Writing Prompt

copacul il privea prin fereastra, un soare desertic la apus era coloana sonora trantit pe pat avea o reflexie. sometimes I used to hear watr in that tocurile executate din lemn reflectau in totalitate realitatea, secunda, the harmony was in evrythinng a new way of life all th words in one sounds and numbers infinitul alinare multumire thank you namestel eu tu noi we 31 05 1970 - 31 may 2086 sisster this is my legacy

This is why I hate my job. There’s always someone complaining about something so insignificant, and as I’m now the manager, I feel like I’m reluctantly bound to this place for good.

I’ve worked in a dingy fast food restaurant for a long time now. The pay was pretty mediocre until I was given my new role, which was only slightly better, but nothing compared to the grueling hours of overtime I never asked for, dealing with annoying customers and coworkers. I knew that there were better jobs out there, but nobody would hire me for some reason.

Anyway, just forty minutes ago, a woman came into the building, ordering a meal for both her and her little five year old son. I rung up their orders, and just a couple of minutes later, they received their processed meal. The usual.

Then, I guess one of the other overworked employees forgot to put one of the kiddie toys in the kid’s meal, which was a little mistake that could be easily fixed, but guess what?

The mother wasn’t happy about it.

She stormed up to me, glaring at me deeply from the other side of the counter. She looked enraged…over a cheap, plastic toy.

“Where is my son’s toy?!” She yelled unjustifiably, a deep scowl carved on her face.

I calmly told her that we were sorry, the situation was an easy fix, and we could hand her a toy, but no… __

She kept complaining and was asking for a refund on her order, causing a complete scene that made a couple of the onlookers leave the restaurant, which I couldn’t blame them for. I tried to tell her to please leave the restaurant, trying not to raise my voice despite being extremely annoyed with her, but she wouldn’t leave.

Finally, thirty five minutes later, the cops were called and escorted her and her son out, the son being surprisingly quiet and nonchalant during the entire fiasco. The woman was still just as outraged when the police arrived to take her away, but she didn’t put up too much of a fuss.

Now I’m trying to cool down my frustrations in the break room, having a throbbing headache from her complaining. She’s not going to be allowed in this store anymore, since she caused so much trouble over a TOY!

A storm in a teacup that’s what this bubbling warm sensation was inside of me.

Out of all the things going on in my life it was the most ittiest and bittiest worry and yet to control my rage from this boy was insurmountable for me.

He was my desk mate and in a class like mine, in a school like mine; you could never just get up and move. Which is ironic, that here he sits next to me and does whatever shenanigans he pleases and no one so much as speaks a word to him.

Maybe that meant something, no one talking to him or questioning him. Was he a bit abnormal up there?

I had only just started at Bastion Academy this year, but everything else seemed to be as routine as their informercials and entry test suggested: polished, disciplined, uptight, academically focused boys from grade seven to twelve.

So what exactly made Riley Terese the exception from all these expectations?

Once upon a time, in the peaceful village of Willowbrook, there was a small but thriving tea shop called “The Teacup Haven.” It was known for its exquisite blends and cozy atmosphere. One day, the shop’s owner, Miss Beatrice, decided to introduce a new tea flavor—a rare blend she had recently discovered called “Elderberry Bliss.”

The villagers, excited by the news, flocked to the shop to taste the new tea. Among them was Mrs. Poppy, an elderly woman known for her dramatic flair. As soon as she sipped her first cup of “Elderberry Bliss,” she slammed her cup onto the table and shouted, “This is the worst tea I’ve ever tasted! It’s nothing like the delicate teas I had in my youth! How dare she serve this concoction in my favorite teacup?”

Word spread quickly through the village, and soon the entire town was buzzing with the news of Mrs. Poppy’s complaint. The gossip grew louder with each passing hour, until people began to question whether Miss Beatrice’s tea shop would survive the scandal.

Little did they know, the storm in a teacup was nothing more than a simple misunderstanding. As the villagers discussed the matter more thoroughly, they realized Mrs. Poppy had simply mistaken the unique flavor for something unpleasant. In fact, many others were raving about the new blend.

Eventually, Mrs. Poppy admitted her mistake, and the village returned to its usual calm, leaving behind only a few chuckles and the memory of how they had all made a storm in a teacup over a minor misstep. From that day on, every time someone made a fuss over something trivial, someone would inevitably say, “Well, looks like another storm in a teacup!” and everyone would laugh.

She knew everyone’s story A listener who Believed they were sorry But who could assume?

She was just on display For all to see A storm in a teacup As fragile as can be.

So as she stares And wilts away Her shadow remains Every morning, every day.

She thought it was the end of the world when his hurtful words left cuts and bruises on her soul but it was just a storm in a teacup she quickly got over it but in that moment it was a mess of emotions

“No!” “Really” “Absolutely not!” Cries filled the air. Outrage rang in the streets. “Awesome!” “Finally” “Yes!” Conflicting shouts of excitement filled the ears of confused passerby who had not yet heard the news. A paperboy was handing the daily edition out with alarming speed. “Come on folks!” He cried out, as though he were in New York eighty years prior, “hear the ridiculous news! Top story of the week, and surely the month to come!” What was in the newsletter the people had such conflicting opinions about? Well, thought the mass of the outraged, did the president not have better things to do than to officially declare a hotdog a sandwich?! (When it so obviously was not?!)

“Did you think I was over reacting?” Lily got into the car, asked her girlfriend Emma, before she shut the door.

“No, just a little bit. I mean, yes.” Emma’s hand on the door paused, then sighed, “is it really necessary?”

“We were on time. But the lady was having us to wait for another hour so she would have time ‘for both clients’. She double booked! It was her mistake. Why would she want to waste our time!” Lily’s eyes almost got red again.

“That’s frustrating, indeed. I know you were very upset. But was the yelling, calling names, shouting necessary Lily, just for a short wait. “

“Short?! She said an hour! That was terrible! And you, you didn’t say a word!”

“Lily, I know. I just…” Emma passed a tissue to Lily, “ you didn’t need to.”

“That locked account is the last place we might have money. We’ve been waiting for your surgery for a year. “

“So an extra hour doesn’t matter. “

For Emma, it was a storm in a teacup. An hour, a month, or a year doesn’t matter any more. Time lost its weight in waiting and chronical pain. She wasn’t sure if she wants to go through another surgery. Was there hope?

But that storm was in the ocean for Lily.

The chatter coming from the drawing room piqued Claire’s interest. She crept down the stairs to listen outside the door and heard her uncle Fred’s signature exasperated sigh, which she knew went along with an eye roll.

“Its not FAIR,” whined Abigail, Claire’s younger sister. “Claire gets a blue riding habit but blue matches MY complexion best!”

Oh no. Not this again. Abigail could get bored in the afternoons and her favorite hobby seemed to be stirring up the biggest fuss she could.

Miss Margaret the maid always took the bait and was fumbling with the tea tray muttering about how Abigail already had more than enough habits made up by the seamstress.

Just as Claire was turning to retreat back up the stairs to avoid an altercation, the drawing room door slammed open and she heard Abigail roar in anger. “YOU!” She screamed, as a full teacup whizzed past Claire’s head and crashed into the wall, brown liquid running down onto the carpet.

they all look at him with judgement laugh and call him names never thinking for a moment the fragile child would erupt he is but a storm a in a teacup waiting to explode they dont expect thousands of sharp shards flying through the air like lightnight bolts in a storm the hurricane that once free grows into something no man can control the storm in him is lying in wait waiting for someone to drop the teacup