The heat of this place will suffocate you. They tell you it’s natural, or even part of what you signed up for, but don’t let their voices misguide you. They want you to implode and they’re waiting for the moment your veins will catch fire.
The smell reminded me of summertime and the crinkle at the corners of your eyes when you would wake up in the morning. There would be fresh cinnamon rolls out of the oven and the smell of the ocean running through the house like a little boy. It was good then, you know.
I wish I could go back.
Today is all I have though.
Cally D
I cooked the big turkey in the oven. My Grandma make a cake in the oven. People buy new oven some every day.
Oven are hot. They are good for putting things that need to bake.
Jo Ja
My mom likes to bake cookies. So she mixes it. Then she puts it in the oven.
Joanna
“Grief burrows into places only joy can heal.” Her expression is a mask of solemnity. Her long eye casts upon me, but I can tell her mind is moving elsewhere now. She turns off the van and leaves a finger pointed to another town on the map. Her gaze returns to me.
“Treasure?” She laughs a little too bitterly to be mistaken for a giddy girl. “That would depend on your definition of it. For me it’s this place right here.”
I look past the windshield at the unfussy, building-sized, oven before us. I narrow my focus on what’s she’d said. Last century this one and many more were used to make tons of ash. The kind folk who’d been turned to kindling had been disposed of their homes, stripped of their belongings, gassed, and scattered to the winds like sand, like grit, like the parts to an hourglass that would never mend. Now I understand what she means. A lost treasure of words, ideas, breakthroughs in science, medicine, advancements that would help all who might need of them never to be seen again. Whole timelines snuffed out in an elaborate orchestration of blood artifice. There is a terrible malignancy of thought and deed in this, one might even call it a “mad philosophy,” for the reasoning of these deeds had been devoid of any real ideation of hope. How would it ever deliver on a promise made of lies? So as this mad philosophy rested its intellectual weights upon shadowy illusions it destined itself to fall. There is no supreme purity for nature is not a pure thing and the blood that mixed before would continue to mix after the demise of this “would-be-empire”. Maybe in alternate reality it happens differently, which is why she’s holding the map and looking at a rift in the air before us. It’s her skill. She’s teaching me to see fractures in the narrative. The land of “Conditionals” appears before us like a doorway. She tells me to brush up on my grammar. “If, should, could, might, in theory”…yes, these are all shadow-words in phrases I think I know very well. Yo se. Yo se. But do I know?
X-ray Tech
“Come closer my dear” The oven says in a tone that reminds me of a snake. “Peek inside” It says. I bend down slowly to see what emits such an amazing aroma from the dimly lit oven surrounded by darkness. Could it be cake? Could it be cookies? I cup my hands to the greasy glass peering closer but see nothing inside. No, not again. The light abruptly turns off. The oven has tricked me once again. It was all made up. It was all just a dream. Today like the day before, there is still no bun in the oven. The oven is full of emptiness.
They were at that long-awaited summer festival. When drinking hot chocolate back in February, they would imagine the sweet tasting wind that would gently suggest them to turn their faces to great artists and festival-looking women.
she got the food out of the oven it smelled great actually you could smell it from a mile away!!!!! I was ready to eat yum yum.
Cameron
hot,something you would bake in,warm,cooks food,bakes food,makes food eateable,
Cameron
She pulled the bread out, turning her face away from the heat and squinting her eyes. She set the bread carefully on top of the stove and admired her work. Perfect. Golden brown, not a hint of burn.
I used to have an EasyBake oven. I don’t know why I kind of want one still. I can just use the freakin’ real oven! But yeah, when I’m thinking of ovens I’m thinking of baking sweets in them…’cause I’m a bit of a sweet tooth. Actually, “a bit” is probably an understatement ;)
Imani
I opened the oven, and I was so hungry that I ate the cookies right out of it. I died.THE END
fjaejifoisj
Wicked Witches should not own large ovens, you would think they would be more careful especially around homicidal abandoned children, children who seem to think it’s okay to wander around taking bites out of people houses. After all it’s hardly good manners just to wander up to someones house and take a large bites out of the doormat
“No kids,” I say. And I mean it.
“Too selfish,” I explain. And I mean it.
“No bun in this oven!” I joke. And I mean it.
But does the pregnancy test get it?
Amanda
We huddled close around the bulk of the iron oven, desperately trying to warm our extremities in the deep red glow of the flare. The snow had been falling for so long the oven itself was starting to fill up; only when we lit the flare and dropped it in the iron belly that it started to disappear.
One would think of this as a tool to bake things, bake food.
But what this instrument can do to the human is beyond the imagination of one’s self.
Only the hellspawns attempt to do so…
jjjjcccjjf
I open the oven to freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Coming to my grandma’s every Saturday has always been the best part of the week for the last few years of my life. We talk, we knit, we discuss politics, we bake, we go out and buy new books, we talk about God and all that I’m confused about in life. She is my best friend.
Emma
i have an oven which being used by my beloved wife just for warming my breakfast at morning. besides, i got gifted several ovens during my marriage, except one all had been distributing by my father in law.
Warmth. It exists in the heart of home.
It calls on all the stars that align with the scents.
Oh sweet, baked and fried and scrumptious food.
It beckons us all, to us fortunate to own such a thing.
Now if only I could learn to work the darn things It likes to mock me. Burn my food. Maybe it doesn’t like me at all. Maybe I need practice.
♥
The oven sizzled, a low sort of menacing sound. I jumped at the sudden sound and looked around the room. Smoke was curling up towards the ceiling.
Lee
Atrocities were done here. This isn’t a game; it’s not a fairy tale, where magic and happenstance trumps logic and happy endings abound. No… This is Death, and it is final. Dark. Terrifying and atrocious all at once.
Her mind felt like an oven. Hot, blistering, cooking her happy thoughts into nothing but charred little bits of gristle no one wanted to even look at. The anger squirmed around in her thoughts, turning every positive notion into ash. Not ice water, or fans, or arctic cool could soothe her suffering.
“It’s all in your head” she told herself, trying to remain calm, but for the burning. But that just made things worse, didn’t it? The fact that it was all in her head. There was no escape, no dream of awakening, no easing her negativity from her own mind, she was stuck right here until it passed. And who knew when that would be?
Taking a deep breath in she searched for a source of her sudden fury. She was met with confusion and fright and a hollow aching, all of these tempestuous emotions hurling themselves against the walls of her mind. It seemed as though her thoughts, so loud and wordless, were trying to fight their way out into an actual existence. They were clawing through her brain, as though they might seep out through her ears to become charred monsters set on terrorizing her and anyone she loved.
“It’s like an oven in here,” she thought. She wiped her brow, then redid her head bindings. There was a lot more ground to cover (metaphorically speaking) and she only had a few hours of daylight left.
Hot, not cold, spilling out from vents onto the floor. Baked in, forever thin, taking the waste out with a cosmic mash.
The bangers and mash are ready, Maurice – that’s what I said to you. But now the oven is closed and you know how it is, letting everything grow old with a piece of cheese-whiz. Fake, fake, you – take, take me.
She stuck her souffle in the oven, praying that it would at least turn out edible this time. She was about to return to her book when her niece burst through the door, a large dog and mud trailing behind her.
Jonaya
Put two loafs of bread right in the oven, and boom – black as soot when the timer beeped. I didn’t know what was wrong – at least, not until I confronted my mad scientist-esque wife, who removed her goggles as I walked into her lab.
“I was experimenting with the measures of convection on the oven to see how hot it could get without blowing up the house,” she said. “Why? Did I forget to revert it to its original settings?”
The heat of this place will suffocate you. They tell you it’s natural, or even part of what you signed up for, but don’t let their voices misguide you. They want you to implode and they’re waiting for the moment your veins will catch fire.
The smell reminded me of summertime and the crinkle at the corners of your eyes when you would wake up in the morning. There would be fresh cinnamon rolls out of the oven and the smell of the ocean running through the house like a little boy. It was good then, you know.
I wish I could go back.
Today is all I have though.
I cooked the big turkey in the oven. My Grandma make a cake in the oven. People buy new oven some every day.
Oven are hot. They are good for putting things that need to bake.
My mom likes to bake cookies. So she mixes it. Then she puts it in the oven.
“Grief burrows into places only joy can heal.” Her expression is a mask of solemnity. Her long eye casts upon me, but I can tell her mind is moving elsewhere now. She turns off the van and leaves a finger pointed to another town on the map. Her gaze returns to me.
“Treasure?” She laughs a little too bitterly to be mistaken for a giddy girl. “That would depend on your definition of it. For me it’s this place right here.”
I look past the windshield at the unfussy, building-sized, oven before us. I narrow my focus on what’s she’d said. Last century this one and many more were used to make tons of ash. The kind folk who’d been turned to kindling had been disposed of their homes, stripped of their belongings, gassed, and scattered to the winds like sand, like grit, like the parts to an hourglass that would never mend. Now I understand what she means. A lost treasure of words, ideas, breakthroughs in science, medicine, advancements that would help all who might need of them never to be seen again. Whole timelines snuffed out in an elaborate orchestration of blood artifice. There is a terrible malignancy of thought and deed in this, one might even call it a “mad philosophy,” for the reasoning of these deeds had been devoid of any real ideation of hope. How would it ever deliver on a promise made of lies? So as this mad philosophy rested its intellectual weights upon shadowy illusions it destined itself to fall. There is no supreme purity for nature is not a pure thing and the blood that mixed before would continue to mix after the demise of this “would-be-empire”. Maybe in alternate reality it happens differently, which is why she’s holding the map and looking at a rift in the air before us. It’s her skill. She’s teaching me to see fractures in the narrative. The land of “Conditionals” appears before us like a doorway. She tells me to brush up on my grammar. “If, should, could, might, in theory”…yes, these are all shadow-words in phrases I think I know very well. Yo se. Yo se. But do I know?
“Come closer my dear” The oven says in a tone that reminds me of a snake. “Peek inside” It says. I bend down slowly to see what emits such an amazing aroma from the dimly lit oven surrounded by darkness. Could it be cake? Could it be cookies? I cup my hands to the greasy glass peering closer but see nothing inside. No, not again. The light abruptly turns off. The oven has tricked me once again. It was all made up. It was all just a dream. Today like the day before, there is still no bun in the oven. The oven is full of emptiness.
the oven is very hot.
They were at that long-awaited summer festival. When drinking hot chocolate back in February, they would imagine the sweet tasting wind that would gently suggest them to turn their faces to great artists and festival-looking women.
Manu did feel like hot chocolate but in an oven.
A stove, a kitchen appliance, something that will burn you, were food is made.
I bought an oven today and instead of it cooking my food I accidentally cooked my cat I thought to myself no need to waste so I had Fluffy for dinner.
oven is a thing that killed thecoookies
I am being in a oven to be killed
she got the food out of the oven it smelled great actually you could smell it from a mile away!!!!! I was ready to eat yum yum.
hot,something you would bake in,warm,cooks food,bakes food,makes food eateable,
She pulled the bread out, turning her face away from the heat and squinting her eyes. She set the bread carefully on top of the stove and admired her work. Perfect. Golden brown, not a hint of burn.
I love ovens but they are the things that
I hate ovens because it is hot and a oven is the thing th
I was in the oven about to be killed and it was hot in that oven I
I’m suffocating. Your warmth kept me alive, but now it’s slowly killing me. I love you. I need to escape you.
I used to have an EasyBake oven. I don’t know why I kind of want one still. I can just use the freakin’ real oven! But yeah, when I’m thinking of ovens I’m thinking of baking sweets in them…’cause I’m a bit of a sweet tooth. Actually, “a bit” is probably an understatement ;)
I opened the oven, and I was so hungry that I ate the cookies right out of it. I died.THE END
Wicked Witches should not own large ovens, you would think they would be more careful especially around homicidal abandoned children, children who seem to think it’s okay to wander around taking bites out of people houses. After all it’s hardly good manners just to wander up to someones house and take a large bites out of the doormat
an oven it hot and you bake food in it and has lights inside it and makes really good stuff
what about oven? it is hot. by the way we use it to make yummy cakes and breads. It is useful.
“No kids,” I say. And I mean it.
“Too selfish,” I explain. And I mean it.
“No bun in this oven!” I joke. And I mean it.
But does the pregnancy test get it?
We huddled close around the bulk of the iron oven, desperately trying to warm our extremities in the deep red glow of the flare. The snow had been falling for so long the oven itself was starting to fill up; only when we lit the flare and dropped it in the iron belly that it started to disappear.
One would think of this as a tool to bake things, bake food.
But what this instrument can do to the human is beyond the imagination of one’s self.
Only the hellspawns attempt to do so…
I open the oven to freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Coming to my grandma’s every Saturday has always been the best part of the week for the last few years of my life. We talk, we knit, we discuss politics, we bake, we go out and buy new books, we talk about God and all that I’m confused about in life. She is my best friend.
i have an oven which being used by my beloved wife just for warming my breakfast at morning. besides, i got gifted several ovens during my marriage, except one all had been distributing by my father in law.
Warmth. It exists in the heart of home.
It calls on all the stars that align with the scents.
Oh sweet, baked and fried and scrumptious food.
It beckons us all, to us fortunate to own such a thing.
Now if only I could learn to work the darn things It likes to mock me. Burn my food. Maybe it doesn’t like me at all. Maybe I need practice.
♥
She lay back in the hammock. “I feel like I’m in an oven.”
“Right now, you do look like a loaf of freshly baked bread.”
“Stop it. I’m too hot to laugh.”
“I’d consider whether you look good enough to eat, but I’m too tired to chew.”
The oven sizzled, a low sort of menacing sound. I jumped at the sudden sound and looked around the room. Smoke was curling up towards the ceiling.
Atrocities were done here. This isn’t a game; it’s not a fairy tale, where magic and happenstance trumps logic and happy endings abound. No… This is Death, and it is final. Dark. Terrifying and atrocious all at once.
Her mind felt like an oven. Hot, blistering, cooking her happy thoughts into nothing but charred little bits of gristle no one wanted to even look at. The anger squirmed around in her thoughts, turning every positive notion into ash. Not ice water, or fans, or arctic cool could soothe her suffering.
“It’s all in your head” she told herself, trying to remain calm, but for the burning. But that just made things worse, didn’t it? The fact that it was all in her head. There was no escape, no dream of awakening, no easing her negativity from her own mind, she was stuck right here until it passed. And who knew when that would be?
Taking a deep breath in she searched for a source of her sudden fury. She was met with confusion and fright and a hollow aching, all of these tempestuous emotions hurling themselves against the walls of her mind. It seemed as though her thoughts, so loud and wordless, were trying to fight their way out into an actual existence. They were clawing through her brain, as though they might seep out through her ears to become charred monsters set on terrorizing her and anyone she loved.
The oven was spewing smoke, the dog was barking in a panic and my headache kicked into fifth-gear.
“It’s like an oven in here,” she thought. She wiped her brow, then redid her head bindings. There was a lot more ground to cover (metaphorically speaking) and she only had a few hours of daylight left.
Hot, not cold, spilling out from vents onto the floor. Baked in, forever thin, taking the waste out with a cosmic mash.
The bangers and mash are ready, Maurice – that’s what I said to you. But now the oven is closed and you know how it is, letting everything grow old with a piece of cheese-whiz. Fake, fake, you – take, take me.
She stuck her souffle in the oven, praying that it would at least turn out edible this time. She was about to return to her book when her niece burst through the door, a large dog and mud trailing behind her.
Put two loafs of bread right in the oven, and boom – black as soot when the timer beeped. I didn’t know what was wrong – at least, not until I confronted my mad scientist-esque wife, who removed her goggles as I walked into her lab.
“I was experimenting with the measures of convection on the oven to see how hot it could get without blowing up the house,” she said. “Why? Did I forget to revert it to its original settings?”