of the process. I have since made a few whimsical additions to the piece, pushing it up to 1,062 words, but all of the original 56  “ingredients” remain untouched and in their original format and placement, and all remain in the original form of each word as originally appeared in the attached handout. The first reading is the finished product, and the second reading has been added to show how each of the 56 words was used. Hope a few readers judge this word recipe to be, well, chef’s kiss !

***************************

“Oui, you need beaucoup sleep, more than a nap, to rest and recharge that captivating je ne sais quoi of yours. Bonne nuit, mon chéri.” (Cajun girl loves her some flirtatious français, for sure.)

It’s 12:12 AM, Saturday, March 20, 1999 – the opening minutes of Spring in the bayou.

She glances at the living room mirror to see if she’s still glowing. She is. In the soft candlelight, she sees a maiden fair, looking sweet but strong, innocent yet seductive. She nods, winking playfully at her reflection. “Yeah, baby.” The love train is beginning to leave the station, and they’re on board. Voilà – Victory!

Both have consumed a lot of wine. She’s beaming. He, on the other hand, looks like he ran into a beam. Hours earlier, they had unexpectedly busted out of the friend zone with their first romantic kiss, a limb-tingling humdinger, much like Astaire and Rogers in their reverie dance in 1938’s “Carefree.”

She plugs in two night lights, snuffs each candle, and pulls a comforter up around her shoulders, wedging herself onto the sofa cushion nearest his head. Then she closes her eyes, and goes looking for Fred and Ginger in dreams of her own.

*******************************************************

Lisette Rousseau and Ryan Garner had met the previous summer on the western shore of Lake Laeryn (“Wayne, be sure to tell ‘em it rhymes with Karen!”), in southeastern Louisiana, where both had gone to water ski on the 4th of July, at the persistent invitation of the marina manager. They bonded quickly, wasting no time in sharing likes and laughter. As the weeks and months rushed past, they kept things lively, but remained partners without passion. The opportunistic manager had invited them separately to the dock, hoping they would connect and become lifetime lovers. In appreciation for such Machiavellian matchmaking, Ryan would extend him deep discounts on all future purchase orders from his employer. But, thus far, the expected quid pro quo had been big no go.

Lisette, 25, a lifelong Laerynette, managed La Pâtisserie, an upscale, all-natural bakery for health-conscious folks in nearby Lake Charles. Confident and outgoing, she was never at a loss for words. Her smile was electric and energizing, lighting up many a room and opening many a door. She avoided relationships, tolerating neither fool nor folly. Quietly compelling, with enchanting green eyes, she could inspire a poet’s lyric, and craft wedding cakes with an artisan’s texture and touch. Her mother had boasted years earlier that Lisette “puts the light in enlightenment, and she’s only 17!”

Shunning showy glitz and glitter, she scorned the pretentious excess of tinseled tarts and tawdry teasers. Growing up a hardcore tomboy, she could kick butt, climb a tree, slay a dragon, finger poke the notorious middle school mini-monster, Billy “Bully” Bailey, into submission, and stare down Sammy the Slime, the teenaged tyrant from Stinker Street. In the spirit of FDR, she was afraid of nothing but fear itself, and, well, maybe being flabby at 40 and floppy by 50. Lisette was sometimes a lady, never a tramp, and always unflappable. She looked and moved in one direction – forward.

Ryan, 23, grew up near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge, where his mother worked security. Strict by nature, she sheltered him from the pervasive pitfalls of a major college town. His runaway dad, however, was a bootlicking backslapper who migrated north to Shreveport and cunningly cultivated friendships with men in high places. No one’s hero, and ever the traveler, George Garner dragged Ryan down to Mobile for splashy yacht fishing, up to Memphis for some Beale Street blues, then to the finest New Orleans eateries, using borrowed credit cards. When Ryan flunked out of LSU in his sophomore year, his mother was livid, and strongly advised him to smarten up.

He did.

Lady Luck soon gifted him a job as a marine supply salesman, working out of Port Arthur, Texas. Seems “smartening up” had gotten him a company car and an expense account. “You doin’ good, boy” his boss said two years in, and sent him sixty miles east to Lake Laeryn to sweeten and close a sale, then relax on the company tab through the Independence Day weekend of ‘98. There he smooth-talked the equally-cunning marina manager, who in turn smooth-talked the unattached dragon slayer down to the docks. Feeling instant kinship with Lisette, Ryan returned to the lake almost every weekend to hang out with her, unpressured, in a platonic partnership, the kind where neither answers if jealousy calls. Hugs – hello and goodbye – bookended each visit, though those embraces gradually lingered longer, and got decidedly tighter, on both ends, and from both sides.

********************************************

8:44 PM, March 19, 1999, the waning hours of Winter

As a cold, hard rain pummeled Lisette’s waterfront cabin, the couple relaxed in her warm and cozy kitchen space. They finished off a late Friday dinner of jambalaya, corn bread, and banana cream pie, made tastier by two bottles of Merlot.

From the CD player in the next room, wafted the opening notes of Dusty Springfield’s inviting classic, “The Look of Love.” Emboldened by the wine, Ryan stood and asked her to dance. Within moments, they locked eyes. He kissed her with passion and purpose, like Astaire, and she responded in kind, like Rogers. But the poise the wine giveth, the wine also taketh away. Suddenly tipsy and tired, they tumbled onto the living room sofa. They flirted innocently for hours, until their happiness quickly escalated – hers skyrocketing, his exploding, precisely at midnight, with no one near. Except you, the reader, who arrived minutes later, unnoticed – just as Cajun girl was whispering those opening …

lines from Lake Laeryn.  (Yes, the ones that welcomed you, way up there ↑)

*********************************************

Postscript:

Later that weekend, Ryan called me – yeah, I’m the marina manager a/k/a the scheming set-up guy – to express his gratitude for my perseverance in hooking them up and nudging them down the love track.

My pleasure, Ryan.

Deep down, young man, I’m a sucker for acts of friendship, for good deeds, for all things peace and love. That stuff melts my old, grizzled heart. Truly.

Anyway, about that discount on dock winches . . . can we bump that up to 30% next time around? That too would be kind of an act of love . . . actually.

No? Okay. Enough.

Enough now.

#

_______________________________

With the 56 words in yellow: 

“Oui, you need beaucoup sleep, more than a nap, to rest and recharge that captivating je ne sais quoi of yours. Bonne nuit, mon chéri.” (Cajun girl loves her some flirtatious français, for sure.)

It’s 12:12 AM, Saturday, March 20, 1999 – the opening minutes of Spring in the bayou.

She glances at the living room mirror to see if she’s still glowing. She is. In the soft candlelight, she sees a maiden fair, looking sweet but strong, innocent yet seductive. She nods, winking playfully at her reflection. “Yeah, baby.” The love train is beginning to leave the station, and they’re on board. Voilà – Victory!

Both have consumed a lot of wine. She’s beaming. He, on the other hand, looks like he ran into a beam. Hours earlier, they had unexpectedly busted out of the friend zone with their first romantic kiss, a limb-tingling humdinger, much like Astaire and Rogers in their reverie dance in 1938’s “Carefree.”

She plugs in two night lights, snuffs each candle, and pulls a comforter up around her shoulders, wedging herself onto the sofa cushion nearest his head. Then she closes her eyes, and goes looking for Fred and Ginger in dreams of her own.

*******************************************************

Lisette Rousseau and Ryan Garner had met the previous summer on the western shore of Lake Laeryn (“Wayne, be sure to tell ‘em it rhymes with Karen!”), in southeastern Louisiana, where both had gone to water ski on the 4th of July, at the persistent invitation of the marina manager. They bonded quickly, wasting no time in sharing likes and laughter. As the weeks and months rushed past, they kept things lively, but remained partners without passion. The opportunistic manager had invited them separately to the dock, hoping they would connect and become lifetime lovers. In appreciation for such Machiavellian matchmaking, Ryan would extend him deep discounts on all future purchase orders from his employer. But, thus far, the expected quid pro quo had been big no go.

Lisette, 25, a lifelong Laerynette, managed La Pâtisserie, an upscale, all-natural bakery for health-conscious folks in nearby Lake Charles. Confident and outgoing, she was never at a loss for words. Her smile was electric and energizing, lighting up many a room and opening many a door. She avoided relationships, tolerating neither fool nor folly. Quietly compelling, with enchanting green eyes, she could inspire a poet’s lyric, and craft wedding cakes with an artisan’s texture and touch. Her mother had boasted years earlier that Lisette “puts the light in enlightenment, and she’s only 17!”

Shunning showy glitz and glitter, she scorned the pretentious excess of tinseled tarts and tawdry teasers. Growing up a hardcore tomboy, she could kick butt, climb a tree, slay a dragon, finger poke the notorious middle school mini-monster, Billy “Bully” Bailey, into submission, and stare down Sammy the Slime, the teenaged tyrant from Stinker Street. In the spirit of FDR, she was afraid of nothing but fear itself, and, well, maybe being flabby at 40 and floppy by 50. Lisette was sometimes a lady, never a tramp, and always unflappable. She looked and moved in one direction – forward.

Ryan, 23, grew up near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge, where his mother worked security. Strict by nature, she sheltered him from the pervasive pitfalls of a major college town. His runaway dad, however, was a bootlicking backslapper who migrated north to Shreveport and cunningly cultivated friendships with men in high places. No one’s hero, and ever the traveler, George Garner dragged Ryan down to Mobile for splashy yacht fishing, up to Memphis for some Beale Street blues, then to the finest New Orleans eateries, using borrowed credit cards. When Ryan flunked out of LSU in his sophomore year, his mother was livid, and strongly advised him to smarten up.

He did.

Lady Luck soon gifted him a job as a marine supply salesman, working out of Port Arthur, Texas. Seems “smartening up” had gotten him a company car and an expense account. “You doin’ good, boy” his boss said two years in, and sent him sixty miles east to Lake Laeryn to sweeten and close a sale, then relax on the company tab through the Independence Day weekend of ‘98. There he smooth-talked the equally-cunning marina manager, who in turn smooth-talked the unattached dragon slayer down to the docks. Feeling instant kinship with Lisette, Ryan returned to the lake almost every weekend to hang out with her, unpressured, in a platonic partnership, the kind where neither answers if jealousy calls. Hugs – hello and goodbye – bookended each visit, though those embraces gradually lingered longer, and got decidedly tighter, on both ends, and from both sides.

********************************************

8:44 PM, March 19, 1999, the waning hours of Winter

As a cold, hard rain pummeled Lisette’s waterfront cabin, the couple relaxed in her warm and cozy kitchen space. They finished off a late Friday dinner of jambalaya, corn bread, and banana cream pie, made tastier by two bottles of Merlot.

From the CD player in the next room, wafted the opening notes of Dusty Springfield’s inviting classic, “The Look of Love.” Emboldened by the wine, Ryan stood and asked her to dance. Within moments, they locked eyes. He kissed her with passion and purpose, like Astaire, and she responded in kind, like Rogers. But the poise the wine giveth, the wine also taketh away. Suddenly tipsy and tired, they tumbled onto the living room sofa. They flirted innocently for hours, until their happiness quickly escalated – hers skyrocketing, his exploding, precisely at midnight, with no one near. Except you, the reader, who arrived minutes later, unnoticed – just as Cajun girl was whispering those opening …

lines from Lake Laeryn.  (Yes, the ones that welcomed you, way up there ↑)

*********************************************

Postscript:

Later that weekend, Ryan called me – yeah, I’m the marina manager a/k/a the scheming set-up guy – to express his gratitude for my perseverance in hooking them up and nudging them down the love track.

My pleasure, Ryan.

Deep down, young man, I’m a sucker for acts of friendship, for good deeds, for all things peace and love. That stuff melts my old, grizzled heart. Truly.

Anyway, about that discount on dock winches . . . can we bump that up to 30% next time around? That too would be kind of an act of love . . . actually.

No? Okay. Enough.

Enough now.

#

THE INGREDIENTS:

Group Writing Exercise: (One word prompts)

Choose your ingredients to develop a recipe for writing. Free write first, then edit for a new creative work!

Space        Friend       Monster       Look      Past     Green

Rain      Fear    Spring     Happiness      Smile     Climb

Health     Direction      Tree     Mirror      Rest       Loss

Victory     Inspire     Warm     Texture     Luck     Beginning 

Gratitude    Excess     Door     Enlightenment     Next   Ski

Glitter    Lake    Candle    Me    Dragon     Train        Love

Dreams    Goodbye    Time    March    Dance    Perseverance

Afraid    Light     Answers    Laughter     Recharge     Hero

Jealousy    Lyric     Water    Yacht    Traveler    Nap    Banana

Discussion: Share your creative work.