i stacked the plates and they were still wet. they clattered and spilled over each other and i knew just how upset i had made it. i made the noises that spat all over the floor. the saliva spilling between cracks in the tile, eating it from within. I knew how upset i made the walls- they had to bear witness to my mistake and all of its noises. so in turn, i cried and wailed silently in the floor of the kitchen. this was all because of me. the china in fragments, the walls holding the echoes, and me in a drunken stupor.
The plates that were on the table were so outstanding and, it made the whole party pop, if they weren’t there I don’t know if the party had any worth of decoration to it and it was all worth nothing, the plates
The plates crashed down to the ground. She froze, and tried to move, but simply felt numb. She couldn’t fall, she couldn’t cry, she couldn’t run, she could only stand. Her husband was dead.
April Stone
I like plates. I think they are cool and great for food. I give the highest regard to whoever made them they are great. I think that paper towels are good too though.
Peighton
Her heart tremored as the plates shattered on the floor.
“I’m sorry!” She tried.
Her father was having none of it. His face contorted in fury and made her fold into herself, wishing she could disappear.
Mina
we went to buy them together.
or maybe i went to buy them alone, and your mind was somewhere else while your corporeal body drifted next to me, in and out of existence. you said they were pretty. and i agreed. they are very pretty. even now, with a thin layer of dust over their surface, they look delicate and look more fitting to someone of blueblood heritage. how funny… it’s the only thing that was ever dignified in this home. even more so than our relationship as it is now.
we went to buy them together.
i don’t allow myself a second of hesitation before i smash them with my open hand.
The plates in my back are not aligned just like the plates in my cabinet aren’t. I go to a chiropractor the just my back so that the plates can be aligned.
Naomi Comeaux
She was going to the special cabinet. The one that held the family heirlooms. That’s how Alan knew this was serious. How many women had he brought home in the past five years? Dozens. But for this one, his mother insisted they use china for dinner. He was surprised at the relief flooding him.
The server elegantly placed the plated entrées on the table. She then leaned over to me and said, as quietly as a breeze on a placid lake, “I didn’t put it there, but when you’re done, look under yours.”
When my dinner companions seemed preoccupied with the conversation, I looked. I found a fortune cookie slip with the numbers circled, your favorites I noted, the message read: “Always.”
I didn’t betray my stoic facade. If you were watching, I didn’t want to seem so obvious. But that’s impossible isn’t it?
Crispy Clues
Steel plates shaped neatly around the every
softness of our bodies, and this is
how we do this.
This is how we do this, ossified
into structures too uncanny
even for the humanities.
Your eyes look to me to be as big as dinner plates, sometimes. We aren’t enough alike. But I like you alright. On dark nights I want to take you by the hand and read your creased lines. See into your future if it’s really like how I think it’ll be, or if like a bandito you’ve some surprises still left up your sleeve. I can feel you in the shadows: a form of twin speak. How can I know that you want me to, but don’t want me to, too? I didn’t ask, but I can tell regardless what you think you hide so well. I know we share the same aches under the cloaking moon and stars and dreams.
Lemon Lime
We ate everything in sight, drank until our chalices were dry. We practically licked our plates clean before Madam Zucker took them away for washing.
When dinner was finished, we sat in the living room, knitted, and recited our prayers. Then, one by one, we went off to bed. Still, while I slept soundly, I learned the next morning that my sister had had uncomfortable dreams.
Belinda Roddie
I recently got a new set of plates. They’re red and white. We also acquired matching bowls and matching lunch plates. I am glad that we got corelle ware – I have a suicidal 16 yr old who I’m afraid might break those plates in anger and try to kill himself. How do you help a suicidal child when there’s no help, anywhere, until it’s too late?
Jeran
How many times had he washed the same dishes? Some with the majority of the food left, all dumped into the some soddy water, chunks of filet mignon and string beans tangling in his fingers like seaweed every time his fingers dipped below the murky surface. He so wanted to clean the finished dishes one, twice, three more times, until the water spots disappeared, the dishwasher leaving its mark, but it all was reminiscent of the browning suds, thick with oil, staining the stainless steel like blood, wadding in corners like wet paper bills. He wanted to scrub the water spots right off.
I left the plates designated for me empty. I popped in and out before you’d see me. I’ve been told the absence is always noted. The hostess I know has sighed countless times when she explains to the remaining guests that the habit is all mine and that this fault does not lie in their “kind” of company but in my quiet form of rudeness. My fondness for disappearing like a ghost. What can I say, but raw exposure is not a risk I care to take. How can I stay knowing there are certain things I cannot fake? I’ve got to save my strength to feel the things I need to feel anyway.
Leilaine
The plates clattered to the ground with an accompanying smash that ordinarily would have been surpassingly satisfying.
“What!?!” I recoiled sharply, fighting the urge to step backwards onto the minefield of broken crockery.
She stood before me, defiant. “I said, I’m moving out. I’m eighteen, I can do what I want. Rodney and I are moving to California, and you can’t stop me!”
I sighed, while inwardly cheering like I’d won the lottery. I didn’t want her to leave, but I had known for a while that she would. At least it was Rodney, who was halfway sensible, instead of her friend Maureen. To put it somewhat politely, I’d met pigs that were brighter and more sensible than Maureen DeCoste.
I affected a scowl, and said, “Good luck. I do hope you’ve planned and packed all your socks, and oh look! I hear your partner in this escapade pulling up now. Do send me a postcard when you get there, dear.”
She gaped at me, and skittered off with her carpetbag when the car horn blared.
“Ow!”
Ah, I suppose I must clean up that china eventually. Nice plates too. Shame, that.
Sparklespirit
There were some plates on the table. Shining, gleaming with potential. Zac looked at the plates, wondering how he could live up to the weight of expectations.
Louise
the plates spun precariously on the tall poles as the man 6 feet below them struggled to balance them.
yeet
So many going at once
— plates on poles
On one there is my lunch
— hungry down to the soul.
She can hear the sound of the plates clanking together as she moves her head to see where the sound is coming from. She peeks around the corner and to her much demise, her mouth has fallen opened to the sight before her of broken shattered pieces of her once heirloom collection handed down from many generations to herself, that was to be handed down to her own daughters and son. She runs frantically to the sight and falls to her knees, sobbing at what has just now been a pile of rubbish: good for nothing but the trash. As she sits amongst the ruins, her mind fills with so many memories that were flooding her heart and mind; never to return back to such a time as this. Then as, she slowly moves forward, her eye catches a glimpse of something shiny.
She ever so gently moves toward it, and is taken aback from the other angle she is now looking at it from. She gets up and starts to look deep into the pile and can now see a reflection of beauty shining forth, from the rubbish. She is now filled with a peace , as she looks at the pieces; she can now see herself in that rubbish from what used to be, so very hard to even look into; at a few times in her life. However, as she stands there she feels a holy presence with her, that has made itself known, alive and well in her. She knows very well in her heart, mind, body and spirit the rubbish formed from the broken plates, is not the rubbish she holds onto in those very moments. A beautiful masterpiece, designed by the very hands and heart of her creator; beautifully broken into pieces to reflect his love light for him, as well as those around. It is well with her soul, to be broken into beautiful.
Donna Whiting
Plates are the heart of life. They feed you every morning, afternoon and night. But without what you put on them, they are nothing. A symbol of what life could be if you don’t put in the work. A circle of never-ending emptiness. So put the time in, find out what you love, and fill your plate with it.
Carrie Downing
She stacked the plates silently and took them into the kitchen, everyone laughing and talking, not noticing she left. She dropped them into the sink with a sigh, blinking up at the ceiling. “Hey.” Jack had followed her. As she turned to him, her shoulders dropped, as if she was giving up, giving into his presence.
Flat and round, everything rests on these smooth moons of porcelain, or plastic or glass or even, gulp, paper. Leave it clean, clean it up, put it back next to the cup.
Shannon
They are stacked impossibly high like a tower of bone. I wonder how the little girls’ skeleton has not cracked under their weight like a bird’s. Then, one by one, she starts to spin them, on her hands, then, resting her weight on her neck, her feet, and finally, a long pole protruding from her feet like a cannibal’s knife in an old-fashioned children’s book meant to scare into submission.
He hung plates on his wall. The circular decorations made his walls vibrant and every guest saw landscapes in the porcelain mirrors. They were from an upscale dining store in Manulife Center.
i stacked the plates and they were still wet. they clattered and spilled over each other and i knew just how upset i had made it. i made the noises that spat all over the floor. the saliva spilling between cracks in the tile, eating it from within. I knew how upset i made the walls- they had to bear witness to my mistake and all of its noises. so in turn, i cried and wailed silently in the floor of the kitchen. this was all because of me. the china in fragments, the walls holding the echoes, and me in a drunken stupor.
The plates that were on the table were so outstanding and, it made the whole party pop, if they weren’t there I don’t know if the party had any worth of decoration to it and it was all worth nothing, the plates
hung landscapes guests
The plates crashed down to the ground. She froze, and tried to move, but simply felt numb. She couldn’t fall, she couldn’t cry, she couldn’t run, she could only stand. Her husband was dead.
I like plates. I think they are cool and great for food. I give the highest regard to whoever made them they are great. I think that paper towels are good too though.
Her heart tremored as the plates shattered on the floor.
“I’m sorry!” She tried.
Her father was having none of it. His face contorted in fury and made her fold into herself, wishing she could disappear.
we went to buy them together.
or maybe i went to buy them alone, and your mind was somewhere else while your corporeal body drifted next to me, in and out of existence. you said they were pretty. and i agreed. they are very pretty. even now, with a thin layer of dust over their surface, they look delicate and look more fitting to someone of blueblood heritage. how funny… it’s the only thing that was ever dignified in this home. even more so than our relationship as it is now.
we went to buy them together.
i don’t allow myself a second of hesitation before i smash them with my open hand.
The plates in my back are not aligned just like the plates in my cabinet aren’t. I go to a chiropractor the just my back so that the plates can be aligned.
She was going to the special cabinet. The one that held the family heirlooms. That’s how Alan knew this was serious. How many women had he brought home in the past five years? Dozens. But for this one, his mother insisted they use china for dinner. He was surprised at the relief flooding him.
The server elegantly placed the plated entrées on the table. She then leaned over to me and said, as quietly as a breeze on a placid lake, “I didn’t put it there, but when you’re done, look under yours.”
When my dinner companions seemed preoccupied with the conversation, I looked. I found a fortune cookie slip with the numbers circled, your favorites I noted, the message read: “Always.”
I didn’t betray my stoic facade. If you were watching, I didn’t want to seem so obvious. But that’s impossible isn’t it?
Steel plates shaped neatly around the every
softness of our bodies, and this is
how we do this.
This is how we do this, ossified
into structures too uncanny
even for the humanities.
Your eyes look to me to be as big as dinner plates, sometimes. We aren’t enough alike. But I like you alright. On dark nights I want to take you by the hand and read your creased lines. See into your future if it’s really like how I think it’ll be, or if like a bandito you’ve some surprises still left up your sleeve. I can feel you in the shadows: a form of twin speak. How can I know that you want me to, but don’t want me to, too? I didn’t ask, but I can tell regardless what you think you hide so well. I know we share the same aches under the cloaking moon and stars and dreams.
We ate everything in sight, drank until our chalices were dry. We practically licked our plates clean before Madam Zucker took them away for washing.
When dinner was finished, we sat in the living room, knitted, and recited our prayers. Then, one by one, we went off to bed. Still, while I slept soundly, I learned the next morning that my sister had had uncomfortable dreams.
I recently got a new set of plates. They’re red and white. We also acquired matching bowls and matching lunch plates. I am glad that we got corelle ware – I have a suicidal 16 yr old who I’m afraid might break those plates in anger and try to kill himself. How do you help a suicidal child when there’s no help, anywhere, until it’s too late?
How many times had he washed the same dishes? Some with the majority of the food left, all dumped into the some soddy water, chunks of filet mignon and string beans tangling in his fingers like seaweed every time his fingers dipped below the murky surface. He so wanted to clean the finished dishes one, twice, three more times, until the water spots disappeared, the dishwasher leaving its mark, but it all was reminiscent of the browning suds, thick with oil, staining the stainless steel like blood, wadding in corners like wet paper bills. He wanted to scrub the water spots right off.
I left the plates designated for me empty. I popped in and out before you’d see me. I’ve been told the absence is always noted. The hostess I know has sighed countless times when she explains to the remaining guests that the habit is all mine and that this fault does not lie in their “kind” of company but in my quiet form of rudeness. My fondness for disappearing like a ghost. What can I say, but raw exposure is not a risk I care to take. How can I stay knowing there are certain things I cannot fake? I’ve got to save my strength to feel the things I need to feel anyway.
The plates clattered to the ground with an accompanying smash that ordinarily would have been surpassingly satisfying.
“What!?!” I recoiled sharply, fighting the urge to step backwards onto the minefield of broken crockery.
She stood before me, defiant. “I said, I’m moving out. I’m eighteen, I can do what I want. Rodney and I are moving to California, and you can’t stop me!”
I sighed, while inwardly cheering like I’d won the lottery. I didn’t want her to leave, but I had known for a while that she would. At least it was Rodney, who was halfway sensible, instead of her friend Maureen. To put it somewhat politely, I’d met pigs that were brighter and more sensible than Maureen DeCoste.
I affected a scowl, and said, “Good luck. I do hope you’ve planned and packed all your socks, and oh look! I hear your partner in this escapade pulling up now. Do send me a postcard when you get there, dear.”
She gaped at me, and skittered off with her carpetbag when the car horn blared.
“Ow!”
Ah, I suppose I must clean up that china eventually. Nice plates too. Shame, that.
There were some plates on the table. Shining, gleaming with potential. Zac looked at the plates, wondering how he could live up to the weight of expectations.
the plates spun precariously on the tall poles as the man 6 feet below them struggled to balance them.
So many going at once
— plates on poles
On one there is my lunch
— hungry down to the soul.
She can hear the sound of the plates clanking together as she moves her head to see where the sound is coming from. She peeks around the corner and to her much demise, her mouth has fallen opened to the sight before her of broken shattered pieces of her once heirloom collection handed down from many generations to herself, that was to be handed down to her own daughters and son. She runs frantically to the sight and falls to her knees, sobbing at what has just now been a pile of rubbish: good for nothing but the trash. As she sits amongst the ruins, her mind fills with so many memories that were flooding her heart and mind; never to return back to such a time as this. Then as, she slowly moves forward, her eye catches a glimpse of something shiny.
She ever so gently moves toward it, and is taken aback from the other angle she is now looking at it from. She gets up and starts to look deep into the pile and can now see a reflection of beauty shining forth, from the rubbish. She is now filled with a peace , as she looks at the pieces; she can now see herself in that rubbish from what used to be, so very hard to even look into; at a few times in her life. However, as she stands there she feels a holy presence with her, that has made itself known, alive and well in her. She knows very well in her heart, mind, body and spirit the rubbish formed from the broken plates, is not the rubbish she holds onto in those very moments. A beautiful masterpiece, designed by the very hands and heart of her creator; beautifully broken into pieces to reflect his love light for him, as well as those around. It is well with her soul, to be broken into beautiful.
Plates are the heart of life. They feed you every morning, afternoon and night. But without what you put on them, they are nothing. A symbol of what life could be if you don’t put in the work. A circle of never-ending emptiness. So put the time in, find out what you love, and fill your plate with it.
She stacked the plates silently and took them into the kitchen, everyone laughing and talking, not noticing she left. She dropped them into the sink with a sigh, blinking up at the ceiling. “Hey.” Jack had followed her. As she turned to him, her shoulders dropped, as if she was giving up, giving into his presence.
Flat and round, everything rests on these smooth moons of porcelain, or plastic or glass or even, gulp, paper. Leave it clean, clean it up, put it back next to the cup.
They are stacked impossibly high like a tower of bone. I wonder how the little girls’ skeleton has not cracked under their weight like a bird’s. Then, one by one, she starts to spin them, on her hands, then, resting her weight on her neck, her feet, and finally, a long pole protruding from her feet like a cannibal’s knife in an old-fashioned children’s book meant to scare into submission.
He hung plates on his wall. The circular decorations made his walls vibrant and every guest saw landscapes in the porcelain mirrors. They were from an upscale dining store in Manulife Center.