Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 298

In case you’re not familiar, Omakase is a Japanese phrase that means “I’ll leave it up to you”, you meaning “the chef”. To quote Wiki, customers ordering omakase style expect the chef to be innovative and surprising in the selection of dishes, and the meal can be likened to an artistic performance by the chef. Dining like this comes with an element of surprise because you don’t know what’s on your table next. I just had my first omakase experience and it was like a total dining experience because the chef popped by our table in between courses “to chat”. That turned out to be totally delightful and personal. Anyway you guessed it, the prompt is to write about a food experience.

Is “omakase” a new word to you? Then you might like to try out another word. As an alternative, we have a dictionary prompt brought to you by my guest prompter, Josh Medsker. This is from Josh:

Dictionary Entries at Random

If you ever feel yourself stuck in word patterns with your fiction, and especially poetry, try this: Go to a dictionary and flip to a random page. Point to any entry, and force yourself to use that word in your piece. If you don’t have a dictionary handy, for god sakes, go buy one.

Contrary to what many may think, inspiration isn’t something you wait for–it’s something you practice. This constraining exercise will force you to think on your feet and challenge you to find new ways of communicating.

You can find Josh here.


One thought on “Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 298


    Worst place you can drop a melancholic boozer
    Is some dew drop inn or Cliff’s Hangout or Saloon.
    The muldoon can go from sober to fried-to-the-gills
    quicker then you can say, “Make mine Bud,” and he often
    does, socking steins away like a brewery fills
    barrels. Don’t expect him to try something new.
    St.Pauli’s Girl, Tuborg, even Miller. He’s a muldoon,
    meaning he’s staunchly opposed to changing his mind.
    The hour doesn’t matter. He’s got a lifetime to spit at time.
    When the beer level suds up behind bloodshot eyes,
    he starts singing old songs like “Heart of Gold,”
    not that he has one, or “Maggy May” he never knew,
    or “Hotel California” he couldn’t afford.
    Besides, he hates the beach, those pesky flies, sand grains
    in his sandwich or weighing down the foam
    in his canned beer. “Last one,” says the bartender.
    We’re closing up.” The Muldoon can hardly stand
    but he orders two Buds, one for now,
    the other for the road.


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