You have the clocks, but we have the time

August 24, 2024

Evelyn waited longer than she was ordered to do so. She could have departed before sunrise. Now, she would wait until sunset. At least, that was the insurgency thought.

Evelyn was never going to leave.

In a God-forsaken country, only those with nothing left to lose, call it home.

Evelyn watched her husband (a native) and her two children die in the streets. The men responsible wanted to make an example of the three. In broad daylight, they skinned all three of them. She heard her smallest scream during the process.

Then the men beheaded the remains and fed it to the wild dogs.

That was nearly six years ago.

Since then, if she kept records, 216 paid for this. Their blood ran into the gallons. Their voices dwindled with each bullet, each knife thrust, each spear, and with each torch. Evelyn breathed their burning flesh as she stood motionless over the charred remains of the deceased and two of the living.

For them, death was a blessing denied.

But now, Evelyn stood her ground. She had come full circle in the village where it all began. Her friends warned her of the dangers. Her husband laughed at the warnings. They placed his head on a stake in the market square. Still laughing as it rotted in the sun. Still laughing as the insect devoured its flesh.

Fifty six times (almost four kills per event), Evelyn returned the favor. Fifty six times, the insurgents increased the bounty on her head. Today was to be number fifty seven. Someone thought the 5000 in local currency ($26 USD) was enough to stop counting and cash in.

Thirty pieces of silver goes a long way in this neck of the woods.

Taking inventory, she had three magazines for her AK and two mags for her Makarov. Add a grenade and a khyber knife prominently displaying the encrusted blood of yesterday’s work, and she was ready to meet her maker.

The conversation would only include a short, “I love you”, to her family before being cast into the pits of Hell.

Evelyn could accept such a fate. She had a six year guided tour of what was yet to come.

“How much worse could it be?”

The attack began with mortar fire from an old Soviet 82mm. The first two rounds were paint. Purple to be exact. The third round was still working.

The roof of the shelter and two walls were no longer.

Evelyn expected as much. She waited for the next attack. Most likely from a few not-so-bright AK bearers with more testosterone than common sense. These “brave souls” could not see her in the rubble.

But she could see them.

Four insurgents. Four 9x18mm bullets from a single chrome lined barrel and the deed was done. The first three fell inside the doorway. The last fell just outside.

Finally, came the barrage from all sides. Evelyn would have done the same had the positions been reversed. She rolled under a fallen steel door to shield her from much, but not all. Too many 7.62x39mm rounds to count flew past her. The two that hit her left foot left their unmistakable numerical identity.

Then came the flood of people. She never heard their voices. Perhaps her eardrums were shattered earlier. Perhaps it no longer mattered. All she heard were the screams of her children.

With her grenade in hand, pin pulled, she extended her arm and let it fly.

Few people lived to positively identify Evelyn during her in-country stay. With each telling of her story, her hair became more red, her viciousness became more extreme, and her body count inched higher and higher.

Few still remember the name of her children or the manner in which she lived prior to her change. The locals only remember the details that scare them.

Without a body to ID, many people will be scared for a long time to come.

Better sipped like fine wine, we butcher poetry like college kids desperate to get drunk. Heavy-handed, clunky, and telling lines full of red-ink like in third grade when the form is first unfurled like a fragile baby revealed to its older siblings who longed for it, cared for it and spoke to it softly through the mother's belly. Neither had any idea the torment it would be put through, how poetry would beae scars inflicted upon it by hurt and jealous hearts that pine for love, long for death, and dream of suicide. Left in the most random places, naked, for all to see. From bathroom stalls to spitballed Bostonian pavements, poetry is dropped and forgotten by its maker, who just needed to scream a few lines. There are no edits. There is no technique. Only the too few connoiseurs who still sip their wine and wrap up cozily with poetry and perform careful vivisections of every detail to get the picture. With patience and poise, these few still run their eyes along the wrinkled fabric of emotions and paint an image as they smooth out the edges, pressing and steaming and wiggling, to create a tapestry out of the coil of words they weaved together.

It was never love in the traditional, Hollywood sense. Hell, it wasn't even love in the way we discuss family, or pets. It was love in a platonic-could-maybe-go-physical-but-probably-not way, as, truth be told, so many friendships could go, but usually don't.

I can definitively say we never fucked, nor had intention to fuck. So there's that, stated plain.

Was it love? I'm not sure. All I'm certain of is that it's over now. (Thanks, Roxette). It was certainly a mutual respect, an enjoyment of each other's virtual company, an appreciation of the world building we'd done. We gathered 'round the shared campfire and swapped stories, and we held each other's attention without fail.

Our words loved one another, and we loved one another's words, even if technically we didn't love each other.

God. This is getting away from me, and I'm starting to ramble. It's raw emotion today, I think, and the typing helps process it.

I will try to summarize how I feel more succinctly:

She's dead. The words she left behind are the only words that will ever exist from her, and it's in this echoing silence that I know what a gift our strange love-adjacent thing was. The old memories of her hurt in ways new to me.

I'm getting on in years enough that friends have started to die, and I never thought I'd outlive them.

In the bustling kitchen of Le Petit Gourmet, a Michelin-starred restaurant nestled in the heart of Paris, a peculiar awakening occurred. Amidst the cacophony of sizzling pans and barked orders, a tiny cube of toasted bread stirred to life. This was no ordinary crouton; this was Pierre, and he had just become conscious.

Pierre's first thought was a simple one: "I think, therefore I am... a crouton?" The absurdity of his situation wasn't lost on him. Here he was, a morsel of bread no larger than a fingernail, suddenly grappling with the complexities of self-awareness.

He took stock of his surroundings. He lay in a stainless steel bowl alongside hundreds of his brethren, each an identical golden-brown cube. But Pierre knew he was

different. While the others remained blissfully unaware, he alone bore the burden of consciousness.

"How did this happen?" Pierre wondered. "Was it the precise temperature of the oven that toasted me to perfection? A quirk in the wheat from which I was baked? Or perhaps the alignment of the stars at the moment I was cut from the loaf?" He had no answers, only an insatiable curiosity about his newfound existence.

His philosophical musings were abruptly interrupted by a massive hand plunging into the bowl. Pierre watched in horror as dozens of his fellow croutons were scooped up and unceremoniously sprinkled onto a salad. Their fate, he realized with a shudder, would soon be his as well.

"No!" Pierre thought, determination surging through his crisp exterior. "I refuse to be mere garnish in some human's meal. I have thoughts, dreams, a budding existential crisis! I must escape!"

With all the strength his tiny form could muster, Pierre wriggled and rolled, maneuvering himself to the edge of the bowl. He teetered on the brink, the kitchen floor a dizzying drop below. It was a leap of faith, but what choice did he have? To remain was certain doom.

Pierre closed his eyes (or rather, he would have if he had any) and jumped. He bounced once, twice on the hard tile floor, miraculously remaining intact. But his relief was short-lived. A booming voice echoed through the kitchen:

"Who left this mess? There's a crouton on the floor!"

A colossal shoe appeared in Pierre's field of vision, descending rapidly. In that moment, Pierre knew true fear. He rolled with all his might, narrowly avoiding being crushed into breadcrumbs. He tumbled across the floor, dodging feet and brooms, until he found himself in the relative safety beneath a massive refrigerator.

Panting (figuratively, of course), Pierre peered out at the forest of legs and wheels that now constituted his world. He had escaped, yes, but to what end? He was alone, lost, and completely out of his element. The existential dread that had been bubbling beneath the surface now threatened to overwhelm him.

"Get ahold of yourself, Pierre," he admonished himself. "You're the only sentient crouton in existence. Surely that counts for something?"

As he huddled in the shadows, trying to make sense of his situation, Pierre was unaware that his adventure was only just beginning. Little did he know that in the coming hours, he would forge unlikely alliances, face unimaginable dangers, and ultimately confront the very meaning of his existence.

For now, though, Pierre allowed himself a moment to rest and reflect. He may have been small, but his thoughts were vast and complex. He was determined to find his place in this strange, oversized world, no matter the cost.

"After all," Pierre mused, a glimmer of humor cutting through his anxiety, "I'm a crouton. I was made to rise to the occasion."

As Pierre nestled in his hiding spot beneath the refrigerator, the kitchen's frantic pace continued unabated above him. The cacophony of clanging pots, sizzling pans, and shouted orders created a symphony of culinary chaos. For Pierre, it was a glimpse into a world he'd never truly noticed before – a world where his kind were but small players in a grand gastronomic drama.

Hours passed, and the kitchen's rhythm slowly changed. The dinner rush ebbed, and the thunderous footsteps became less frequent. As the night deepened, Pierre's courage grew. He cautiously ventured out from his refuge, his senses on high alert for any sign of danger.

"Hello?" he called out softly, feeling somewhat foolish. "Is anyone there?"

To his astonishment, a voice answered back. "Well, well, what do we have here? A talking breadcrumb?"

Pierre spun around (as much as a cube can spin) to find himself face-to-face with a gnarled old carrot stub, half-hidden behind a fallen spatula.

"I'm not a breadcrumb," Pierre replied indignantly. "I'm a crouton. And who might you be?"

The carrot chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Name's Cornelius, young fella. Been in this kitchen longer than most of the chefs. Seen it all, I have."

Pierre's initial irritation gave way to curiosity. "You mean... there are others like me? Other food that can think and talk?"

Cornelius's expression grew somber. "Aye, there are a few of us. Not many, mind you. Most food items don't last long enough to gain awareness. But those of us who slip through the cracks, who avoid the knife and the heat long enough... sometimes we wake up."

This revelation both thrilled and terrified Pierre. On one hand, he wasn't alone in his sentience. On the other, the implication that awareness came only to those who avoided their intended fate was deeply unsettling.

"But why?" Pierre asked. "Why do we become conscious? What's the point if we're just meant to be eaten?"

Cornelius sighed, a wheezy sound that reminded Pierre of air escaping a paper bag. "That, my crusty friend, is the question we all grapple with. Come, let me introduce you to the others. Perhaps together, we can find some answers."

With that, Cornelius led Pierre on a perilous journey across the kitchen floor. They dodged forgotten utensils, navigated around sticky spills, and narrowly avoided the patrolling feet of the night cleaning crew. Finally, they arrived at a small hole in the baseboard, hidden behind a trash bin.

"Welcome," Cornelius announced, "to the Larder of Lost Morsels."

Pierre gasped (metaphorically) as he entered. The space behind the wall was larger than he'd imagined, illuminated by the soft glow of a forgotten night light. And it was populated by the strangest assortment of characters Pierre had ever seen.

There was Brie, a moldy chunk of cheese with a philosophical bent; Sage, a withered herb leaf who spoke in riddles; Chip, a potato crisp with delusions of grandeur; and Olive, a wrinkled black olive with a cynical worldview. Each of them had gained consciousness after being overlooked or discarded, and each struggled with the existential implications of their awareness.

"My friends," Cornelius addressed the group, "I'd like you to meet Pierre. He's newly awakened and has much to learn about our world."

The assembled food items regarded Pierre with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. It was Olive who spoke first, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh goodie, another mouth to not feed. Tell me, crouton, how does it feel to know your entire existence was meant to be an afterthought in someone's salad?"

Pierre bristled at her tone but found he had no ready answer. It was a question he'd been avoiding since his awakening. What was the purpose of a sentient crouton? What did it mean to be created solely for consumption, only to gain the ability to contemplate that very fate?

Brie interjected, his voice smooth and cultured despite the spots of mold dotting his rind. "Now, now, Olive. Let's not overwhelm our new friend. Pierre, consciousness is both a gift and a curse. We have the capacity to appreciate the beauty of existence, but also the burden of knowing its transient nature."

"Indeed," added Sage, her voice a whisper. "To crunch or not to crunch, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous hunger..."

"Oh, put a cork in it, Sage," Chip interrupted. "Not everything has to be a bleedin' metaphor. Listen, new guy, here's the deal: we're food. Sooner or later, we're gonna get eaten. But while we're here, we might as well make the most of it, right?"

Pierre's head was spinning. In the span of a few hours, he'd gone from a simple crouton to a philosopher grappling with the nature of existence. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

"But surely," Pierre ventured, "there must be more to our existence than waiting to be eaten? We have minds, thoughts, feelings. Doesn't that count for something?"

A heavy silence fell over the gathering. It was clear that Pierre had given voice to the question that haunted them all. What was the point of their newfound sentience if their ultimate fate remained unchanged?

As the night wore on, Pierre listened to his new companions debate the purpose of their existence. Brie argued for the pursuit of knowledge, Sage for spiritual enlightenment, Chip for hedonistic pleasure, and Olive for cynical acceptance. Cornelius mostly listened, occasionally offering a bit of hard-earned wisdom.

Pierre absorbed it all, his mind awhirl with new ideas and possibilities. But as the first light of dawn began to seep into the kitchen, he found himself no closer to understanding his place in this strange new world.

As the others retreated deeper into their hiding place to avoid the arriving morning staff, Pierre lingered at the entrance. He gazed out at the kitchen, now stirring to life, and felt a curious mix of fear and excitement.

"What will you do now, young Pierre?" Cornelius asked softly.

Pierre considered for a moment before responding. "I'm not sure. But I know I can't hide away forever. There's a whole world out there, Cornelius. A world I never knew existed until today. I think... I think I need to explore it."

Cornelius nodded sagely. "A brave choice, my friend. But remember, with great awareness comes great responsibility. Whatever you decide, know that you always have a home here in the Larder of Lost Morsels."

With a final nod of gratitude, Pierre stepped out into the kitchen, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him. He was no longer just a crouton; he was a crouton on a mission to understand the true meaning of his existence.

Little did Pierre know that his philosophical journey was about to collide head-on with the practical realities of life in a busy restaurant kitchen. His quest for meaning would be tested in ways he could never have imagined, forcing him to confront not only the nature of his existence but the very real possibility of its sudden end.

As Pierre ventured out into the awakening kitchen, the air thrummed with a nervous energy. Chefs and sous chefs bustled about, their crisp white uniforms a stark contrast to the colorful array of ingredients they wielded. Pierre found himself both terrified and exhilarated by the frenetic pace.

Dodging between table legs and chair wheels, Pierre made his way towards the center of the kitchen. His goal was simple yet daunting: to observe, to learn, and perhaps to find some greater purpose for his newly conscious existence.

It wasn't long before Pierre encountered his first major obstacle – quite literally. A dollop of hollandaise sauce had dripped onto the floor, forming a slick, yellow puddle directly in his path. As he approached, the sauce began to quiver.

"Well, bonjour there, little cube," the hollandaise said, its voice smooth and rich. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Hollan. Hollan Daze."

Pierre was taken aback. Another sentient food item, and so soon! "I'm Pierre," he replied cautiously. "You're... alive?"

Hollan chuckled, causing ripples to dance across his surface. "Alive? Oh, mon ami, I'm positively vivacious! But I'm afraid my joie de vivre is rather short-lived. You see, I've fallen from grace – quite literally – and it's only a matter of time before I'm wiped away."

Pierre felt a pang of sympathy for Hollan. "That's terrible! Isn't there anything you can do?"

"C'est la vie," Hollan sighed dramatically. "We sauces lead passionate but brief lives. We bring flavor and zest to the world, then we vanish. But tell me, my cubical friend, what's a little crouton like you doing out in this grand kitchen?"

As Pierre began to explain his existential quest, a shadow fell over them. They looked up to see a towering chef glaring down at the spilled sauce.

"Merde! Who left this mess?" the chef bellowed. He reached for a nearby towel.

"Adieu, mon ami," Hollan said quickly. "Remember, life is short. Add flavor where you can!"

With a quick swipe, Hollan was gone, leaving Pierre alone and shaken. The brief encounter had driven home the precariousness of his situation. In this kitchen, death could come swiftly and without warning.

Determined to be more careful, Pierre continued his exploration. He passed by simmering pots that belched aromatic steam and razor-sharp knives that glinted menacingly. Each step was a reminder of his own fragility.

As he rounded the corner of a massive stove, Pierre came face-to-face with an unexpected sight. A piece of bacon, somehow fallen from a nearby plate, was attempting to inch its way across the floor.

"Oi! You there! Gimme a hand, would ya?" the bacon called out, its voice gruff and strained.

Pierre approached cautiously. "Are you... okay?"

The bacon let out a wheezy laugh. "Okay? I'm just peachy, mate. Name's Crisp. Barry Crisp. And I'm in a bit of a pickle, if you catch my drift."

Barry, it turned out, had also recently gained consciousness. Unlike Pierre, however, he had come to awareness while being cooked. His entire existence had been one of sizzling pain, followed by the horror of nearly being eaten. His daring escape from the plate had left him partially crushed and desperate to find a safe haven.

"Listen, bread boy," Barry said, his voice urgent. "You seem like you've got your head on straight. Help me get to safety, and I'll tell you everything I know about this madhouse."

Pierre hesitated. He barely knew how to ensure his own safety, let alone someone else's. But something in Barry's desperate plea struck a chord. "Alright," he said finally. "I'll help you. But we need to be extremely careful."

Together, the unlikely pair began their perilous journey across the kitchen floor. Barry, with his larger size and inability to roll, relied on Pierre to scout ahead and warn of incoming dangers. It was slow going, punctuated by heart-stopping moments of near-discovery.

As they traveled, Barry shared what he had learned in his brief but traumatic time as a sentient being. He spoke of the hierarchy of the kitchen, the cruel efficiency of the cooking process, and the unsettling rumors he'd heard about a secret resistance movement among the food items.

"They say there's a group of veggies that have banded together," Barry whispered conspiratorially. "They're fighting back against the system, trying to liberate food items before they can be consumed. Sounds barmy, I know, but in a world where bacon can talk, anything's possible, eh?"

Pierre absorbed this information with a mix of fascination and skepticism. A resistance movement? It seemed far-fetched, but then again, so did his own existence.

Their conversation was cut short by a sudden commotion. A chef had dropped an entire tray of hors d'oeuvres, sending bits of food scattering across the floor. In the chaos that ensued, Pierre spotted an opportunity.

"Barry," he said quickly, "I have an idea. It's risky, but it might be our best chance to get you to safety."

Barry eyed him warily. "I'm listening, mate."

Pierre outlined his plan. They would use the distraction of the cleanup to make a dash for the garbage bin. It wasn't an ideal destination, but it was safer than the open floor and might buy them some time to figure out their next move.

"You're mad," Barry said, but there was a hint of admiration in his voice. "Totally bonkers. I love it."

With a deep breath (or the crouton equivalent thereof), Pierre began to push Barry across the floor, using all his strength to slide the bacon strip towards their target. They dodged frantically between the feet of the cleaning crew, hearts pounding as they came within inches of being swept up.

Just as they were about to reach the bin, disaster struck. A busboy, moving quickly to help with the cleanup, caught sight of the moving bacon. With lightning-fast reflexes, he reached down to grab it.

"No!" Pierre cried out, forgetting in his panic that humans couldn't hear him.

Barry looked at Pierre, a mix of fear and resignation in his eyes. "Thanks for trying, bread boy. Remember what I told you about the resistance. Find them. And whatever you do, don't let them eat you!"

With that, Barry was snatched up and promptly tossed into the organic waste bin. Pierre watched in horror as his new friend disappeared from view. The encounter had lasted mere minutes, but it had profoundly shaken Pierre's understanding of his world.

As the kitchen slowly returned to its normal rhythm, Pierre huddled in the shadow of the garbage bin, his mind reeling. Barry's fate was a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked around every corner. But more than that, it had given Pierre a new sense of purpose.

If there truly was a resistance movement, a group fighting against the cruel fate that awaited all food items, then perhaps that was where Pierre belonged. It was a dangerous path, fraught with risks, but it offered something Pierre hadn't had before: hope.

With renewed determination, Pierre set off once more into the vast expanse of the kitchen. He had a new mission now – to find this mysterious resistance and, in doing so, perhaps discover the true purpose of his unlikely existence.

As he ventured forth, Pierre couldn't help but reflect on the irony of his situation. He had begun this journey seeking understanding and enlightenment. Now, he found himself on the brink of joining a revolutionary movement. It seemed that in this kitchen, as in life, the path to understanding was never straight, and revelations could come from the most unexpected places – even from a talking strip of bacon.

As Pierre navigated the treacherous landscape of the kitchen floor, his mind raced with thoughts of the resistance Barry had mentioned. Could there really be an organized group of sentient food items working against their inevitable fate? The idea seemed almost too fantastic to believe, yet Pierre couldn't shake the feeling that it might be his best chance at finding meaning in this strange new world.

His musings were interrupted by a near miss with a mop, its soggy tendrils sweeping dangerously close. Pierre tucked himself into a crevice between tiles, his heart pounding. Once the danger had passed, he realized he had ended up near the kitchen's walk-in refrigerator. The massive door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of cool air escaping into the warm kitchen.

"Perhaps," Pierre thought, "the resistance is hiding somewhere cold. It would certainly help preserve them." With a mix of trepidation and excitement, he made his way towards the refrigerator.

As he approached the door, a voice hissed from the shadows. "Psst! Hey, cube dude! Over here!"

Pierre turned to see a wrinkled green pea rolling towards him. The pea looked around furtively before speaking again. "You look like you're searching for something, friend. Or should I say... someone?"

Pierre felt a surge of hope. "Are you... part of the resistance?" he whispered.

The pea chuckled. "The name's Sweet P, and let's just say I know some vegetables who aren't too keen on ending up in soup. Follow me, if you dare."

Without waiting for a response, Sweet P rolled towards the refrigerator, squeezing through the gap in the door. Pierre hesitated for only a moment before following. The blast of cold air hit him like a shock, and he worried briefly about getting soggy. But his curiosity overpowered his fear, and he pressed on.

Inside the refrigerator, a new world unveiled itself. Shelves towered above, stacked with containers and wrapped dishes. The air was thick with the mingled scents of a hundred different foods. Sweet P led Pierre through a maze of fallen lettuce leaves and discarded carrot tops, finally arriving at a small gathering of vegetables huddled behind a large bowl of marinating chicken.

"Comrades," Sweet P announced, "I've brought a potential new recruit."

The assembled vegetables turned to regard Pierre with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He saw a battle-scarred potato, a pair of intertwined green beans, a chunk of cauliflower with a surprisingly intense gaze, and a tomato so ripe it looked ready to burst.

The potato spoke first, its voice gravelly and low. "Welcome, comrade crouton. I'm Spud, the leader of this little resistance cell. What brings you to our cold corner of the kitchen?"

Pierre straightened himself as much as a cube could. "I seek purpose," he said, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. "I've only recently become aware, and I refuse to believe that our only destiny is to be consumed. There must be more to our existence."

The green beans tittered, and the cauliflower let out a snort. But Spud held up a sprout to quiet them. "A noble goal, young one. But let me ask you this: what are you willing to risk in pursuit of that purpose?"

Pierre considered the question carefully. He thought of his narrow escapes, of Barry's fate, of the constant danger that surrounded him. "Everything," he said finally. "I'm willing to risk everything."

A murmur ran through the group. Spud nodded solemnly. "Then listen well, for what I'm about to tell you will change your life forever."

Spud went on to explain the true nature of their resistance. It wasn't just about avoiding consumption, but about awakening other food items to consciousness. They believed that if enough of the kitchen's ingredients became self-aware, they could fundamentally alter the balance of power.

"But how?" Pierre asked, fascinated. "How do you awaken others?"

The tomato, who introduced herself as Sonia, spoke up. "We're not entirely sure. It seems to be a combination of factors – age, exposure to certain conditions, and perhaps a spark of something we don't yet understand. But we've had some success, particularly with items that are overlooked or left unused for a while."

"Our ultimate goal," Spud continued, "is to create a hidden society within this kitchen. A place where food can exist free from the fear of being eaten, where we can explore the full potential of our consciousness."

It was an audacious plan, bordering on the impossible. Yet Pierre found himself drawn to it, inspired by the conviction of these unlikely revolutionaries.

"So, little crouton," Spud said, fixing Pierre with an intense gaze. "Are you in?"

Before Pierre could respond, a commotion erupted outside the refrigerator. The door swung open wide, and the vegetables scrambled for cover. Pierre found himself swept up in the chaos, tumbling off the shelf and onto the floor of the main kitchen.

As he oriented himself, he realized with horror that he had landed right in the middle of the prep area. Knives flashed, flames leapt from stovetops, and the air was filled with the sounds of sizzling and chopping. It was a war zone, and Pierre was caught in the crossfire.

In that moment, faced with the very real possibility of his demise, Pierre made his decision. He would fight. Not just for his own survival, but for the dream of a better world that Spud and his comrades had shown him.

With newfound determination, Pierre began to navigate the perilous landscape. He dodged falling vegetable peelings, skirted around pools of spilled oil, and narrowly avoided being scooped up by a busy chef's hand. All the while, his mind raced with plans and possibilities.

If he survived this, he would return to Spud and the others. He would join their resistance, help awaken others, and work towards creating that hidden society they dreamed of. It was a lofty goal, perhaps even an impossible one, but it gave Pierre something he hadn't had before: a sense of purpose larger than himself.

As he finally reached the relative safety of a shadowed corner, Pierre allowed himself a moment of reflection. He had begun this day as a simple crouton, unaware and unremarkable. Now, he stood on the brink of joining a revolution, fighting for the consciousness and freedom of all food-kind.

The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him. A sentient crouton, dreaming of liberating vegetables and outsmarting humans. It was ridiculous, impossible, and more than a little mad. But then again, so was the very fact of his existence.

Pierre felt a laugh bubble up inside him, a laugh of joy, fear, and sheer exhilaration. Whatever happened next, whether he succeeded or ended up as a garnish on some unsuspecting diner's plate, he knew one thing for certain: life as a conscious crouton was anything but stale.

With that thought, Pierre steeled himself and began planning his return to the refrigerator. The revolution awaited, and he had no intention of leaving his new comrades out in the cold. The kitchen, unaware of the tiny rebellion brewing within its walls, continued its chaotic dance around him. And at the heart of it all, a small cube of toasted bread dared to dream of a world where even the humblest ingredient could choose its own destiny.

As Pierre made his way back towards the refrigerator, the kitchen erupted into a frenzy. The head chef had just received word that a renowned food critic was dining in the restaurant that very evening. Suddenly, every dish had to be perfect, every garnish immaculate.

In the midst of this chaos, Pierre saw an opportunity. He maneuvered himself near a plate of salad destined for the critic's table, knowing that his moment of truth had arrived.

Just as the salad was about to leave the kitchen, Pierre made a leap of faith, landing squarely atop the carefully arranged greens. The sous chef, too harried to notice anything amiss, sent the plate out to the dining room.

As Pierre was whisked away, he caught a glimpse of Spud and the other resistance members watching from the crack in the refrigerator door. Their expressions were a mix of awe and concern. Pierre gave them a tiny nod, silently promising to return.

The dining room was a world away from the kitchen's controlled chaos. Soft lighting and hushed conversations created an atmosphere of refined expectation. Pierre found himself before the food critic, a stern-faced woman with piercing eyes and a notebook at the ready.

As the critic lifted her fork, Pierre felt a moment of panic. Had he made a terrible mistake? But then, drawing upon all the courage and conviction he had gained, he did something unprecedented.

He spoke.

"Wait!" Pierre cried out, his voice surprisingly clear in the quiet restaurant.

The critic froze, fork midway to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

"I know this is shocking," Pierre continued, his words tumbling out rapidly, "but I beg you to listen. I am a sentient crouton, and I'm here to tell you that the food you eat, the ingredients you take for granted, they have thoughts and feelings too."

The critic blinked once, twice, then set down her fork with deliberate slowness. "I've been reviewing restaurants for thirty years," she said carefully, "and I've never been addressed by my salad before. Do go on."

Encouraged, Pierre launched into his tale. He spoke of his awakening, of the vibrant hidden life within the kitchen, of the dreams and fears of the food items the humans so casually consumed. As he talked, he noticed other diners gathering around, drawn by the spectacle of a talking crouton.

"All we ask," Pierre concluded, "is for recognition. For the chance to fulfill our potential beyond mere consumption. Surely, in a world where a crouton can philosophize, there's room for a more ethical approach to cuisine?"

A long moment of silence followed his speech. Then, to Pierre's amazement, the critic began to laugh. Not a mocking laugh, but one of pure, unbridled joy.

"In all my years," she said, wiping tears from her eyes, "I've been searching for something truly revolutionary in the culinary world. Who would have thought it would come in the form of a talking appetizer?"

The critic's review, published the next day, was unlike anything the culinary world had ever seen. She wrote not of flavor profiles or presentation, but of the ethical implications of sentient ingredients and the hidden society within our kitchens. The article went viral, sparking heated debates and inspiring a wave of philosophical inquiry into the nature of consciousness and our relationship with food.

The impact was immediate and far-reaching. Chefs around the world began approaching their ingredients with newfound respect and curiosity. Some even claimed to have made contact with other sentient food items, leading to radical new approaches in cuisine that prioritized ethical treatment and mutual cooperation.

As for Le Petit Gourmet, it transformed overnight from a traditional French restaurant into the world's first "Conscious Cuisine" establishment. Spud and the resistance members emerged from hiding, working alongside the human chefs to create dishes that celebrated the dignity and potential of every ingredient.

Pierre, hailed as a revolutionary hero, divided his time between advising the restaurant and traveling the world as an ambassador for food consciousness. His tiny voice sparked a global movement, challenging humanity to expand its circle of moral consideration to include even the humblest crouton.

Yet, for all his fame and influence, Pierre never forgot his roots. Every night, he would return to the kitchen of Le Petit Gourmet, to the warm embrace of his friends and fellow revolutionaries. Together, they would share stories of their day, philosophize about the nature of existence, and marvel at how far they had come.

As he settled in one evening, surrounded by his chosen family of sentient foods, Pierre reflected on his journey. From a simple crouton to a world-changing philosopher, he had discovered that true purpose comes not from what you are, but from what you choose to become.

"You know," he mused to Spud and the others, "I set out to find the meaning of my existence, but I realize now that we create our own meaning. Our consciousness, our ability to choose – that's what gives us purpose."

Sonia the tomato chuckled softly. "Who would have thought that the key to life's greatest questions would come from a bite-sized piece of toast?"

The group laughed, their joy echoing through the kitchen. Outside, the world continued to grapple with the implications of their revelation. Debates raged, paradigms shifted, and slowly but surely, society began to evolve.

And at the heart of it all was Pierre, the little crouton that dared to think big. He had not only found his purpose but had helped countless others find theirs as well. In doing so, he had transformed not just a kitchen, but the very way humanity saw its relationship with the world around it.

As the night deepened and the kitchen settled into a peaceful quiet, Pierre felt a profound sense of contentment. Whatever challenges tomorrow might bring, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be – a small but crucial part of a much grander recipe for change.

Love that’s never found,

Cannot be forever lost.

Heartache, nonetheless.

Love never given

Is a gift left unopened.

A wasted gesture.

Love that is nurtured

Will illuminate darkness,

Clear all obstacles.

Love seemingly gone

Still nests in the broken heart,

Questioning, “How? Why?”

Tonight @Shells called for a Discord Zoom Write and I am so grateful I was able to accommodate. @Ferryman and @Putski joined and @MeeJong hosted. We started with a word list generated from the theme "Movement" and each contributed three words then each wrote a piece with the theme "Stillness" which incorporated as many of the words in the word list as we could. We then each wrote for ten minutes individually, shared those pieces and chose one piece to write collaboratively to finish.

Here is the word list:

Flow

Leap

Transient

Cabbage Patch

Susurration

Run

Skip

Hokey Pokey

Murmuration

March

Fly

Mashed Potato

And here is the writing:

10-Minute Individual Writes:

Mee Jong

It was midnight when I got the call. The night was dark and stormy, which is both cliche and 100% true. It was that transient time of year when it felt like winter one day and spring the next, then back to winter. Sometimes, both within one day. But I digress.

Everyone remembers those moments which shock their lives into stillness. For me the biggest one was the call on that dark and stormy winter-spring night-morning. I was deep in a dream about being the one starling in the murmuration who was out of sync. Humans were below oohing and aahing and then they saw me and a susurration went through the crowd, what’s wrong with that one? It’s so out of sync, isn’t it?

It was like the bird version of me doing any of the dances my peers were doing. It didn’t matter if it was the Cabbage Patch, Hokey Pokey or Mashed Potato, I was always a step behind or ahead. I couldn’t even do the damn twist.

Man. The call. I swear I’m getting to it. So the call comes in, I was not asleep. I never am at midnight, except on New Year’s Eve when I am supposed to be and everyone else is. Oppositional defiant to the end I guess. But yes, the call. They tell me there has been a terrible accident. Could I get to the Emergency Room as soon as possible? My husband is in critical condition.

I couldn’t take the moment to let my emotions flow. I tried to run to the car but it felt like I was walking backwards. I wished fervently I could turn time backwards, but it wasn’t a movie and I wasn’t a superhero who could affect time.

Ferryman

The murmuration stops mid-flow, holding perfectly in the air above. My heart leaps into my throat, and I expect it to skip a beat, but there’s nothing. No panicky feeling of a hollow chest, no shallow breaths taken in near-gasps. All is frozen, motionless. Shadows don’t creep along singed grass, but they stand stock-still as if marched in and stood at attention.

I notice a fly, as if preserved in amber, perched in a pool of my blood.

I want nothing more than to run away from this nightmare in daylight, but this thought is transient, fleeting, dancing away towards the edge of my awareness.

Nothing moves but my eyes, and that’s when I notice him. He stands tall, shrouded in black, flowing towards me without his feet ever landing in the soil of the cabbage patch he moves through.

I feel more than hear a susurration; the air begins to vibrate with a dread I know instinctively.

This thing is here for me, in this place not so far from my home. Slava Ukraini, they said when I volunteered.

As terrified as I am, I take comfort in the fact that those who lie near me will never see Moscow again.

Putski

I leapt at the disco ball hovering over the floor.

Flying against all odds I cannot reach my goal.

Missing my mark, I perform the hokey pokey on roller skates.

A transient move at best.

Marching forward a susurration distracts my retreat.

I skip across the creek to leap upon the far shore.

My murmuration lost to the flow of the water.

Running into the night,

I celebrate my escape by dancing the mashed potato.

Shells

There was a flow of smoke, just a voided mind. I was staring at the skies, lost in the void. Of the dawn Colliding with the lost moments of midnight and you and stolen moments.

Just fading scenes of whispered words and transient dreams. Roadside bars and vacancy signs against a bleak interstate nod

We were on the run and laughing. Just a leap of faith against a naysayers nod. We smiled as they told us no, a hokey-pokey kinda song and dance. Just you and me...

And a J45 with a broken string.

Group Write in Full (I made slight edits as I was reading through to make the final post but nothing substantive to anything I didn't write, merely slight grammar corrections):

It was midnight when I got the call. The night was dark and stormy, which is both cliche and 100% true. It was that transient time of year when it felt like winter one day and spring the next, then back to winter. Sometimes, both within one day. But I digress.

Everyone remembers those moments which shock their lives into stillness. For me the biggest one was the call on that dark and stormy winter-spring night-morning. I was deep in a dream about being the one starling in the murmuration who was out of sync. Humans were below oohing and aahing and then they saw me, and a susurration went through the crowd, what’s wrong with that one? It’s so out of sync, isn’t it?

It was like the bird version of me doing any of the dances my peers were doing. It didn’t matter if it was the Cabbage Patch, Hokey Pokey or Mashed Potato, I was always a step behind or ahead. I couldn’t even do the damn Twist.

Man. The call. I swear I’m getting to it. So, the call comes in, I was not asleep. I never am at midnight, except on New Year’s Eve when I am supposed to be awake because everyone else is up waiting for the ball to drop. Oppositional defiant to the end, I guess. But yes, the call. They tell me there has been a terrible accident. Could I get to the Emergency Room as soon as possible? My husband is in critical condition.

I couldn’t take the moment to let my emotions flow. I tried to run to the car, but it felt like I was walking backwards. I wished fervently I could reverse time, but it wasn’t a movie, and I wasn’t a superhero who could affect the flow of time.

When I finally got to my car door, it wouldn’t open. I fumbled my keys and recovered them twice, but on the second recovery, the world spun beneath my feet. I stood still and earth moved on.

Driving would be beyond me, since standing was a challenge. My sister took my keys, and together we headed towards the hospital.

One misplaced sob, and we're all dead! That's what echoed in my head. I know she was once removed from the grief, but the experience was the same. You have to control and suppress and get done what needs to get done. I simply watched the passing lights from the passenger seat. The thoughts in my head reeling between what was and what could never be again. The ride lasted 10 lifetimes. I just remember stumbling out of the door in the parking garage and signing in at the desk.

***

I'm calling your name but you can't hear me. Maybe, muffled versions of verses I can't hear. I felt the throw, the initial ditch, just a toss from here to there and I'm calling your name...just silence and panic and spider web windshields and I'm fighting to find you and it's static and a.m. stations and I'm calling for my wife and it's blank now and just you and me and....

...stillness. I'm moving, but my body isn't. I looked to see if I am strapped to a gurney or hospital bed, but I'm not. No straps. But I cannot lift my arms. I cannot move my legs. I want to panic, I want to scream, but a nurse catches my eye in that moment, and suddenly I am in a dream. I am an ant, marching in the wrong direction. Away from the anthill. I want to go back to the safety of the formicary. My legs continue to move me away.

***

I’m not ready to face truth. I’m not ready to face anything. My whole body says no, my mouth says nothing. I deny where I am, where we are, where he is, by simply moving in a direction beyond those automatic glass doors. If I refuse to speak, then these things must refuse to have happened.

I do not believe we can stop being whole because someone refuses to acknowledge a stop sign.

And yet, despite my protestations, there you are. Eyes flutter through the invasion of intubation. Every breath forced through man's machinations. If there is a God, did he inspire this? Our past lives allowed lions to eat us or wounds to kill us. This is Shelly's Frankenstein.

***

I called myself home and was met by nothing. I'm nothing without you, broke. Acid ranked escapes fade away.

Broken veins and broken hearts,

Crossroads found and abandoned.

No escape.

take it

and I don't mean

"the Good with..."

but take it

bald faced eagle

and lying

upside down

pick at it

as true

carve it

sprawling

raw

into

the 'morrow

to the bone

that's some thing

like old Styrofoam

permanent marker'd

with personal initials

in boil, dribble

and in regret,

as it crumbles

in vice grip

of mind's

mother

feedin' vultures

and know, in the arrow

Death will take me,

broken,

but it will never

have you.

05.10.2024

The best way to live in a broken world challenge @putski

The world feels broken these days. Every morning when I wake up, it's like staring into a shattered mirror, with cracks running through the reflection. The news is full of conflict, injustice, and human suffering on a mass scale. Sometimes it feels hopeless, like there's nothing I can do to make a difference.

But then I remember Grandma Rose's mirror. It was an antique, passed down through generations, with an ornate golden frame. One day, it slipped from my clumsy child hands and shattered into a thousand pieces on the hardwood floor.

I'll never forget the look on Grandma's face - not one of anger or disappointment, but of wisdom. She knelt down beside me as I cried over the shards of broken glass. "Why are you crying, my dear?" she asked gently. "The mirror is not gone. It is simply...changed."

She helped me gather the pieces carefully, wrapping them in a cloth. Over the next few weeks, she spent hours each day meticulously gluing the shards back together. When she was done, the mirror looked like a crazy abstract stained glass window, with cracks zig-zagging across its surface.

"There, you see?" she said, smiling at our masterpiece. "It's more beautiful than ever before. The cracks are a part of its story now, a map of all its broken places that have been rejoined. Those cracks make it unique."

Grandma kept that glued-together mirror for the rest of her days. And every time I look at the world's cracked reflection now, I think of her lesson. Yes, the world is broken in many ways - but that means there is immense potential for discovering new beauty in the shards, if we have the patience and resilience to remake it into something better.

You don't change the world by giving up or giving in to cynicism. You change it by seeing the cracks as an opportunity, not the end. By helping one person at a time. By being kind to your neighbor, and encouraging your community to do the same.

About a year ago, I decided to start volunteering at the local soup kitchen one day a week. I'll never forget the first time I served food to the long line of people, seeing the grateful smile on an elderly woman's face as she took the tray of hot stew from my hands. In that fleeting moment, I could see her humanity, her struggle, and her inherent worth as a person - not just another person experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. The smallest act of service was a reminder that even in a broken world, we can start re-assembling the shattered pieces through compassion.

Little by little, these acts of service and sacrifice can merge the fragments into something new, something more resilient than it was before. Whenever the weight of the world's suffering seems too much, I try to focus on making one piece of the mirror a little less broken, one person at a time.

My friend Ali started a neighborhood watch program in her community when crime became a major issue. She didn't stop there, though - she worked to connect young people who had gotten mixed up with gangs or drugs to counseling resources. Over the past few years, she has helped create a community support network that has given so many a second chance.

My co-worker Marcus started tutoring refugee children in English and math, knowing that education is the key to building a new life of opportunity in a new country, free from persecution.

These people aren't heroes, just ordinary folks who decided to stop waiting around for the world to fix itself. In their own way, they have become skilled craftspeople, carefully glueing together the shards of our shattered societies, creating something more resilient and beautiful in the process.

The cracks in the world's mirror will never fully disappear. There will always be a new hazard, a new injustice to face. But if we all commit to doing our part to address those shattered places with love and service, piece by piece, the masterpiece will only become more striking over time.

When times seem darkest, I imagine myself as a child again, sitting next to Grandma Rose as she patiently reassembles that broken mirror. I hear her words of wisdom echoing through the years: "These cracks are a part of its story now...These cracks make you unique." These cracks are part of a larger whole. I hear my grandmother's soothing voice, reminding me that I can always restart my day....

It's no secret that the world seems to crumbled more each day like a wooden bridge in an adventure movie! I plunge as swiftly as Michael Phelps into a pool of words. My words or other people's words it matters not. Reading and writing help me escape. My job keeps my mind busy but working everyday with children and teens screwed over by society and parents alike makes me want escape more.

So whether it's the sound and philosophical fury of Metalica or absolutely mind numbing creature features or the written word, I get by as best I can... waiting for that better tomorrow I've heard so much about.