Every morning it’s sandwiches and more sandwiches. The bread sometimes, it can be oldish, not tasty. Wondering if for eleven year olds it ever gets stale.
She held the stale bread slices in her hand, trying not to think of how long they were there, how long HE was there, before they were discovered, both a decaying wreck of their former selves, both rotten and decomposing.
The air is stale when she takes off her helmet after confirming the readings on her scanner. No one had been in the floating wreckage in centuries and it was easy to tell why by the smell of the air.
She was hungry and went through the pantry of the abandoned house. The cans were fine but she had no can opener. She found a loaf of bread – it was stale but not moldy. She tore off the wrappings and ate it, thanking the science that made preservatives.
OMG I f* don’t know what this means. OK now I know (just checked in!) Like my Dad or what? “Ranci”* on dit en français et mon père n’aime pas manger du pain rassis… Euh mais il se force ha ha ha Ben non pas drôle. Du tout… Rire jaune… A suivre…
*Oh God, I just made up a new word… From “Rassi” et “rance”. From “Le pain et le beurre c’est ce qu’y a de meilleur !” (Dad’s quote…)
Sitting and watching Davey & Goliath behind a stack of cinnamon toast – eight, ten high – every Sunday morning. Day-old white bread and much too much margarine. It was the seventies, we were lower middle class, and I apologize to the fifty-something, triple-bypass me.
the bread was stale. the perfect metaphor for her life. what happened? stagnant, that’s what she was. turning every memory in her mind, over and over, over and over. nothing new ever happened anymore. it was all going bad, all going wrong, all the same thing over and over, over and over.
The bread bag was left open and now it is stale. I don’t like stale foods. They taste gross. People can be stale if they don’t have a positive pleasing personality, and jokes can be stale. Stale is not a quality I want to be associated with now or ever. I’d rather be refreshing, and I want my food to be fresh. They have me 120 seconds to write instead of 60.
The bread bag was left open and now it is stale. I don’t like stale foods. They taste gross. People can be stale if they don’t have a positive pleasing personality, and jokes can be stale. Again, stale is not a quality I want to be associated with.
The bread is hard, crouton level. Everything stagnant except the mosquito babies dancing at the edge of water and sky. The air has sat too long. I think even my lungs are sleeping.
The air is stale and outside snow blankets the walkway and street. I can’t go outside because I hate stepping on snow. I have no tolerance for the cold. So, I stay inside where the air is stale and wait in my cave for spring.
Every morning it’s sandwiches and more sandwiches. The bread sometimes, it can be oldish, not tasty. Wondering if for eleven year olds it ever gets stale.
She held the stale bread slices in her hand, trying not to think of how long they were there, how long HE was there, before they were discovered, both a decaying wreck of their former selves, both rotten and decomposing.
The air is stale when she takes off her helmet after confirming the readings on her scanner. No one had been in the floating wreckage in centuries and it was easy to tell why by the smell of the air.
She was hungry and went through the pantry of the abandoned house. The cans were fine but she had no can opener. She found a loaf of bread – it was stale but not moldy. She tore off the wrappings and ate it, thanking the science that made preservatives.
OMG I f* don’t know what this means. OK now I know (just checked in!) Like my Dad or what? “Ranci”* on dit en français et mon père n’aime pas manger du pain rassis… Euh mais il se force ha ha ha Ben non pas drôle. Du tout… Rire jaune… A suivre…
*Oh God, I just made up a new word… From “Rassi” et “rance”. From “Le pain et le beurre c’est ce qu’y a de meilleur !” (Dad’s quote…)
Sitting and watching Davey & Goliath behind a stack of cinnamon toast – eight, ten high – every Sunday morning. Day-old white bread and much too much margarine. It was the seventies, we were lower middle class, and I apologize to the fifty-something, triple-bypass me.
the bread was stale. the perfect metaphor for her life. what happened? stagnant, that’s what she was. turning every memory in her mind, over and over, over and over. nothing new ever happened anymore. it was all going bad, all going wrong, all the same thing over and over, over and over.
The bread bag was left open and now it is stale. I don’t like stale foods. They taste gross. People can be stale if they don’t have a positive pleasing personality, and jokes can be stale. Stale is not a quality I want to be associated with now or ever. I’d rather be refreshing, and I want my food to be fresh. They have me 120 seconds to write instead of 60.
The bread bag was left open and now it is stale. I don’t like stale foods. They taste gross. People can be stale if they don’t have a positive pleasing personality, and jokes can be stale. Again, stale is not a quality I want to be associated with.
The bread is hard, crouton level. Everything stagnant except the mosquito babies dancing at the edge of water and sky. The air has sat too long. I think even my lungs are sleeping.
The air is stale and outside snow blankets the walkway and street. I can’t go outside because I hate stepping on snow. I have no tolerance for the cold. So, I stay inside where the air is stale and wait in my cave for spring.