Prompt: Write a dialogue between toast and french toast.
Fiction
**Warning**: This piece may trigger feelings in anyone who has strong opinions about either of these breakfast breads.
"How dare you."
"Excuse me?"
"How dare you!" The anger was evident the first time he spoke, but it was hostile the second time.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," the crispy piece of French toast said mildly. He was hoping to bring things down a notch.
"Yes you do!" the piece of toast said accusingly. "You know exactly what you did! It's all over you!" the toast sneered, gesturing toward the French toast. I would call the two of them cousins but the toast would turn his ire on me and I don't need that right now, the crusty old curmudgeon. I'm trying to narrate a story.
The French toast looked down at himself and back up at Toast.
"What? These toast marks? I got them same as you!" he said matter-of-factly.
"No! No!" Toast combated. "I was toasted. You... you were dipped... and fried! You just, just laid there and let them flip you. You're a disgrace!"
French could see this was escalating and wanted to fix that quickly, before Toast drew more attention to the situation. Jam and Butter were already looking over at them quizzically.
"Why don't we go get a drink and talk about it. I know this seems kinda weird at first," French offered with a forced chuckle.
"Uh uh! No way!" Toast said, leaning a little away, a few crumbs falling off his sides. "I know how this works! Make me your friend, cozy up to me, convince me to 'see your side of things.' No chance bud! Not interested! I don't need that soggy mess rubbing off on me!" Toast was resolute. French noticed his toast marks were a shade darker than before.
"Okay. I'm just gonna head out. Sorry if I offended you Toast. I hope you have a good day." And he meant it. "I'll see you around." He turned to leave.
"You'd better not!" Toast hollered at him. French shook his head and winced for a moment as he walked away.
"What was that all about?" asked OJ when he made it to her pitcher.
"Ohhh, just Toast," French sighed. "I guess he's never seen one of us like this before," he said, gesturing to himself.
OJ gave him a once over. "Looks good on you," she said with a tone meant to close the subject. French ignored it.
"I even apologised to him," French moaned, grimacing at his timidity.
"When did you get so soft?" asked OJ.
"About eight seconds after they dipped me in the egg bath," he replied.
"Ya," OJ nodded.
"Ya," French sighed.
Thursday 30 May 2019
Sunday 19 May 2019
Dying Words
Prompt: "Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow." Steve Jobs.
Non-fiction
**WARNING**: This piece talks about death
My grandmother died alone and abruptly. She'd slept in a double bed her whole marriage, which was a long time because she was only 16 (and pregnant) on her wedding day, and her husband died 66 years later. She kept her phone on the nightstand by her bed, the kind with large buttons with even larger numbers printed on them. All the better to see should she need to call 911 in the middle of the night.
She lived alone the last 8 years of her life. Anytime I called her and asked how she was doing the reply was always the same. "Oh... Not good. I'm very lonely without your grandad."
My sister-in-law was her weekly housekeeper and she was the one who found her in the morning, face down in the carpet, her bathrobe on, the pills and things on the nightstand knocked over. The TV was on and her crossword was set up on the bed waiting for her as usual. Undone.
My sister-in-law tried to wake her, called out to her, called 911 and tried to roll over the stiff cold body when they asked her to check for a pulse.
She doesn't like to talk about that day.
At the funeral I tried to imagine what crossing over would have been like for my grandmother. The doctors think maybe she'd had a heart attack, something we had been anticipating, that she had been in her bathroom washing up for the evening, applying her night cream, always so diligent about her skin, when she'd felt the pains and came out into the room, maybe reached for her phone with the comically large buttons and instead toppled, dropping like a stone to the carpet. The morgue had to apply extra corrective make-up to cover the rug burn on her cheek.
What happened after she collided? Did she get up, her spirit leaving her body behind, and stand a little stupefied, "Oh my"? I imagined her retracing her steps and looking in the bathroom mirror only to see a much younger and smoother version of herself reflected back. "Oh my!" And then her name, "Thelma." And she'd look to her right and see the man who had gently, sweetly, achingly called out to her. "Oh my! Oh Russell! Oh! Oh!" And she'd fly to him and cling to him and kiss his face and he would hold her the way he always did, one hand on her chin and one on her arm. And they'd cry together, glad and reunited and young again as everything tangible around them evaporated and my grandfather took his "best girl" home to their next life.
Non-fiction
**WARNING**: This piece talks about death
My grandmother died alone and abruptly. She'd slept in a double bed her whole marriage, which was a long time because she was only 16 (and pregnant) on her wedding day, and her husband died 66 years later. She kept her phone on the nightstand by her bed, the kind with large buttons with even larger numbers printed on them. All the better to see should she need to call 911 in the middle of the night.
She lived alone the last 8 years of her life. Anytime I called her and asked how she was doing the reply was always the same. "Oh... Not good. I'm very lonely without your grandad."
My sister-in-law was her weekly housekeeper and she was the one who found her in the morning, face down in the carpet, her bathrobe on, the pills and things on the nightstand knocked over. The TV was on and her crossword was set up on the bed waiting for her as usual. Undone.
My sister-in-law tried to wake her, called out to her, called 911 and tried to roll over the stiff cold body when they asked her to check for a pulse.
She doesn't like to talk about that day.
At the funeral I tried to imagine what crossing over would have been like for my grandmother. The doctors think maybe she'd had a heart attack, something we had been anticipating, that she had been in her bathroom washing up for the evening, applying her night cream, always so diligent about her skin, when she'd felt the pains and came out into the room, maybe reached for her phone with the comically large buttons and instead toppled, dropping like a stone to the carpet. The morgue had to apply extra corrective make-up to cover the rug burn on her cheek.
What happened after she collided? Did she get up, her spirit leaving her body behind, and stand a little stupefied, "Oh my"? I imagined her retracing her steps and looking in the bathroom mirror only to see a much younger and smoother version of herself reflected back. "Oh my!" And then her name, "Thelma." And she'd look to her right and see the man who had gently, sweetly, achingly called out to her. "Oh my! Oh Russell! Oh! Oh!" And she'd fly to him and cling to him and kiss his face and he would hold her the way he always did, one hand on her chin and one on her arm. And they'd cry together, glad and reunited and young again as everything tangible around them evaporated and my grandfather took his "best girl" home to their next life.
Tuesday 13 August 2013
Spilt Milk
**The following is a fictional piece inspired by a messy breakfast with Cody :)
They say there's no sense crying over spilt milk. But when all you have left to feed your starving child is a cup of milk, spilling it can mean everything.
All I had left to feed my little boy were a few withering strawberries, a little granola, half a slimy brown banana, ice cubes, a small loaf of bread, a little peanut butter and a cup of milk. The small container of blueberries I had been rationing was now riddled with mold, so it went grievously into the garbage bin. I toasted a thin slice of bread and spread an even thinner layer of peanut butter over top, making sure to do it while the toast was still hot so the butter would melt and spread a little easier and a little further.
My son sat eagerly in his high chair, bouncing slightly and smacking his lips, his eyes glued to the toast, tear stains on his cheeks. I tried to postpone "meal times" as long as possible in an effort to minimize how often we ate. I handed him the warm sticky toast and he took it with both hands using the tips of his fingers, putting it directly in his mouth, shaking slightly, careful not to waste any by getting it on his cheeks. He was so intelligent. Only a year and a half old and yet so intuitive and aware of our circumstances. Patient: no. Watchful: yes.
I took out our blender to put together the rest of his meal. It was a necessary evil. Lately, my little boy wouldn't eat anything unless it was toast, creamy pasta, or came in liquid form. I took off the lid and put in six ice cubes. I cut off the tops of the last four strawberries (the fifth was layered in white fuzzy mold) and put them in. Peeling the slimy brown peel off the last half of a banana with a sharp knife, I let the pale yellow and brown flesh inside slide out and plop into the blender. The last of the milk, about a cup, was still in the large gallon container in the fridge. I took it out and added a little cold water to stretch it out and poured it on top. I had been relying on those blueberries to give my son a little sustenance, and to "bulk up" this makeshift breakfast drink. He wouldn't eat any fruits or vegetables unless they were served to him disguised as a smoothie. I searched through my cupboards, full of spices and sauces and sugar, none of which were useful in sustaining health, and bit my lip, searching. I moved a bag of graham crumbs aside and found what I was hoping for: a small pouch of granola. I unsealed it and poured some into the blender.
Placing the lid on top and smiling half-heartedly at my son, who looked and smiled back, I plugged in the blender and turned it on. The ice and berries, the banana, the milk and the granola all whirled together. I let it run, hoping over time the granola would break down and blend in. Any "foreign textures" and my son would surely spit it out. I watched the mixture pulsing and swirling. It was a beautiful shade of pink, like a creamy strawberry milkshake. I turned it off.
Lately, the little man has refused his sippy cup and has instead insisted on drinking out of a regular cup like the rest of us. I was wary to begin with, worried he would spill or dump any amount we gave him. But he surprised me. He was careful and gentle, always eyeing the liquid inside and tilting the cup and his head back slowly until he got some in his mouth. He rarely ever dribbled on himself and only once did he unintentionally knock his cup over when he reached past it for something else.
I poured the pretty pink smoothie into a small cup, only filling it half way, and placed it in the cup holder on his tray. I sat down to rest and to watch him. He gingerly placed his small corner of toast on the tray and used both hands to pick up his cup. Slowly and carefully as always, he took a drink. He swallowed and pulled the cup away from his lips. A thin granola milk moustache lined his upper lip and he smiled at me and said "yummy." He sucked back the rest and when he came up for air he did as all children do and said "ahhhhhh," smiling. "More?" he asked. "Say please," I told him. "Please?" he said in his sweet little voice. I took his cup and poured the rest of the smoothie in. He drank some more and placed the cup on the tray beside the cup holder. He went back to his toast and took a tiny bite, kicking his feet absent-mindedly.
My line of sight strayed to the table and fell on the list of bills and their impending due dates. I sighed deeply and put my elbows on the table and both hands in my hair. I never thought I'd ever be one of those people who had to choose between shelter or food. Homelessness or starvation. But we were nearly there. Another few days and we would have neither.
Sitting back I took another deep breath. I looked at my son and he was watching me. I gave him a half-smile and picked up the pen on the table. He said "color!" and his sticky hand jutted out toward the pen, knocking over his small strawberry smoothie. "Daniel no!" I let out in shock as I jumped up and grabbed the cup, trying to save what hadn't already spilled out. I let out an angry frustrated groan. "Color! Color!" he insisted, reaching for the pen that was now sitting on the table. "NO!" I shouted. "YOU DRINK YOUR CUP!" "Noooo!" he cried, his lip jutting out in defiance. He sat back, scowling.
I ripped a paper towel off the roll and came back to him. Wiping up the spilled pink liquid I told him again "drink your cup," this time quieter but still stern. I was holding on to my temper by a thread. He sat still and grumbled quietly. I cleaned off his tray and thought to myself, "there's no sense crying over spilt milk." I shouldn't have screamed at him. But that little pink smoothie was all that we had left. I could make due for one more day. I was sure I could make something, anything, out of what we had in the cupboards to fill his little belly. "There's no sense crying over spilt milk." But what if milk was all you had left?
They say there's no sense crying over spilt milk. But when all you have left to feed your starving child is a cup of milk, spilling it can mean everything.
All I had left to feed my little boy were a few withering strawberries, a little granola, half a slimy brown banana, ice cubes, a small loaf of bread, a little peanut butter and a cup of milk. The small container of blueberries I had been rationing was now riddled with mold, so it went grievously into the garbage bin. I toasted a thin slice of bread and spread an even thinner layer of peanut butter over top, making sure to do it while the toast was still hot so the butter would melt and spread a little easier and a little further.
My son sat eagerly in his high chair, bouncing slightly and smacking his lips, his eyes glued to the toast, tear stains on his cheeks. I tried to postpone "meal times" as long as possible in an effort to minimize how often we ate. I handed him the warm sticky toast and he took it with both hands using the tips of his fingers, putting it directly in his mouth, shaking slightly, careful not to waste any by getting it on his cheeks. He was so intelligent. Only a year and a half old and yet so intuitive and aware of our circumstances. Patient: no. Watchful: yes.
I took out our blender to put together the rest of his meal. It was a necessary evil. Lately, my little boy wouldn't eat anything unless it was toast, creamy pasta, or came in liquid form. I took off the lid and put in six ice cubes. I cut off the tops of the last four strawberries (the fifth was layered in white fuzzy mold) and put them in. Peeling the slimy brown peel off the last half of a banana with a sharp knife, I let the pale yellow and brown flesh inside slide out and plop into the blender. The last of the milk, about a cup, was still in the large gallon container in the fridge. I took it out and added a little cold water to stretch it out and poured it on top. I had been relying on those blueberries to give my son a little sustenance, and to "bulk up" this makeshift breakfast drink. He wouldn't eat any fruits or vegetables unless they were served to him disguised as a smoothie. I searched through my cupboards, full of spices and sauces and sugar, none of which were useful in sustaining health, and bit my lip, searching. I moved a bag of graham crumbs aside and found what I was hoping for: a small pouch of granola. I unsealed it and poured some into the blender.
Placing the lid on top and smiling half-heartedly at my son, who looked and smiled back, I plugged in the blender and turned it on. The ice and berries, the banana, the milk and the granola all whirled together. I let it run, hoping over time the granola would break down and blend in. Any "foreign textures" and my son would surely spit it out. I watched the mixture pulsing and swirling. It was a beautiful shade of pink, like a creamy strawberry milkshake. I turned it off.
Lately, the little man has refused his sippy cup and has instead insisted on drinking out of a regular cup like the rest of us. I was wary to begin with, worried he would spill or dump any amount we gave him. But he surprised me. He was careful and gentle, always eyeing the liquid inside and tilting the cup and his head back slowly until he got some in his mouth. He rarely ever dribbled on himself and only once did he unintentionally knock his cup over when he reached past it for something else.
I poured the pretty pink smoothie into a small cup, only filling it half way, and placed it in the cup holder on his tray. I sat down to rest and to watch him. He gingerly placed his small corner of toast on the tray and used both hands to pick up his cup. Slowly and carefully as always, he took a drink. He swallowed and pulled the cup away from his lips. A thin granola milk moustache lined his upper lip and he smiled at me and said "yummy." He sucked back the rest and when he came up for air he did as all children do and said "ahhhhhh," smiling. "More?" he asked. "Say please," I told him. "Please?" he said in his sweet little voice. I took his cup and poured the rest of the smoothie in. He drank some more and placed the cup on the tray beside the cup holder. He went back to his toast and took a tiny bite, kicking his feet absent-mindedly.
My line of sight strayed to the table and fell on the list of bills and their impending due dates. I sighed deeply and put my elbows on the table and both hands in my hair. I never thought I'd ever be one of those people who had to choose between shelter or food. Homelessness or starvation. But we were nearly there. Another few days and we would have neither.
Sitting back I took another deep breath. I looked at my son and he was watching me. I gave him a half-smile and picked up the pen on the table. He said "color!" and his sticky hand jutted out toward the pen, knocking over his small strawberry smoothie. "Daniel no!" I let out in shock as I jumped up and grabbed the cup, trying to save what hadn't already spilled out. I let out an angry frustrated groan. "Color! Color!" he insisted, reaching for the pen that was now sitting on the table. "NO!" I shouted. "YOU DRINK YOUR CUP!" "Noooo!" he cried, his lip jutting out in defiance. He sat back, scowling.
I ripped a paper towel off the roll and came back to him. Wiping up the spilled pink liquid I told him again "drink your cup," this time quieter but still stern. I was holding on to my temper by a thread. He sat still and grumbled quietly. I cleaned off his tray and thought to myself, "there's no sense crying over spilt milk." I shouldn't have screamed at him. But that little pink smoothie was all that we had left. I could make due for one more day. I was sure I could make something, anything, out of what we had in the cupboards to fill his little belly. "There's no sense crying over spilt milk." But what if milk was all you had left?
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