Love
Food for the Soul
“Chocolate cake is food for the soul,” was one of my mother’s favorite phrases as she baked up a storm while I was growing up. She especially loved to bake cakes with extra layers of chocolate. While it is difficult not to like something that nourishes your soul – it is also challenging to fathom how much my mother loved chocolate!
By Anthony Chan5 years ago in Fiction
A Place For Us
The smell of fresh straw enveloped Jean. A beam of rose-gold sun peeked through the cracks in the wood panelling and lit the dust dancing there. It made the bales of straw in the corners look like woven gold. There weren’t any animals to house yet, so it was still fresh, clean, and quiet. There were no passing cars, or sirens, only a few birds somewhere in the distance.
By Blake Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Flirtations with Cake, Coffee, and Good Company
Part 5 Her worst fears were realized. Every part of her body ached from the trail ride. Maybe twirling around in a hot shower would help to loosen her up. It better, she thought, or else I won’t be much help to Mabel in the kitchen this evening.
By Amy Proebstel5 years ago in Fiction
The Withered Barn
Sunlight edges the top of the fluttering treeline, shafts of light punching through sporadically and highlighting the scene before her. The long dirt behind her was threatened on both sides by unruly brambles and too tall grass. The daisies and dandelions pushed through belligerently, unable to stand idly by as the world grew around them. Anita glanced down at her combat boots, the peeling patches just above the edge of her soles and at the tip of her toes, nearly hidden by the thick layer of dust creeping up the laces. With a sigh she settles her weight along the hood of the beat up truck she had earnestly kept from its well-deserved final rest in a junkyard.
By Delise Fantome5 years ago in Fiction
Season of Sunflowers
Everybody needs that one place to call their own. A special place where time has no meaning and worries belong to somebody else. For me, that place is in the old family barn at the very edge of our 50-acre property. Papa doesn’t go there. It’s the only place I can breathe freely.
By Heather Ealy5 years ago in Fiction
What Began in July
The lunch rush has fizzled out at the café, but the place is still full, without a single table free. Greta has been there for fifteen minutes already, sipping at a ginger and lemon tea. She was early on purpose and in that time the tables filled up quickly. She’s glad she had options on where to sit because now, even though she’s so nervous her hands are shaking, at least she’s hidden behind some decorations in the storefront window and can keep an eye on the door.
By Rooney Morgan5 years ago in Fiction
