Poetry: The Spoken Senses

I know it’s short, but it was something I wrote over lunch 🙂

 

One who walks through fire can feel a kindred spirit,

Someone who is broken can feel another broken soul.

An experience, indescribable with words, unyielding with emotions,

Yearning for solace in the chaos and the pain.

 

But everything shifts in a mere embrace,

Chaos dissolves and pain subsides.

An unspoken understanding that love will win

In the space between the scars.

 

Invisible chains restrain us into our pasts,

Pulling, tightening with each new breath.

But soon the bonds release us,

It breaks, we fall.

 

That is when the chains are caught by one another,

Fusing together in an unbreakable weld,

They serpentine and embed into the skin

Painlessly, almost pleasantly.

 

Lingering in the wonderment and bliss

Of something as simple as an embrace.

Between two battered people, injured souls.

Perhaps one could live in this forever?

 

Writing in the Rain 8/7/2018

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Wouldn’t you like to be known for something? Evelynn Turner always wanted to be famous and what kid wouldn’t? But she never thought that she would be famous for something as simple as baking bread.

The unusual thing was, no one taught her how to bake. Her parents, who were very wealthy, hired a professional chef to make everything from scratch. Even he could not be bothered to teach Evelynn. But every night, right after the maid left for the evening, the young girl would sneak down into the kitchen where the chef would leave the dough to rise overnight. After poking it to be sure it had risen enough, she would carefully slice a piece off of the ball and get to work.

Perhaps it was her meticulous care in making sure the bread was risen perfectly, or buttered properly. Whatever the case, she mastered baking rather quickly. The chef, up until that point, had made the dough. Each morning, Evelynn would sit her perfectly baked loaf next to the ball of dough, waiting for her parents to see it in the morning. It wasn’t until she started making her own dough that they began to notice her talent.

When the whole house was asleep, she would run downstairs and scoot a stool over where she could work on the marble counter top. Natural talent grew as Evelynn grew more confident. She started with simple loaves like whole wheat and white bread. Then she moved onto Challah and Naan, exotic breads. When her parents finally figured out that it was not their paid chef who was making these delicious, warm treats, they were shocked. Her mother, a businesswoman, decided to invest in her daughter’s skill.

Five years was all it took to become world famous for Evelynn Turner. Her mother simply provided the means and paperwork for a bakery. By that time, her daughter had moved into desserts. Cupcakes, cakes, pastries, she could make them with ease. No recipe, no formal training. She was barely a teenager when she made her first million.

On her eighteenth birthday, she decided to compete in baking competitions. Her shop, named “The Sweet Tooth”, was now fully staffed and her employees were trusted enough to be on their own for a few days. You name it, Evelynn signed up for it. Every time, she won. Her name was renown through the baking industry and she was completely self-made. Well, other than a little help from her mother.

Evelynn’s number 1 and 2 rule – Never write down a recipe, because it will change every time. And never teach the student more than what the teacher knows. She always made the dough and was adamant about that. Even into her seventies and eighties, she refused to let her workers even see how many eggs she put into her muffin dough. They were in charge of baking, she was in charge of creating.

Miss Turner passed away at the ripe age of ninety-three. Throughout her life, she did not take one day off of working. It was her passion, so it never felt like working. People that she only knew through “The Sweet Tooth” attended her funeral and people who her pastries had changed their lives made an appearance. All who watched her laid to rest were gifted one final pastry of their choice. Somehow, she had known that her end was approaching and spent three days making hundreds of pastries. It was her final note left on the tongues of the world.

She took her recipes to the grave along with her talent. No one could even come close to the taste that her baking provided. Countless times, her workers had begged her to share her knowledge with them, but she refused. For fear of someone stealing her recipes? No. She had said this, and only ever this:

“Flour is just flour and sugar is just sugar. It is the person, their personality, and their care that makes the bread.”

Be sure to check out Purpose. Check out the Bookstore for buying options! You won’t be disappointed!

Enjoy this writing prompt! Show me what you come up with! 🙂

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Writing in the Heat of Summer 8/1/18

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I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to have a closet. The kids at my school make fun of me. It hurts my feelings. I cry almost every day.

My house isn’t just for me. There are kids like me there too. But they aren’t my brothers or sisters. They were brought there like me, by their parents. And just like me, their mommy and daddy never come to pick them up. Some of them are brought by the police or people in black coats. A little girl was dropped off here yesterday and won’t talk to anyone, even me.

I like Mama Ingrid, though. The other kids don’t, but I do. She does her best, but always says she doesn’t have much money. Every day she wears a blue or white shirt. White has holes, blue has a stain. Her jeans are always dirty. I think they used to be blue, but now they’re brown and gray. Down at the bottom of her pants, where she wears really old shoes, there are more stains. I think they’re from the dirt outside. Oh… her shoes are a nice color, dark blue. But I think they were brighter before.

Some of the kids have a closet. Their parents gave them a suitcase full of clothes, but they never share. My parents brought me here when I was three, Ingrid said. So I grew out of everything. Mama Ingrid never had enough to buy me more than one outfit every year. And sometimes, my clothes would get too tight before Christmas.

When I go to school in November and my shirt is too small, my friends make fun of me. They push me down and laugh. And one time, the bullies tore my shirt and I still had to wait until Christmas. Mama Ingrid said I wouldn’t be able to eat for a week if she got me a new outfit before then. But the teachers never say anything. I know they are sad for me, but they know that my mommy and daddy are gone. They know that I live in the big wooden house at the end of the road. That’s where they say all the poor kids live.

One day. I will get a closet and fill it with clothes. I wish for that every night when I see a shooting star. Mama Ingrid said that if I wish hard enough, it will happen. She asked me what I want to be when I grow up. I said a teacher who doesn’t let kids get pushed around for not having clothes. But I don’t know why, it made her cry with a smile.

When I get enough money for more clothes, I’m going to buy them. I already have pictures from the magazines taped to my wall in my room. So I know what I’m going to get when I have money. Mama Ingrid says I have to wait until I can get a job. Maybe I’ll ride the bike around town and give people their newspapers. I can do that when I’m fourteen.

But one day. I will have a closet.

 

Sorry this one is short. This was the next Writing Prompt in my board on Pinterest. But today, it did not strike any chords with my deepest inspirations. Hopefully, the one I created below will give you enough for a story!

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Back to the Writing Prompts!

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“Even canned goods go bad eventually.”

That was what his mother always told him. And that was before the bombs dropped. Now it was just Trevor. Well… not just Trevor. There were others. But they had no clue how to survive this chaos. So Trevor had to take charge. He told the others what his mother had taught him. Sometimes they would listen. But they were just kids. Most of them were under 12.

“Come on guys!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. The younger children had to, yet again, take another potty break. “We have to forage for food. We don’t have enough for even a meal!”

“Why can’t we go to the store?” one of the ten-year-olds asked. Her hair was matted and dirty. “Where is mommy and daddy?”

Trevor already knew it was coming. Another crying fit… from all of them. “I already told you all. Your parents died in the explosions.”

Everyone burst into a loud sob. He wanted to leave them, so badly. But he couldn’t let them die. And that’s just what would happen. They would starve. What he really wished for was an older adult. He was only eighteen and this was way too much responsibility for a teenager.

Where had the adults gone? In his rural suburb, they were in a town hall meeting. He was in charge of watching the children while the parents talked about what Mayor they were going to vote for in an upcoming election. Trevor always thought it was stupid. What difference would a small-town Mayor make anyway? Everyone knew everyone. If they had issues, they would sort it out with their fists or their words. He volunteered, against his mother’s wishes, to watch the children this time.

“I don’t want to vote anyway,” he snapped. “It’s a stupid election.”

But that was what saved Trevor a week ago. No one saw it coming. Hell. No one could see what caused the crater in Evergreen. Bombs? A meteor? Either way, it was another week walk to the closest town. And these kids were not making it easy to keep moving.

When they had all finally stopped crying, they were on the move again. Trevor had picked some wild blueberries and some oyster mushrooms for the group. And yet, there was another argument about what they liked to eat.

“I don’t like mushrooms.”

“I want a cheeseburger.”

“When can we find someone to feed us real food? Like chicken nuggets.”

Trevor sighed loudly, ignored them, and continued to lead them to the next down over, Baskerville. When these kids got really hungry, they would eat whatever he provided. Even mushrooms.

As they were trudging down the asphalt road, something caught a young girl’s eye. She pointed, but did not speak. The shimmer of the containers reflecting off the sunlight was beautiful. Or was Trevor becoming delusional? He hadn’t slept well in days. Food was scarce. Whatever he did find, he usually gave the children, leaving nothing for himself. Perhaps, he was becoming delusional.

“Canned goods.” He said to himself. The group cheered in unison while looking at the pictures on the wrappers. Ravioli, soup. It was enough to bring a tear to Trevor’s eye. His stomach started growling.

That was when he felt something sticky on his hand, underneath the can. He turned it over. A large hole was on the back of it. The contents were all over his hand and they did not smell good. He flipped the can upside down to read the expiration date. As he read the date, his heart sank.

“Even canned goods go bad eventually.”

 

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