Mel, issa Problem!

My creative writing workshop challenged me to write a fact or secret on paper. I then had to write a poem or short story based on it. Let’s see if you can figure it out. *warning* You will laugh, shake your head, and tell me, “Carlene, you need help.” Happy Reading!

Upon arrival, Melissa uncontained excitement grew to a halt. For months, she’s heard of this secret establishment embedded in the Lower East Side of New York City. Tons of Instagram pics filled her timeline of the hottest new trend in ice cream-multi-colored ice cream. Tired of the same mundane flavors Melissa has gotten over the past few years, she was excited to learn of the newly flavored ice creams which came in exotic colors.
Taking a moment in her busy schedule, she decided to board the train on a Saturday afternoon to travel from the Bronx to Manhattan. Her participation in the tasting of this perfect delight will satisfy her curiosity and craving.

The train ride was a long one. Transfers, crowds, and irritating breath was just the icing on the cake. Melissa endured the long walk from the train to the ice cream shop. Thank goodness for warm weather. It was the perfect day to enjoy a pint of ice cream. Or maybe a waffle cone will do.

Nearing the place of sweetness, she can see a line outside the door.
“Well, I’m not going to turn around now. I’ve come this far. I might as well be patient as everyone else and wait my turn,” Melissa tells herself as she finds the end of the line.

It wasn’t too bad. The line seemed to be moving at a moderate pace. Coming closer to the entrance of the establishment, the aroma of the ice cream saturated Melissa’s nostrils. She could hardly wait to partake in the most talked about ice cream tasting. The rush of excitement grew as she neared the entrance.
On the ground, it says, “WATCH YOUR STEP!” Before stepping up, she looks into the establishment. Oh, the joy that flooded her heart as the many flavors posted on the board caught her attention. Besides the walls painted in pastel colors, the décor was enough to melt any negativity away.
This place is beautiful.
It was her turn to take her step into the ice cream shop. Melissa looks down. She becomes pale.
What is this? How could this be? It’s a relatively new establishment. How could the owners be so reckless to allow this to happen and allow it to stay that way? What’s wrong with the world? Do you not make enough money to fix something so simple?
Melissa became irate. She backed up, turned and walked away. A trip wasted. Time not well spent. She became sick to her stomach. Melissa no longer desired ice cream or any other treat.

I want to go home.
How could people walk in an establishment as such? If they couldn’t fix something so simple, it makes me wonder what else they would ignore? I know I’m not the only one who thinks of these things. I’m not sick in the head. It’s an enormous pet peeve of mine. You will surely lose my business because of this.
Melissa walk to the train station was a hard one. Because of what occurred at the ice cream shop, she became well aware of the pavement below her. Avoiding the cracks, Melissa became more irritable. After some time of playing skip and hop, she tired herself out. Pausing at a small park, the decision to sit there until her nerves, and the images of the ice cream shop subside seemed to be a good idea.

Melissa decides to call her co-worker who suggested for her to come and experience this “great” ice cream.
“Hey, Mel. So how did you like it?”
“I didn’t get a chance to go in.”
“Wait, why?”
Melissa is silent.
“Mel, don’t tell me…you allowed that to bother you and make you miss out on the best ice cream in New York.”
Melissa is silent.
“Mel, you have to get over this.”
“Why do I have to get over this Jean? It isn’t my fault. I think its disgusting. It looks disgusting. It makes my skin crawl. It’s something about the mixed textures that makes me feel clammy inside. You see one part clean and the other exposing dirt and grime. Who wants to sit there and look at that while enjoying ice cream, the greatest dessert ever.”
“Mel, I swear, you need help. It’s a floor. A doggone floor. A floor meant for you and I to walk on. Who cares if the tiles are cracked or missing?”
“I do. Me. I do. I’ve cared since I was a little girl. It freaked me out then, and it freaks me out now. I feel an establishment should take time to care for such things. It isn’t pretty.”
“So what about the cracks in the street? That’s a natural thing to happen. And yet, you have a problem with that.”
“Yes, I do. New York needs to do better. It doesn’t make our street look beautiful. It makes us look as if we are a third world country.”
“Mel, I’m praying for you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Melissa hangs up. She wipes away the tears that are flooding down her face. Why can’t people understand my paranoia about cracked tiles and grounds? Wiping away her tears, she looks around the park. It seems as if everyone is in their world of worries. Across the street from the park, she notices her favorite supermarket, Whole Foods. With all the strength she had left, she took her walk to the place she knows won’t let her down.
Not only did she walk freely around the store with no worries, but she also ordered organic ice cream, and sat in the lounge located on the second floor. Taking a seat near the window, she comfortably indulged in the greatness of her favorite flavored ice cream- chocolate caramel cookie crunch.
No one will ever understand, but I do.

Excellently Written by a Perfectly Paranoid Person of Cracked Tiles

Carlene Wright


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