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Dishing Up Pasta
It’s a mac-and-cheese kind of read — comfort food for the literary soul. From beyond the myths of Marco Polo, pasta has traveled the globe in many forms from different cultures. Which came first, the Chinese noodle or the Italian spaghetti? Who knows for certain, but we do know that Thomas Jefferson introduced the colonies to macaroni and cheese, solidifying a future for America’s top pasta.
Writers took to pasta like worker bees, buzzing around the idea of how to dish it up in a story. Like fine dining or a casual dish to pass, these stories will leave you wanting seconds.
The following is based on the September 13, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes pasta.
PART I (10-minute read)
Tradition by Reena Saxena
We love Grandma, and yet are never on the same page where food is concerned. She cannot appreciate the subtle flavors in a pasta or pizza, or the convenience of having carbs, proteins and fats all in a single meal. She is so stuck up in her concept of a traditional Indian thali meal. Who has the time for that kind of luxury eating?
Yet, today, as I celebrate a festival away from home, I miss the unique, delicate flavors of different dishes. I try to put a meal together. I am more Indian at heart than I realized.
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Pasta Bee by Floridaborne
She waited for her word, looking down from the stage of her elementary school auditorium.  Sheâd loved sitting at the kitchen table learning to spell while pasta cooked and tomato sauce simmered on her motherâs stove. She didnât like standing under lights, stared at by 200 people.
âAntonia Giordano, spellâŠâ
Starched ruffles itched at her neck, compliments of the dress her mother sewed from remnants for this occasion. But that didnât stop her from spelling out a word sheâd known since the age of two.
âS-p-a-g-h-e-t-t-i,â she replied.
Maybe next year theyâd give her a harder word; like Vermicelli.
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Too Bad It’s True by Susan Sleggs
Dear Diary, They say pasta is a comfort food. I’m choosing to believe that and plan to make a serving every Saturday from here to forever because it seems I end up at one hospital or another on Sunday. A few months ago I sat with my sister while she and her husband decided whether kidney dialysis was worth the extra time on earth for him. Two weeks ago it was my daughter fighting sepsis (she won) and this Sunday it was my son with a smashed shoulder. The wine is gone tonight, the yummy red sauce pasta awaits.
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Remember that Old Elvis Song, In the Ghetti? by Bill Engleson
âSo many noodles in the world. Whatdaya thinkâŠ? You gotta choose, eh!â
Right, buddy. Itâs been a long day, All I want is a quiet bus ride home. But that ainât happening, is it?
There I am, going all silently rhetorical on the fellow sitting next to me. And all he wants to do is chit-chat about pasta.
I try and remember what Emily Post had to say about Public Transportation Etiquette.
Nothing immediately jumps out.
So, I say, noncommittally, âNoodles?â
âYeah man,â he says, âMy momâs Mac and Cheese. It was the best.â
Yeah, I thinkâŠmine was too.
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Spaghetti alla Carbonara by Bladud Fleas
The rule for pasta requires the water to be as salty as the Mediterranean. Paolo gives thanks itâs not Jordan and the Dead Sea. Nonna scrutinises him as he puts the chopped guanciale in the pan, heating slowly, extracting its flavoursome fat.â©Sheâs a fine mentor; heâs a teaser.
He gets the cream jug from the fridge; she cries out, âai-ai-ai!â and tries to snatch it but he keeps it out of reach. He laughs then, returns the jug and chooses an egg for beating. She pinches his cheek, within reach. So he knows Carbonara; sheâs taught him well.
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Pasta – Preschool Style by Ritu Bhathal
“Okay, today we are making Motherâs Day gifts for your mummies, grandmas, or aunties.
What I want you to do is take the string in one hand, and pick up a piece of pasta.
Remember, the other day, we painted it?
It’s like a tube, and you can thread the string through it, and make a lovely necklace.
No, David, you canât eat it.
Penny! Stop strangling Julia with the string!
Peter! Donât tip the tray upside d-âŠ
Donât worry Mary, we can pick it all up, stop crying, pleaseâŠâ
The life of a pre-school teacher.
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Elbow Macaroni by TN Kerr
Margarite grinned wildly, stepped off the bus and hurried toward me.
When she got close she dropped her backpack and leapt into my arms.
âHoly smokes, Kiddo,â I pushed her hair back and kissed her, âwhat are you so excited about today.â
âArt class, Daddy. I made a picture of you.â
âWith paints?â
âNo.â
âWith crayons?â
âNo, Daddy. Mixed media,â
âMixed media? Whatâs that?â
I put her down. She pulled a paper plate from her backpack and showed me.
Macaroni was glued to the plate. There were pencil lines and hints of orange marker. It looked just like me.
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Pasta Pray Tells: What Are We Eating, Exactly? by Peregrine Arc
The little girl grimaced in her seat, staring at her plate of pasta. The garlic bread basket sat in the middle of table, steamy and pleasant. Her parents urged her to try her meal.
The little girl sighed resignedly and tried to eat. The fork and spoon soon fell to her plate with a clatter.
âI canât do it!â she exclaimed. âPlease, donât make me.â
âWhy not, dear?â
âItâs angelâs hair!â the little girl sobbed. âGive it back to them, please!â
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Traditions by Heather Gonzalez
Angela stood on her tiptoes to be able to see over the counter top. Her nonna was mixing the pasta dough with her hands, and she was finally tall enough to watch. Each movement seemed like nonna had choreographed an intricate dance. Fingers and dough intertwining to create the magic of pasta.
After each piece of pasta was perfectly shaped, nonna motioned for Angela to come closer. This was it. She was finally getting a chance to be apart of the magic. Gently she lowered the perfectly crafted dough into the water with pride.
âAl dente. Perfecto.â Nonna smiled.
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A Fish Tale from Lake Country by Liz Husebye Hartmann
It couldnât be un-seen. It was right there in front of me: the giant spaghetti bowl, the splash of Tante Liannaâs special sauce, meatballs rolling off the table and onto the floor, parmesan spread all over the dining room table, like sleet in a Minnesota mid-June storm.
And the noodles! Seemingly caught in mid-flight from the bowl, they lay heavy as nightcrawlers escaping a flooded sidewalk, the aftermath of the aforementioned storm, turned to punishing rain.
And Uncle Wilford, face down in the middle of it all.
He should have heeded the warning twinge in Tante Liannaâs trick knee.
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Love’s Give and Take by Sascha Darlington
âPasta Puttanesca? Do I have to perform an intervention?â
âIâm at a crossroads.â
âSomething youâre not telling me?â
âItâs not about you. Itâs Chloe and that jerk.â
âAKA her husband?â
âHe got fired. Wants to be a stay-at-home dad. Do consulting work.â
âDonât see the problem.â
âYou wouldnât. Youâre nothing like him. Heâs perpetually lazy, doesnât know how to use a vacuum or a dustpan. Stoveâs foreign as well.
âWhyâs this your problem?â
âI promised Mom Iâd look after Chloe. Iâve failed.â
âHeâs failing. Your pasta smells good.â
âHave some.â
âYou didnât use anchovies?â
âNot when you hate them.â
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Peter the Pasta Maker by Michael Grogan
Peter, the Pasta Maker, was a jolly chap.
Peter had a crush on the Lady Macaroni who would swan in each day and buy his freshest pasta. She never passed the time of day with him, she was focused on her pasta.
Always five hundred grams of spaghetti, she could never be tempted by a fettuccine or a Peterâs famous spiral.
One day she surprised him by asking he would cook for her, a pasta party with Peter the Pasta Maker would go well she thought.
Peter was flattered and prepared to make Lady Macaroni his best ever pasta.
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Flash Fiction by The Dark Netizen
âIs the order for table number ten ready?â
I turned the blaze of the cooking flame down and grasped the pan in my left hand. With my right hand, I expertly arranged the lines of spaghetti on the plate. Reuben walked up to me and winked.
âYou know, sheâs looking quite fine in her black dress today.â
I peeked outside through the kitchen door window. There she was again, sitting in perfect poise, making my heart beat harder. Reuben whispered.
âTell her, man!â
I put the final touch on the dish with the red sauce.
âA red heart, sweet!â
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A Visit To The ER by Patrick O’Connor
âPasta! I want pasta!â
âIt must be penne pasta, with meatballs, and marinara.â
The doctor stared at me with a quizzical look.
My wife shook her head and said âThat sounds about right. He loves his pasta.â
After the x-rays, CT Scan, and EKG, they worked on getting the blood pressure back up.
âIâm sure your wife will take you to get some pasta once you are released.â
âIâll make sure of it Doctor.â
Seemed like forever before we got out of the ER.
Got to the restaurant and ordered penne pasta with meatballs and marinara.
âIâm not hungry.â
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Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle
âWould you like some spaghetti bolognaise, Nan?â
âAbsolutely not. I donât eat that foreign food. Nasty, gloopy stuff. You canât even pick it up on your spoon properly; it slithers right off.â
âWhy donât you just give it a try, Nan? It really is very tasty with Davidâs sauce.â
âNo, thank you. I would rather eat English mashed potatoes. Such a versatile food. Did I ever tell you how we used it to make pastry during the war when we couldnât get flour?â
âYes, Nan,â said Julie with a sigh. âYou have told me about potato pastry many times.â
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Lunch by oneletterup
âI think I know who she is.â
âWhat should we do?â
They whisper, but she hears.
Crouching in the hall shadows. Hidden.
Disappearing. Like before.
âLunch time!â the nice man calls.
The little girl and little boy are at school.
She perches on the edge of her chair.
Her very own place at their table.
âHoney…â the nice lady begins.
âWeâre so sorry…â
Looking down.
âYou canât stay here anymore.â
The girl freezes. Stares. Forkful of spaghetti suspended.
Fingers clench into a fist snapping the fork upright.
Steaming tomato sauce spatters.
Drips down her hand.
Red spreading. Staining.
Everywhere.
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Pasta for Breakfast by Norah Colvin
Papa Bear pushed back his chair. âNot this muck again.â
Mama Bear stopped mid-ladle. âItâs Baby Bearâs favourite. Iâ I thought it was yours too.â
Baby Bearâs lip quivered.
âPfft! Sometimes a bear needs real food.â He grabbed his hat. âIâm going for a walk.â
âPapa!â Baby Bear went after him.
Mama Bear dumped the porridge, pot and all, into the bin, grabbed her hat and followed.
âWhere are we going?â asked Baby Bear.
âSomewhere nice for breakfast. It is spring after all.â
Papa Bear paused outside BreakFasta Pasta, then went in.
Mama Bear smiled; pasta was her favourite.
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The Legendary Feud by Anurag Bakhshi
The boyâs great-great-great-grandfather was apparently the one to blame
For he called the pasta sauce of the girlâs great-great-great-Nonna tagliatelle, listless and tame
The echo of that insult had now been felt by these two star-crossed lovers
Who, letâs admit it, were just looking for some good old action between the covers
Their dead bodies were a testament to the folly of pride
A lesson that a family pasta recipe is not something to mock or deride
As the Bard put it so succinctly- For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo
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No Pasta Was Harmed in Making This Story by Anne Goodwin
She snipped off the seal and upended the pack. Closed her eyes as fusilli clattered into the bowl. Paused, shook her head, reached for the rigatoni bag.
An hour later, there was barely room for his coffee cup among the bowls of dried pasta on the kitchen worktop. âTell me, youâre cooking dinner at six in the morning or youâve invited a kindergarten class for hands-on play?â
âIsnât it obvious? Iâm researching sound effects for my radio drama next month.â
âYouâve set it in a restaurant? In Italy?â
âA shack in Madagascar. Iâm recreating rain on a corrugated-iron roof.â
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My London Marathon by Kelvin M. Knight
I squinted through the rain. The other competitors looked comically savage – the way their dyed hair dripped down their faces. Nonetheless, these fun runners were out my league. Hugging my bin liner coat, I felt under dressed. I felt under trained. I should have done more. These words were my epitaph.
Still, I eat more than anyone else at the pasta party yesterday evening, so the complex carbohydrates would be on my side, along with this pantomime horse, this huge banana, and this Herculean woman with a refrigerator chained to her back.
Groaning, I waved at the BBC cameraman.
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World’s Worst Poem, Plated by Chelsea Owens
Perdonnez, signora, will you taste my
veritable vermicelli which lost a
Tagliatelle or gnocchi -or was
it tortellini or gemelli?- that cost a
Few dozzina homemade noodles: measured,
mixed, rolled, chopped, shaped, and boiled -hasta
Domani, questa mattina -when nappy
And wriggly rigatoni-head rastas
Dangle candid cannelloni for
colazione (o pranzo o cena o altro) sauced, a
Banchetto of bavett, bucatini,
bigoli, e barbina; which fosta
Amore, our home country joy; precious
mem’ries of mamma o zia o ci, who bossed a
Flourishing, famishing family,
practically-plated with a plethora of pasta.
If that doesn’t bake your noodle, you’ve lost-a.
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Pasta by Anita Dawes
What is it good for, not eating.
Throw it at the wall, see if it sticks.
Leave it until it falls off, give it to the kids to play with.
Oh, wait a minute they have already done that.
My granddaughters have used it for school projects
Picture frames you cannot dust…
The Italians love to tell us it has to be Al dente, the bite.
The thought of eating pasta makes me want to run for the hills…
And I know itâs well-loved across the globe
But seriously, why was it ever invented?
Does it grow on trees?
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PART II (5-minute read)
Mangia, Sii Benedetto e Mangia! by JulesPaige
Mama thought a good way to teach us to listen was to keep our mouths full. Mama would serve us bountiful plates of Orecchiette. Sometimes the way Nonna Bella would make It, or she used recipes from Nonna Julia. Northern and Southern Italians cooked a bit differently. But there was always too much food!
Nonna Bella made rich red tangy sauces. While Nonna Julia employed creamy cheeses to dress her pasta.
Today you can get Gluten free pasta. Though Docâs say a serving is one cup cooked of any shape you choose. And that Isnât nearly enough, is it?
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Boon or Bane? by Deepa
I was drenched in sweat that soaked the back of my clothes like a scattered map. My fitness tracker blinked up a new record today. It was the best result accomplished for my running record.
Well, donât I deserve a small treat?
I swiped the pasta mania app in my mobile and selected the double cheese creamy chicken pasta, porcini mushroom, and an orange drink to balance my cheesy treat.
From a fitness tracker to palatable feelings, everything in a swipe at your door service.
Mobile apps, is it a boon or a bane?
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So What’s for Dinner? by Di @ pensitivity101
Tomatoes red,
Tomatoes green,
Hundred of marbles
On vines to be seen.
Pasta is long,
Pasta is thick,
Cheesy or savoury,
Itâs simple and quick.
Put them together
A meal in a flash,
Wholesome and nourishing,
Even better than mash.
Add meat and an onion
For spaghetti bolognese,
Or kidney beans and chilli
On somewhat colder days.
Pasta is versatile,
Be it boiled or baked,
One thing Iâve not tried yet
Is a pasta filled cake.
Macaroni is pasta,
Add sugar and UHT
To make a sweet pudding
As afters for tea.
Pastaâs a staple,
For Hubby and me.
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Chester, the Reluctant Dinner Guest by Molly Stevens
âMyra invited us over for pasta tonight,â Ruth said.
âPasta?â said Chester. âDonât she mean spaghetti?â
âNo, she was clear about it. She said pasta.â
âWell, la-de-da! Thatâs what she calls it, does she? Was there another fancy name stuck to her highfalutin pasta, like âprime-a-veers?ââ
“She didnât say. Itâll be a surprise.”
Harrumph. âI better grab a six-pack of Papst Blue Ribbon. I know sheâll be pourinâ some cheek wine, like chardonnee that will give me heartburn.
âYou can always stay at home if youâd like.â
âNah, Iâll go with along you. Besides, Iâm clean out of SpaghettiOsâ
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Mother’s Italian Cooking by AbijitRay
âI am going out, shall be back by evening.â
âI am making a new dish Shailaja, donât go before you try.â
âMother has become adventurous;â wondered Shailaja, âshe is experimenting with non Indian recipes!â
âWhatâs cooking mother? Am I your only guinea pig?â
âToday I am making Italian noodles.â
âItalian noodles, mother! Its called vermicelli; noodle is Chinese. Spoken in public, this may result in a diplomatic incidence!â
âStop lecturing, try this out. This is vermicelli cooked Indian way.â
Shailaja found her mother in kitchen juggling a cook book in Hindi along with a host of vegetables and spices.
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Remembering Terra by Saifun Hassam
Down at the SeaQuail Market, by the old Fishermen’s wharf, we feasted on a picnic lunch under blue summer skies.
Jumbo pasta shells overflowing with sautéed shrimp, sun-drenched tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, red and green bell peppers, olives, garlic and onions marinated in olive oil and just that delicate touch of rosemary, fennel and basil.
A generous sprinkling of shredded mozzarella, Gorgonzola and Parmesan cheese.
Espresso coffee and cinnamon ginger fudge.
In a week, Adriana, an astronaut and biochemist, would report for training for her first assignment to Mars. She was my sister. Would we ever see each other again?
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Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
David shut the door, shaking his head. Heather smirked. âWho was that?â
âThe Pastafarians,â he said with a flourish.
âWelcome to Austin, right?â
âYouâd think theyâd respect dinner time.â
âWhat did he say, about the Flying Spaghetti Monster?â
They watched the disciples slink down the driveway, the tallest holding a book with a noodle dangling from the binding. âDo you think theyâre serious?”
David shrugged, halfway holding a smile. âNo. Yeah. I mean, I think thatâs the point. We take this stuff too seriously.â
âCareful. You could get struck down talking like that.â
âWouldnât that just prove their point?â
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Fettuccini Afraid-O by Susan Shuman
âThis menu is amazingâŠâ Shelley feigned enthusiasm.
âGet whatever you want,â Eddie shrugged. âLooks like you could use a good meal.â
âOh, I canât decideâŠâ
Eddie wished sheâd leave her hair alone. It looked like she was trying to strangle her fingertips with it. âWhy are you doing that?â
âHuh?â Shelley let go of her hair. âOh, bad habit.â Her throat tightened.
The waitress brought a steaming loaf of bread to their table and began rattling off the pasta specials.
Thatâs what did it.
Shelley stifled a scream and scrambled for the doorâ
Phagophobia: a legacy from her mother.
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Pasta by Deborah Lee
Jane ambles through the grocery store, pushing a cart and luxuriating in the experience of grocery shopping. Like people who have a food budget, cupboards to store recipe ingredients, a kitchen for melding them into a home-cooked meal, refrigerator for leftovers.
She hesitates in the pasta aisle, torn between the thought of a steak or her motherâs standby, macaroni with tomatoes and cheese melted through. She used to think of pasta as poor-people food â before she became a poor-people. But it will always be comfort food, Jane thinks, tossing three times as much as she needs into her basket.
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Epic Workplace
Slide down the rabbit hole or step behind the curtain. Here you will find the wonders of an epic workplace. From young entrepreneurs going door-to-door to ranch pals riding the range, there’s a world of epic places to work.
Writers set about their own workplaces to draw upon imagination, stories, or memories to write about the place many of us will spend the majority of our adult lives. It best be epic!
The following are based on the September 6, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about an epic workplace.
PART I (10-minute read)
Door-to-door by Bill Engleson
âHeâs so young,â I can hear my mother say.
âHeâs fourteen,â my father states the obvious.
âThatâs what I mean. Delivering papers is one thing. People ask to have the paper delivered. They want kids delivering the news. But this?â
Iâve been delivering the Snuffle River Clarion six days a week for three years. Seventy customers. Thatâs been my bar. It goes down every so often. People move. A few have died.
But I ainât a kid any longer.
The future is in door-to-door.
Watkins Products!
Spices!
Vegetable Oil Soap, âPure Enough To Eat!â
Liniment!
Iâll make a fortune.
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Epic by Reena Saxena
âCan I meet one of the seniors before I join?â
âSure! They are happy to meet prospective employees.â
I find myself opposite the legendary whistle-blower of the topmost bank. I forgot to blink.
âI know, kid! Many people believed that no other firm will offer me employment after that courtroom battle. But this is a company that values integrity. Integrity doesnât mean just not stealing. It means that your thoughts, words and actions always match.â
Now, this was a tough one. Most of us cannot lay claim to such a lofty value system.
âActually, I have another offer, SirâŠ..â
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Retreat by Sarah Whiley
I’d been away for work at a beautiful spot, facilitating a retreat for carers. The aim – respite and pampering, for three days.
I’d worked hard to ensure they’d had everything they needed, and could truly unwind from the demands of looking after the person they cared for.
I opened up a package that had arrived for me in the mail that day.
I held a flat rock with a detailed image of the mountain landscape where we’d been.
“Thank you” the card read, “I’ve found the inspiration to paint again”.
What an epic workplace, I thought, choking back tears.
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Workplace by The Dark Netizen
A new day begins. Canât wait to get to work!
I love working here. Our work areas are customizable. Today feels like a day for a sky blue theme. Also, Iâm thinking a nice ten inch pepperoni pizza for lunch today. Oh! And a nice pitcher of wheat beer to wash it down with. All this on company expense. Sounds like a great day already. The best part about my workplace and job, is my boss. Heâs such a fun guy. Speaking of which, need to take his call now.
âGood morning, sir! Righto! On my way, Mr. Santa!â
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My Workplace My Heaven by Deepa
I thought
the kitchen was the best
but aroma disturbed me
then settled to my balcony
but eyes grazed the crowd
I thought
the park would be perfect
but the emotions stirred deep
and saddened me further
finally found a place of peace
uninterrupted and serene
because no one dares me here
when ideas trigger me
I make an excuse
and rush to the hole
I sit on top of it
with my legs dangling
in water cold
I love this place
because ideas donât just
happen in certain places
they happen at
certain times
in the loo too
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Opportunity by Abhijit Ray
âWe are investing big money to set up new research center,â Human Resource manager pointed at the aerial photograph, identifying research center, administrative building, crĂšche, jogging track, âwe are the best paymasters; we arrange relocation and accommodation, we take care of health and welfare of employees and their families. Other routine benefits you can find in your letter.â
The scope of this Epic opportunity impressed him. âThis is the right time to move back and contribute,â he reasoned. Afterall, his initial education was the basis of his higher studies and current life. Question was how to convince his family.
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Heaven by Floridaborne
Most people say they want a great view, presidential fringe benefits, or freedom to work anywhere outside an office when asked, âWhatâs your epic workplace?â
After 40 years of office intrigue, being targeted by the cliques I wouldnât join, and enduring lighting levels that left me with daily headaches, Iâve finally achieved my idea of heaven.
Iâm a sub-contractor working with people I consider family. I have autonomy over a specific job in a corner office with window blinds to control the amount of light inside, a 32â computer screen, and the fluorescent lighting outside my office is off.
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Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle
âWhere did you say you worked?â
âI didnât say but I can work any place and any time. My mobile office is comprehensive. I have two laptops, two cell phones and an ipad.â
âReally, that is interesting. Do you work from home then?â
âAs I said, I work from anywhere. Sometimes I work from home, but I also work on planes, trains and when I am a passenger in a car. I work from hotel rooms and while I am at swimming lessons with my children. I even work while they attend music lessons and karate. It is epic.â
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First Day at Work by Anurag Bakhshi
Maria could feel the hills come alive with music as the magnificent scenery unfolded before her. Mother Superior had been right, this WAS an epic workplace.
With renewed confidence, she gazed into the eyes of the handsome but stern-looking man who was standing next to to the seven unruly little onesâŠher future wardsâŠif she could somehow impress the man, and that dazzling beauty standing next to him.
But before she could say anything, the man spoke up, âMiss Maria, letâs start at the very beginning. This is my wife Snow White, and these are the seven dwarfs.â
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Epic by Ritu Bhathal
The door opened into a room where the atmosphere was teeming with enthusiasm.
Everywhere, industrious individuals attempted to solve their own problems in inventive manners.
There were specific areas for everything, from creative, to constructive, collaborative to computing.
A second door led to a huge outside area, filled with opportunities to stretch ideas.
Turning back into the room, I knew this was it. This was the place I wanted to be, the most epic workplace Iâd encountered.
A classroom that put the childrenâs interests first, that stretched their thinking and allowed them to grow as individuals.
This was it.
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Epic Work by D. Avery
One woman told about her daughter the pilot; she mentioned three children that were pilots and one that worked for NASA.
A man bragged about his son the writer; she enumerated her journalists, artists and published authors.
She shared her pride for her children that served in the military, fire, rescue, and police forces, beamed about those that had become nurses and doctors, spoke warmly of the children that stayed close to home and were good citizens.
Finally someone cried foul.
âYou canât possibly have so many children!â
âAs a teacher Iâve made a difference for hundreds of children.â
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Flash Fiction by oneletterup
âIâm doing my works!â
The little girl demonstrates.
Carefully pouring water from cup to bowl.
The silent visitor watches in surprise.
Sheâs never seen such a grand school.
Small wooden tables and chairs. A low matching sink.
Sun pouring in on many bright, happy faces.
The little boy calls out âMe too. Look at my works!â
Red cubes stacked high.
A place for important work. For all.
Pouring. Sorting. Counting. Writing.
Girls and boys. Older helping younger.
Just like her.
The teacher, sitting on the big rug, smiles.
“Please join us for circle time.”
“Welcome to Greenwood Montessori school.”
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Itâs EPIC by Norah Colvin
Roll up! Roll up! Come one, come all. This new attraction will have you enthralled. Bring parents, bring partners, siblings and friends. No oneâs excluded. Itâs Earthâs latest trend. Your eyes wonât believe. Your ears wonât deceive. Itâs a sensory explosion, for all to explore. Itâs entertaining, electrifying, edifying too. Itâs a universe first, and it happened on Earth. Itâs empowering, engrossing. Thereâs so much to see. With no space left empty, itâs elaborate, exciting, extols energy. With exquisite exhibits and enlightening exposures, itâs the most, enticing, enriching, educational environment, established on Earth. Itâs EPIC, the Exceptional Pinterest-Inspired Classroom.
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Devil Boat by TN Kerr
I read that she was called âThe Devil Boatâ in reference to Revelations Chapter 13. We never called her that. The USS HAWKBILL SSN666 was a highly decorated Sturgeon Class Attack Submarine.
What was most grand about her was the crew.
Every crewman on a submarine stakes his survival on the skills and knowledge of the rest. This creates a bond. It builds pride in self and in others as, daily, you do more than you ever thought possible.
Itâs a dangerous and cramped workplace. Itâs not for everyone. It sometimes stinks. It frustrates. Iâd undoubtedly do it again.
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When You Always Get Your Murds Wuddled by Geoff Le Pard
âGod…â
âWhatâs up mate? Looks like youâve just been told youâre the love child of the Donald and Kim Un Kardashian?â
âMy mum. Given me a right bollocking. Apparently I just called my grandma and told her that Iâd just âwaxed her high and wideâ as promised.â
âGeez, mate, thatâs a bit… saucy.â
âI taxed her Hyundai. I was trying to help but sheâs Mrs Malaprop made flesh.â
âPoor old thing.â
âI know. She told dad how pleased she was that my new workplace was epic.â
âYou told me it was manky.â
âI said, quote, âitâs totally septic, grandmaâ.â
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Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
âNoah, Noah, NoahâŠâ
I broke off my thoughts, elbow deep in the murk of dishwater and some epic plotting. Rhonda stared at me over a haphazard pile of pots and dishes, used napkins, trash and utensils. âI swear kid, sometimes I wonder where you go in that head of yours. Anyway, this is the last of the buffet.â
She stalked off to smoke. I turned to the load. A three-gallon pot of Clam chowder with a dayâs worth of insulation around the lip. I picked up my scraper and smiled. I had all night to get this chapter rightâŠ
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Games Omniverse – Epic Workplace by Kerry E.B. Black
Theyâre all so much younger than me, but I find their Millenial energy invigorating. I know they look on me as the Grandma of the bunch. They turn eye-rolls when Iâve fouled another computer task and hide their smiles when I say something about âme meâsâ instead of saying âmemes.â
Yet somehow, I bring something to the group. Iâd never be so vain as call it wisdom, and my experiences arenât always helpful. However, it works. When they need copy, I pound on the keyboard until some small magic occurs, and the Angel in charge nods.
âThisâs good. Thanks.â
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Dream Job by D. Avery
âI have had a lot of other jobs, but this is by far the best. I mean, it can be intense, but I enjoy the challenge. In my present work I am able to really use and incorporate all my previous experiences and prior knowledge to advantage. And I have a lot of latitude, a lot of freedom. I often work outside, I can dress how I want, set my own hours⊠itâs pretty awesome. Dream job. I am really enjoying myself.â
âUh, Dude, youâre unemployed. You havenât worked in months.â
âBut I have been working at writing! Epic!â
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The Amazing-Magician-From-India-With-Love by papershots
On-the-subway-for-spare-change, âwith a white string I can make stand straight and hard, look!â leaps into the intermittent morning waltz of inâŠand-out, backâŠand-forth, youâŠgetting-off?. When in the middle of his feat of magic the poor-Bosnian-I-live-in-a-shack with-this-little-girl please-help-me â20 cents to buy milkâ gets on and sees the Amazing-Magician-from-India-etcâŠ
The who-drowns-out-who challenge is on! Yeah! No.
âPlease,â she starts, âladies and gentâŠâ then breaks off, gets off, the code of conduct of the beggars who canât choose which train to ticketless-ly attack. âThe white string stands straight and hard, look!â Not much change, though, in the worn-out Kullu cap.
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The Call by Anne Goodwin
Bile stinging her throat, she pressed the green icon.
âHomer here.â His tone gave nothing away.
âThanks for âŠâ Her whole future in that pause.
âCongratulations!â
Joy of joys! She didnât need to hear more. But was she up to it? Could she bear to uproot herself and begin again somewhere new? âSorry, Iâll have to turn it down.â
âExcellent!â
Excellent? They didnât want her after all? She reran his offer in her head: Iâm calling to invite you on the adventure of working with us. Of course: to earn the elixir, an employee must first reject the call.
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PART II (10-minute read)
My Log Cabin by Kelvin M. Knight
Briefcase in hand, I kiss my wife at the patio door. âSee you tonight.â
âHave a great day at work, darling.â
A short stride across our lawn and I am here, where everythingâs clean and pine fresh. Varnish shines the floor. An uncluttered desk smiles. There are no pictures, no ornaments. This empty space. This creative space.
Free even from books, those to be read and those to be filled – my precious notebooks.
Relaxing in my chair, I open my briefcase, remove my laptop. Tranquility washes over me. Nodding, I let this blank screen write its story upon me.
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Cloud Covers by Chelsea Owens
âHowâs it goinâ, Nim?â called a breathy voice. He looked up. And up. And to the side. There was Cirrus, waving and smiling.
âEr⊠itâs a breeze.â He paused. âHow âbout you?â
âClear skies here.â
âCool, cool.â Nimbostratus faced forward again, his harness jangling. With utmost care he applied another layer of white. Now just to add a touch of greyâŠ
âI saw Cumulo yesterday,â Cirrus flurried. She never could stay still.
âMm-hmm.â Dip. Paint.
Cirrus also disliked inattention. She dropped in altitude. âHe said: BOOM!â
âAAAH!â Nimbostratus yelled.
âŠ
âLooks a bit greyer than initially predicted,â the weatherman noted.
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Epic Workplace by Ann Edall-Robson
The room is pristine to start, but soon takes on a look somewhat chaotic. Books spread out across open spaces where once there were thoughts of organization and streamlining the hours to make them as productive as possible. Sounds of thunking, banging, clinking as doors open and close revealing needed tools. There are small marred bits of paper, tattered edged recipes, speckled from age and use. No one interrupts in this epic workplace where the tantalizing smells and mouth watering finales meld as one. To do so would jeopardize the anticipation of savouring the memories coming from the kitchen.
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Flash Fiction by Susan Sleggs
If someone asked where I would like to have an epic quilting space, I would answer, on a bluff overlooking the Oregon coast, or high in a sky scraper with lots of windows to admire the scenery day and night, or perhaps on Flathead Lake in Montana to view the mountains and water. But let’s be logical about this; if I’m sewing I’m not looking at a view. I think I’ll keep the 600 square feet in the basement of my current home. Peace resides there and my cats keep me company. Besides I’m usually working in my pajamas.
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SpaceâŠthe Final Frontier by Kayuk
Words, like hammers, pound into me âŠagain. âIsnât there ONE SINGLE SPACE in this house I can put my things?â
Tears beg release. Manly things are piled on sofas, beds, tables, and floors in every room. A year after moving in, Iâm still an intruder in a manâs sanctuary.
The tirade continues but, through patio doors, a shady table and chair await me. Abutting the grass is a lovely pond, with a serene view of ducklings following mama.
He storms out and, laptop in hand, I sigh and step through the door to a warm breeze and epic workplace.
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Epic Workplace by Frank Hubeny
Eric was a loner. Thatâs why he liked people. They were rare like deer or bear in the distance. He took a break from thinning paper company land with brush saw holstered on his back and his head lost in his helmet.
He saw the hikers coming. One of them asked him if they were still on the Appalachian Trail. âYes! Keep going. Itâs right over there.â The trail wasnât easy to see.
Eric wondered why people walked that trail, but he was glad to see them. He was glad he could give someone good directions on their way.
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Green Crater by Saifun Hassam
Jeff, Valerie and Carmen trekked from the rim of Green Crater to Green Crater Lake, formed millennia ago. Wind and water had weathered the extinct volcano’s steep ravines to valleys with gentle slopes. Every year, the rangers visited the Crater area, one of Special Ecological Habitats.
For Jeff, the Crater was his epic workplace, one he explored in the winter as well. By late spring the snows had melted. The lake and its marshy shores, attracted deer, egrets, migrant ducks and geese. Last summer, Jeff saw a bobcat. Today, a rattlesnake, basking in the sun on smooth rounded stones.
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In the Cards by D. Avery
The guys had circled their beer coolers for poker night in Ernestâs garage, where it was less humid than the trailer.
âMarge, I canât believe you quit being shop foreman to work in this two-bit two bay garage. Left the largest dealership around — state of the art equipment, only working on newer vehicles–â
âYeahâ, chimed Lloyd. âEpic.â
âThe work hereâs actually more interesting, our customers bring us all sorts of mechanical mysteries to be solved. Itâs more personal. And I got tired of babysitting.â
âOooh, personal! Marge and Ernest up in a treeâŠâ
âLike I said…â
âEpicâ, Lloyd repeated.
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Upward Mobility (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Mist rose from the pond with the morning coolness of a mountain camp at 7,000 feet. Danni stretched in sun salutations on the sagging porch of her Forest Service cabin while coffee percolated. The aroma grew strong, and she padded back inside on bare feet to pour a cup. The rest she saved for her thermos. As she drove her quad toward the archeological dig, Danni spotted elk, a skittering coyote and a Cooperâs hawk. At the worksite, trenches waited for the volunteers who would follow. She contemplated her epic workplace. At last, Danni would be the lead archeologist.
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A Sign of the Times by Di @ pensitivity101
Scott loved his job at the Living Museum. It was inspired, and different.
Admittance was free, but there were warnings about laser lights and flashing images.
Only fifty people were admitted at any one time, the doors closing behind them.
The room was dark, save for a single spot of light on the far wall.
The music started, loud and upbeat. Lights pulsed to the rhythm, and the magic began.
Holographic figures moved amongst them, through them, so real and yet only a projected image. Patrons felt themselves drawn into a time past, present and future all at once.
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Working on The Unsinkable Ship by Peregrine Arc
âTheyâre wanting sheets in cabin four, Miss Elizabeth.â
âYes, miss. Iâll get them right away,â the maid said politely with a curtsy to her matron.
âAnd be sure youâre minding your place. Just because weâre working in first class doesnât meanââ
But Elizabeth was already down the hallway, gathering clean linens in the laundry room. Her friend Gayle was there, in the corner where they whispered their secrets and dreams.
âJust think of it, Liz! Usâon the Titanic!â
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Epic Workplace by Anita Dawes
The cleaning job I had in my twenties holds one sad memory.
Springfield Hospital, a building held together by sadness. The people inside, old, forgotten.
A woman of about eighty, taken for her daily bath, left alone in this cold room. Her arms reaching over the bath edge, pleading to be taken out.
Matron caught me, told me to get on with my work, which I found hard to do.
Now a block of posh flats stands where the hospital used to be.
I wonder what kinds of sounds echo around those walls now.
Do they drip with sadness?
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Average Day At Work by Heather Gonzalez
Marcus stepped heavy steel-toed boots into his coveralls. Zipping up with a firm grip, it shielded the majority of his body. Then putting on gloves and safety goggles, he was now ready to start his work day. The odor that permeated the scene had become commonplace for him. Even before he reached the body, he noticed that the decomposition process had already begun. Climbing under the caution tape, Marcus surveyed the environment to make sure that all of the evidence was tagged beforehand. Whoever did this, definitely didnât think about who would have to clean it up this mess.
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New Beginnings by Kelvin M. Knight
Blades of grass lifted the stones like they were grains of sand – stones bigger than me. Walking over this grass, I felt as though I were walking on springs – those metallic contraptions Father used to create timepieces – despite time measuring being forbidden.
âForbidden yet fantastical.â These words flowed from a forest whose leaves rose into the sky, over and over, like rippling water.
Ignoring them, I sat crosslegged and thought, Hullo, Iâm your new apprentice.
âI know.â A man appeared before me brandishing two crystal balls.
âFor me?â
âFor yours. For mine.â Laying them at my feet, he disappeared.
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Virtual Reality by D. Avery
âJeez, Kid, that post was kinda trippy. Had ta wunder âbout Shorty fer a bit thereâŠâ
âTrippy? Have ta wunder âbout you, Pal.â
âItâs a wunder we git anythinâ done arounâ here what with all the yackinâ. Saddle up, Kid, itâs time ta ride.â
âPal, do we ride or write? This kin be punny place, I git confused.â
âReckon, you anâ me, we ride, jist do ranch-like chores.â
âGood, writinâs too much work. Iâd ruther be herdinâ strays, tendinâ the stock, ridinâ the range⊠Itâs beautiful here.â
âYep. We really have an epic workplace, Kid.â
âI imaginâ we do.â
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Bottlenecks
Whether you are slammed in a bottleneck of traffic or sitting on the front porch slamming back bottlenecks of beer, the time such moments lend a person is pause to contemplate. Bottlenecks might slow down processes or create unexpected releases.
Stories about bottlenecks vary in design as much as glasswork. You might feel the urge to wedge a lime into a bottleneck of your own as you read.
The following are based on the August 30, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a bottleneck.
Part I (10-minute read)
Commuting by kate @ aroused
My senses were being assaulted by the cacophony of others preferred listening choices. Our windows were wound down to catch any air. Driving home during peak hour was a drag, concentrating on traffic after intense work.
The main thought that was getting me through was of the sushi Iâd picked up and the promise of a long hot shower. Then curling under my sheet with a good book … the kind you held and turned the pages. Electronic reading was not for me.
My wandering mind is brought back with a jolt as the traffic bottlenecked around an accident.
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Bottleneck by FloridaBorne
We waited behind a semi, unable to see what blocked the road ahead. I sneezed at the diesel exhaust and asked my wife, âFound anything yet?â
The truck moved forward a few feet, and then stopped again, cars merged from the left lane as my wife stared at her tablet. âWeâll be out of this bottleneck in another 50 feet.â
âWas there an accident?â
âNo,â she sighed. Traffic moved past an area where the left lane was devoid of anything but a lone boot.
Thatâs all it takes to stop traffic in LA — a shoe in the road.
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Acrostic Bottleneck by TN Kerr
B eneath the dormant wheels
O f this sharp, sleek, motionless luxury automobile
T he motorway lies still, inert and unmoving despite my serious objections. Roll up the windows then,
T he heat is relentless and the malodourous exhaust fumes of a thousand cars
L ingers and mingles languidly with the
E ther that surrounds us.
N eedless to say, we should take the next available
E xit, we should find a relaxing spot to picnic; or a back road we might use as an alternative â a means to
C ircumnavigate this bottleneck, else we wonât be home before
K wanzaa, and itâs not yet Guy Fawkes Night.
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Idiots on the Road (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli MIlls
Ike passed cars like a Hollywood speed-chase. Danni put her hand on his knee, âSlow down.â
âThese idiots on the road are going to cause an accident.â
Danni kept her opinion that Ike was the one driving like an idiot. Youâd think he was chasing down Al Qaeda in a Humvee the way he swerved around slower vehicles.
Stands of pines zipped past until traffic ahead came to a bottleneck at Culvers Point. Ike swore smooth as opera. Tourists stopped in the road to snap pictures of a mama moose. Danni reminded Ike, âRemember, weâre in Idaho, not Iraq.â
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Lemons, Limes and Other Mysteries by Norah Colvin
She hit the brakes and thumped the steering wheel.
âMummy swore.â
âDidnât.â
âI heard.â
âWhy we stopped, Mummy?â
âThereâs a traffic jam.â
âJam? I love stawbrey jam sammich.â
âNot that jam â must be a bottleneck up ahead.â Please be a merge, not an accident.
âWe learned âbout bottlenecks today.â
âWhat?â
âLive in the ocean. Maminals, like us. Whereâs bottleneck, Mummy?â
âNot bottleneck, Jamie, bottlenose.â
âYou said bottleneck.â
âI meant â aargh!â
Finally, they were home.
âYou look frazzled, hon.â
She rolled her eyes and took the beer.
âWhy lemon is in your bottle neck?â asked Jamie.
âBecause itâs not lime.â
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A Lesson in Trust by Susan Sleggs
My grandson’s dentist appointment was after school which meant dealing with rush-hour traffic. While sitting on the overpass waiting for the light so I could turn onto the expressway ramp, I could look down to gauge the usual traffic bottleneck. Bad news. Traffic was completely stopped. I said, “We’re going for a little ride to avoid the expressway.”
“Ok.”
I wound my way around side streets going north and west.
I heard from the backseat, “I have no idea where we are!”
After two more turns he saw familiar buildings. “You weren’t lost after all Grandma? I was worried.”
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Word Jam by Ritu Bhathal
Words.
Snippets.
Stories.
Poems.
Novels.
The ideas were just pouring out of my mind, my heart, my soul, and I didnât know where to start.
No, thatâs not right.
I knew where to start, I just couldnât work out where to stop, how to organise the thoughts rushing through me.
My fingers danced across the keyboard, letters appearing, filling pages and pages.
Faster and faster they came, until-
They stopped.
I knew there was more to come out, but it was as if the impatience of my ideas had caused a bottleneck in my brain.
Time for the museâŠ
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Backcountry Bottleneck by Ann Edall-Robson
A body and soul drive along gravel roads riddled with potholes is nothing short of bliss. The gray matter lodged between the ears has no expectations other than to watch for what Mother Nature has to offer. There is no rush in this journey. It is a plethora of whoa, stop, back up moments soaking in the sights on a trek to an unknown destination. Traffic lights do not exist, and the only bottleneck to endure may be a herd of cattle coming at you on the road. There is nothing like the backcountry to rejuvenate the writing mind.
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Empty Bottles All in A Row by Billy Ray Chitwood
Those empty bottles tell a pitiful story of my life, Buckaroos!
Those empty bottles once carried many of those once-held dreams I carried around in my head, all rather noble and fitting for human consumption – for anyone willing to listen to my maudlin cries for do-overs written out on barroom napkins and motel room stationery.
Those empty bottles lit me up like a neon billboard, allowing me to show off my amazing way with the women and with words.
One thing wrong with that pitiful story…
It left me a âwimp of a manâ!
So, the tombstone says!
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A Grain Of Sand by Patrick O’Connor
A single grain of sand at a time.
One by one, they slip through the bottleneck of the hourglass.
Our lives, measured in time is representative of those grains of sand.
One day at a time, our lives slip through our fingers.
Are we striving to leave a legacy or simply living for the moment?
Meanwhile, another life gasps as the last grain of sand drops.
A sad day for some; a joy for others.
How will people remember us; or will they remember us at all.
Only time will tell – one single grain of sand at a time.
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The Slide by oneletterup
She sees it. Poking out from under the sofa. She reaches down, closing her hand around the smooth green glass.
Just like Grammaâs! When she played the big guitar. Special for her.
âHoney, this is a bottleneck slide. It goes on my finger. Look!â
Then Gramma would smile, wink and whisper…
âThis song is just for you.â
Pressing on the strings, sheâd slide the glass. And sing. And fill them both up…
âIf not for you…Iâd be sad and blue if not for you…â
The little girl finds her there.
Holding the green slide. Tight.
âYou found it!â
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Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams by JulesPaige
Tammy wondered if it was always this hard to buy your first home. You had to prove you were, have been and would be employed – able to make mortgage payments.
What started out as a simple bottleneck situation turned into a log jam. The red tape became like a thick hungry boa constrictor wanting to squeeze the very life from her with having to fill out form after form after form.
There would be a celebration eventually. Hopefully soon. One where sheâd invite her best friends to uncork a bottle of champagne. When she finally held her homeâs key.
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The Bottle Opener by Robert Kirkendall
A party goer grabbed a longneck bottle of ale from an ice chest and searched around. âAnyone know where the bottle opener is?â
âI got this,â another party goer said as he picked up another beer bottle. âNow give me yours.â
The first party goer handed him his bottle, then the second party goer held his bottle upside down and placed the edge of its bottlecap against the other bottlecap. âA little trick I learned in college, using one bottle to open another.â
A cap popped off and beer spilled all over his pants.
âOoops, wrong cap came off.â
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Bottleneck Life by Kayuk
âReady for the big job interview this afternoon?â
I grin across the table at Sally, âYou bet! Â Iâve been preparing for weeks.â
âWell, you certainly look stunning. The old ivory of the suit sets the perfect tone.â
âThanksâ, I say, draping a napkin across my lap and picking up the fork.
Startled by a crash and yell behind me, I leap from my chair and turn in time to see the waiterâs foot descend on a plastic catsup bottle sliding across the floor. Pressurized contents spew from the bottleneck splashing the front of my perfect suit with garish red.
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Trust Deficit by Abhijit Ray
âBottleneck is always at the top,â thundered CEO in the townhall meeting, on productivity, he convened for his employees, after attending a conference.
âTell me is what problems you face? Is it resource allocation, time management or decision making?â senior managers shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as chief goaded his employees for a response.
There was pin drop silence, till an eager beaver junior shuffled in his seat. âIdiot! Not yet confirmed, you are a sitting duck,â whispered his friend, âthis is all sham. CEO knows very well, where the bottleneck is. He is trying to identify trouble makers.â
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Quality Control by Liz Huseby Hartmann
âThereâs your bottleneck,â Justin nodded at the bleach-blonde woman at the end of the production line. A stack of TMPuregold Widgets sat to her left. Picking one, she held it up, squinting along its length, and nodded.
âLornaâs a bottleneck?â His uncle chewed the end of his mustache.
âSheâs slow.â
Lorna picked up another widget, ran her hand across its end, and crooked her finger at a young brunette. They bent their heads together. The younger brought the piece back to her station, smiling.
âI have lots of streamlining ideas, Uncle.â
âTell your mother weâre not hiring just now.â
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You Made Your Bed by Sascha Darlington
First a bottleneck on the road and now a bottleneck at the charity event. I see who is causing it and suddenly wish I had a bottleneck in my hand, preferably high-proof.
I try to avoid her, but sheâs holding court, her brittle laughter wince-worthy. When her eyes focus on me, her lips tighten.
âSurprised you came.â
I sigh. âIâm chair.â
She waggles her diamond before darting to my ex-. Robert glances up. Do I see regret? Perhaps the younger, improved model wasnât as good as the original.
Jake squeezes my hand. âYou look beautiful tonight.â
Mine is though.
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Lil’ Ugly by D. Avery
When he drew a bull called Lilâ Ugly the other cowboys laughed.
Bow legged and barrel-chested with a bottle neck and a jug head, he endured a great deal of ribbing. He disappointed his tormentors by walking away. They could tell they angered him but could never get him to throw a punch. In addition to picking on his looks they questioned his manhood.
As he approached the chute the others joked, wondered who was going to be on top.
They didnât wonder any longer than eight seconds.
They knew now what he did with his bottled up rage.
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Saddleback Sanctuary (from “Diamante”) by Saifun Hassam
Where the valley narrowed, the flagstone path disappeared under boulders and jagged rocks. Landslide from early spring. Diamante surveyed the bottleneck. He weaved carefully around the larger rocks, clambering up and down smaller ones. He paused to rest. A lark flew up into the warm sunny skies. A lizard slithered across the boulder, briefly eyed Diamante, and disappeared. No bottlenecks for lizard or lark.
Another half mile and he was on the flagstone trail again. The ancient abandoned monastery came into view. Near an open broken gate, a giant tortoise slept, its neck well hidden within its saddleback shell.
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Part II (10-minute read)
Bottleneck by Anita Dawes
Something we experience when pushing our way into a new life. A tight space, hard to get out of.
Days when the tension holds on to the back of my neck like giant metal claws.
Other times I feel as if I have been snapped back in time, trapped inside the Trojan horse with a bunch of sweaty human beings, waiting to do battle.
The sun will come back and you can move on with your life. The way ahead is clear, or am I trapped inside someone else’s mind?
Is this the bottleneck that will finally break me?
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Bottleneck by katimac
They say humans of many forms lived a long time ago. Then a natural disaster struck which wiped out nearly all of them. It was most likely the progenitor of the Great Flood stories found in nearly every culture. Geologists can point to physical signs of it all at about the same time, nearly seventy thousand years ago. Anthropologists can point to one at the same time, about seventy thousand years ago, when mankind was reduced to a small bottleneck group on the western coast of Africa. We ainât none of us lily-white if we go back far enough.
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This Time, This Place by Kelvin M. Knight
Standing in his pulpit, he regarded one bottleneck after another: his overworked PCC; the cavalier making of tea during the service; the choir grumbling behind him; the organ whimpering far far away.
He prayed silently, swiftly. Upon opening his eyes, he spied a congregation transformed. Now they all looked resplendent in starched white collars, whereas he was a shadow, bloated and distorted, and pinched in so many places: from his wallet to his timesharing; from his patience to his love.
Realising he was more guilty than them, he pondered the complexities of daring to share this truth with them.
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Not Exactly an Hour-glass Figure by Di @ pensitivity101
âYou need to go on a diet.â
âDonât you start! How can I help it if thereâs so much to choose from, I want to try it all?â
âSomehow seeing you stuck like that is doing you no favours as regards your street cred.â
âIâll have you know this colour is very fetching! Brings out the natural blue of my eyes.â
âAt the moment they look a bit bloodshot. Youâve probably cut off your circulation, youâve gotten so fat.â
âNo need to be nasty. Iâll just make a wish!â
âBut thatâs cheating!â
âHa! Iâm a Genie darling! Iâm allowed!â
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Bored Panda by Deepa
Honey, does this look good?
I nod quickly thinking my way to escape.
Is this one better? She asked me.
If I nod again, I fear sheâll say, âso what is wrong with the first one?â
Which one do you prefer? This was she again.
Oh, darling! You look equally amazing in both.
Oh, honey! Do you mean to say can I have both?
It is a terror for spouses when it comes to shopping.
A pleasure for sales guys and a reason for more congestion in the roads and malls.
Buy 1, get one free!
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Jessie by Kay Kingsley
It had been 3 weeks and 4 days since Mike and Jessie had broken up and each second that passed was agony for him.
He sat in his usual chair at the bar hoping to be as invisible as he felt, a chameleon basked in neon.
The bar was a loud distraction as he mindlessly stroked the bottle neck, lost in the memory of her smile and the smell of her perfume. Full of regret, his heart ached.
When she touched his shoulder from behind, he looked up and thought it was a dream. They smiled at each other.
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Bottleneck by Frank Hubeny
Some say your real brains are in your gut. Bill knew his wasnât in his brain. Sharon doubted he had any in his gut either.
Thatâs when she got pregnant and started worrying.
Thatâs when they had to move to a smaller apartment.
Thatâs when it looked like he would lose his job.
Thatâs also when he didnât lose his job, but got an indirect promotion.
Thatâs also when they realized they loved that new apartment.
Thatâs when he held her and told her he was glad she was pregnant.
Thatâs when she changed her mind about his brains.
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One Night, Both Ends of Life by Paula Moyer
One Night, Both Ends of Life
6:30: the call. Finally, that night.
âTodayâs the day.â Her nephew Max, about his father, Jeanâs brother.
âDid he die?â
âYes.â The wait/weight â done. Alcoholic organ failure â complete.
7:30 p.m.: the text. âMy water broke.â A very pregnant womanâs message to Jean, her doula. âBut nothingâs happening.â Jean gassed up anyway.
9:30: the call. The husband. âItâs time.â
Jean battled State Fair traffic, road work, bridge closures.
10:10: Raced into the birth center. âWaaa!â On the floor: Chux pads, blood everywhere. On the bed: parents and one angry baby.
11:30: the drive home, joy and grief wedged in together.
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Hillsborough, April 1989 by Anne Goodwin
The match was a sell-out, but progress through the turnstiles deathly slow. To ease the tension outside, they opened the gates and funnelled the supporters directly into the already swollen stand. As the game kicked off, no-one heard the protests of those at the front, the screams forced from crushed lungs. While grown men cried for their mams, kids hadnât the air to whimper. The first to scale the fence were met with truncheons. Belatedly, the ambulances pulled onto the pitch.
No goals were scored that day. But records were broken in the numbers killed at a sporting event.
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The Happiest Traffic Jam on Earth by Chelsea Owens
âWhen will we get dere?â
Sigh.
âItâs âŠuh, your turn to answer him, Dear.â
âWhe-e-e-e-en will we get de-e-e-e-ere?â
âI told you, Honey. Weâll be there soon.â
âYeah. âSoon.ââ
âYou said that a long time ago!â
âAlvy. Honey-â
âI wish you wouldnât call him-â
âNo! You said we go in duh car!â
âYes, Sweetheart. Vroom! Vroom! Remember?â
âNot vroomingâŠâ
âYou said LITTLE ride in duh car!â
âWell, I meant-â
âYou did tell him just a little ride-â
WAAAAAAAAAH!
âDear, please. Thatâs not helping to side with himâŠâ
âAre we picking sides?â
âWHEN WILL WE GET DERE?!â
âYour turn.â
Sigh.
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It’s a Boy! by Sarah Whiley
I twisted.
I urged.
Yet still, the cap wouldnât budge.
I felt so frustrated. This liquid was yearning for release for human consumption and to be enjoyed.
It was a perfect summerâs day for a beer.
Not ready to concede defeat, I kept on trying.
The effort began to hurt my hands.
Damn this thing, I thought.
Then suddenly, I felt it.
A helpful force; working with me from the other side.
Oh joy of joys, the cap began to move!
Finally it was released, and cool liquid amber gushed through the bottle neck.
“Itâs a boy!” I smiled.
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Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
Music pulsed, matching the thump of my heart in my ears as I leaned in and gave the wine bottle a carefully planned spin. Breath held. The circle tightened. Julie Jenningsâ knee touched against mine, the bottleneck now a whir of fate.
Thump. Warmth hit my cheeks as the wand settled on Julia. A nervous laugh. What now? But with a giggle Julie nudged it two more placesâmiles it seemed!âto the metallic smile of Christina Cash. A small terror in my chest. A gust of strawberries. Julia shrugged, winked, then shoved me off towards her best friend.
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Chester Makes Amends by Molly Stevens
Chester knew he had to dig himself out of a crater after he gave the wrong impression to his wife, Ruth.
He settled on his strategy and said, âI remember the exact moment I knew you was the one. And though it was magic, my decision to ask for your hand in marriage had nothinâ to do with a silly eight ball.â
“Oh?”
“Yes. I chose you in the fifth grade.”
“Really?”
“Remember the party at Rosie house? We gathered in a circle, and I spun first. When the bottleneck pointed in your direction, I knew youâd be mine.”
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Bottlenecking by Bill Engleson
I peer into the darkness.
Stellaâs driving.
The fogâs thicker than shower steam.
âThereâs the turnoff,â I point, bumping my digit against the windshield.
âI see it,â she snaps. âIâm not blind.â
âSorryâŠâ I apologize, shaking my bent finger.
âDid you hurt your pinkie?â she asks.
âNo. Just nerves.â
The offramp quickly turns into a one-lane cow path.
âI can barely see,â she offers.
âItâs a good thing youâre driving,â I confess. âI canât see squat.â
Suddenly, a tiny wooden bridge appears.
âTHAT,â she says, âlooks flimsy. Iâm turning back.â
âCanât. Bosses party.â
âAnd weâreâŠ?â
âYup. The only guests.â
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The Real Winner by Anurag Bakhshi
I looked down at the battlefield, and my heart filled with pride.
My fellow countryman Leonidas and his small band of 300 Spartans had been pitted against more than a million of the invading army of Xerxes.
But the wily Leonidas had taken a stand at a bottleneck in the pass at Thermopylae, and stopped the Persians dead in their tracks for three days.
And the mighty Persian Army would still be fighting a futile battle if I, Ephialtes, hadnât told them about the hidden path that would allow them to flank Leonidas and his men, and slaughter them.
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Bottleneck by Reena Saxena
âI will not give my land. The price you offer is not enough to sustain me, and I donât have any other means to earn a livelihood.â
âDo you understand that this is for a mega-project, which will change the face of the countryside. History will not forgive you for being a bottleneck in progress.â
âHistory might forgive and glorify you, but goodness will not.â He signed the sale deed.
Three years later, the land purchased by the parliamentarianâs brother was sold at thirty times the price he bought it for. It helps to know about future developmental plans.
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Slow and Steady Kid by D. Avery
âHey, Pal. Have a beer with me. Ever wonder why bottles is shaped the way they are, with the long neck?â
âMebbe itâs so itâs easier ta pour. But we got no glass nor class, drinkinâ right outta the bottle.â
âIf ya hang onta the bottle neck yer beer doesnât git all warm.â
âJist drink it down fast. Gimme anuther Kid.â
âI like coozies, âspecially handy with so many switchinâ ta cans.â
âDonât need a coozie, jist drink âem right down. âNuther, Kid.â
âYou prefer bottles, or cans, Pal? Pal?â
âUhâŠâ
âThat was fast. Palâs downed from downinâ beer.â
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