Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

YOU are!

Well, not exactly.

You have two little flies on the wall to thank for this...

We do have odd conversations at dinner, why bother with any other way. Odd for us, is the norm. I love to meet people who think outside the box, color outside the lines, walk to the beat of a different drum and all that jazz.

And I try to inspire that same odd creativity in my children. For instance, one time Elena and I laid side by side for over two hours with a wire hanger making different shapes and stories about those shapes. Each of us saw a million different shapes and stories in that one simple object. It is one of my favorite memories with her.

Or, sometimes at dinner I will start a story, or ask someone to start to a story and then it gets passed around each of us adding to the story as we go.

Like so:

Dad: The cow jumped over the moon.

Mom: Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, scientists had been working on this project for many, many years. It was a very top-secret scientific experiment to see the effects of space on a cow. There was much rejoicing over the successful mission.

Elena: They found that once in space cows could produce 100 times more the milk than they could on earth. This made the scientists very happy. They took the milk and fed millions around the world.

Eddie: The company who originally funded the experiment sold the rights to a much bigger company and made billions off of the cows in space. War eventually broke out and millions died. Leaving the cows in charge.

I can see the nuances of each personality in the story. Each time we get to Elena, she is all about saving the world and helping others. Each time we get to Eddie he is all about the money and battles and humor.

So, since my two little flies mentioned wanting to be in the home on the wall around our dinner conversations, I thought I would give everyone a spin at the bottle so to speak. Besides, if they really were flies on the wall, I would swat them and that would be that.

Here is how it goes:
I am going to provide the first part of the story.

Then, when you go to the comment section, read the last comment (unless you are first or *gulp* only comment :)) and then you provide the next part of the story.

I will paste your comments in to the post as I get to them, but I may get behind a bit as the hundreds of comments come flooding in. So kidding.

RUN with it. Have fun with it. Show me your personality. No judgements here, just creativity.
And yes, Nancy, you can do a story in lyrics only, I would love it.


She had stopped believing in heroes a very long time ago. Santa, the Easter Bunny & even the stupid Tooth Fairy, had all turned out to be lies. Her white knight must have rescued some other damsel in distress, because she was still stuck here. No one even remotely close to a Romeo called at her window. And then her father died.

Now she fights the dragons of this world on her own.
Contributed by Dana Moya

...not that many ever came calling, that is. In fact, nothing exciting EVER happened, until the day her father choked on that griffin beak that somehow found its way into his morning breakfast of creature-hash.

She placed the last scoop of earth on his grave and leaned on the shovel handle to mop her brow. She wondered if perhaps she should shed a tear or two and tried to conjure some up by remembering the tender moments they had shared, but since they hadn't shared any, the tears were not forthcoming.

He had locked her in a damn tower, after all. Nevermind that she had learned how to shimmy down the ivy trellis years ago, it was the thought of it that chafed.

Now that he was gone, though, she puzzled over what to do. Obviously there would be no more meals slid through the iron grate at the bottom of her door, so she'd have to make her own way somehow. She turned to go back to the house and find some supplies with which to go adventuring, or at least what she supposed would be adventuring, having had limited experience with the verb.
Contributed by Jenni

...that was when she discovered she had buried the wrong person...
Contributed by Ali

As she stood there contemplating her next move after making such a terrible mistake, a group of dirty, wild-eyed, and savage looking people angrily made their way toward her. With machetes and cleavers in their hands, she braced herself for the worst.
Contributed by YaYa Orchid

How come nobody had told her it was the butchers turn to organise the annual St Patrick's Day parade?
Contributed by Ali

Shaking her head in disbelief and laughing at the wildly happy folks waving weapons in the air she started thinking... Who would steal her father's body?! Why? The answers were not going to be easy to find, and she knew she would search determinedly but it was freedom that prompted that first step.

Feeling the elation of the moment she jumped in the line of crazy celebration and waved her fist, whooped a couple happy cries and followed the crowd through town. At the other end of town as they filed one by one into the pub she quietly turned and walked toward the road that lead to the outside world.

A half a day of walking steadily got her to the top of a small hill just within sight of the next town. As she gazed for the first time at that unknown place a sudden movement next to the road caught her eye. Curious she got closer, listening intently, and moved around to the other side. It was a cat; a small, brown country feline that was sitting and staring at her very expectantly. They had only just made eye contact and the cat started to go into the woods but soon paused and sat again to look at her. She frowned, suspicious of this strange animal. Her mind was wondering, trying to remember if she'd ever heard of any cats being magical in these parts but she couldn't. Nevertheless she'd always liked cats and wished for one many times, especially since her father wouldn't let her keep one, and so she followed.

They walked through the woods to a clearing and found herself in front of a nice cottage. Right away she could tell it was an inn. The place was teaming with spring flowers buzzing happily with bees, the sun was shining on the cute little tables for tea in the middle of the garden and the sheets out for sunning were waving at her from the upper windows. She felt happy just looking at this scene and continued up the steps as she caught sight of the cat's tail disappearing into the front entrance of the cottage.
Contributed by Citlali

She followed the cat through the door, intending to shoo it out; not many folks take kindly to stray cats wandering about their houses & her father had regularly taken shots at any feline that dared.

She found herself in a tiny kitchen, clean & cozy, with pots bubbling on the stove & sweet-smelling herbs hanging from the ceiling. The scent of bread baking caused her stomach to grumble- it had been so long since she had eaten a real meal- & she had to mentally shake herself, lest she forget why she came inside.

Whispering in a low voice, she called to the country cat, urging it to come away, but she could not find it anywhere. As she creeped further into the room, searching for her furry guide, she was startled to see a small woman seated in an enormous rocking chair next to the fireplace, gazing directly at her, with a sly smile on her face. The woman's face was ageless, tanned from a lifetime working out of doors, with large green eyes that seemed to hold equal parts of mirth & secrets. She was dressed in peasant homespun & wrapped in a huge brown shawl, even though it was rather warm inside.

After staring at each other for a moment, the woman rose from her seat & said in a strange little sing-song voice, "Well, after that long walk, you must be famished. Tie on an apron & fetch that bread out of the oven; the others should be along anytime & we don't want to keep them from their vittles."
Contributed by Meg

“The others?” she questioned.

“Here, take this apron. Hurry now, the bread will burn.”

The question hung in the air unanswered and mingling with the many aromas filling the tiny room.

Looking around at the cottage the impression of familiarity nudged at her like a dog insisting you pet them. She couldn’t help but feel a certain remembrance of coming home. Surely it was only her weary body and the events of the day starting to wear away at her good senses.

Removing the loaf of bread, golden brown and steaming, she rested it on the trivet the woman had set out and left it to cool on the large wooden table in the center of the room. Not knowing what to do now, she watched as the woman fuss with the pots, adding a pinch of something in one; she tasted, shook her head and added a smidge more.

As she stood there watching the woman stir what must surely be a delectable stew, a shapeless memory stirred about in the back of her mind. Not quite able to put a finger on she tried to push it out of her mind. But as the edges cleared the memory became recognizable and made its way towards the front. Stunned, she stood there in silence.

The woman must have watched as the whole of it played out on her face for she turned to her with a knowing grin and asked “What’s the matter dear, cat got your tongue?”
Contributed by Dana