In a creative mood, God got up from his breakfast and walked to the veranda. He looked down over the railing of balcony at the white flecks of sails and sailboats floating on the azure water. A salty breeze tossed his hair to one side. Vines and olive trees on the cliffs under the villa shook similarly. When the breeze halted he could hear the muffled noise of bathers and sailers mixed up with the rhythmic cries of seagulls. The scene was a radiant source of happiness and peace. It was, by most definitions, perfection.
Which is what bothered him, I suppose. Perfection is static. There was no drive in such a world. That radiant peace was a blanket that would spread out to other places, warm and comforting, and smother all development. In this perfection, he thought, he had failed. A wave of sadness came over him. If only that were enough to redeem the scene. But he had overcooked this one.
He walked back in from the veranda, to the cooler shade of the marble inside and then out the door of the villa. Meanwhile, the atoms of every bit of matter in that world began to quiver. An energy excited them, moved them around in their places, and then compelled them to break rank. In great bursts of light and heat, the sailboats, the bathers, the seagulls, the azure sea, all of it, was unmade. It became energy, and then nothing. And then a thought in his head as he slowly drove away.
6:34 pm. There’s a storm outside when I think of you. I’m roasting chestnuts, your favourite, and I wonder if you’ll be knocking on my door tonight even though I know there’s a higher chance of the storm creeping in, taking off it’s shoes and sitting quietly with me. Well done, the raging weather is less of an arse than you.
9:04 pm. The rain is falling faster than someone who decided they weren’t enough and I find my thoughts drifting towards you again. The plate of chestnuts dusted with icing, now empty, sits in front of me. Fingerprints in the sugar like footsteps in snow, leading you away from me. Thunder rumbles and so does the rage when I think of your crooked teeth and your smile and your hands and your voice. I pray to the Gods that the rain will wash away all thought of you and think of the shrine at the base of our mountain, my mountain. Where you no longer take me with a basket filled with my favourite food, and of course your sugared chestnuts, the sickly sweet layer hiding the bitter taste underneath; a perfect metaphor for you.
12:18 am. The rain stops, the clouds recede, and as I drift off to sleep I do not dream of mountain walks, I do not dream of roasted chestnuts, nor do I dream of you. The storm is over and so are we.
So what comes to mind and this is probably a generational is getting roasted by someone. As in the say something to you and its mean but meant to be funny. Its also like ooh what a burn
Last week I roasted chicken with my friends
I don’t like roasted nuts
I could feel my skin beginning to roast
Sam
Burn. The boy’s face started flushing red. He looked down in shame and guilt. Why didn’t I listen to my teacher? Now I’m getting scolded in front of the whole class.
Yen
Trell walked his ass back home, alone, dragging his feet through the westside of Jacksonville. Never had a homie been roasted so savagely. He knew what was next. He must purchase some real J’s and a fresh outfit and come back to school packing mad lyrical heat.
Bubbling and spitting over the open flame, the peanuts turned on the slow moving crank-shaft. Their skin popping off, their glaze dirtied sugary honey.
ml
I’ve been eating lots of chestnuts lately, even though it’s spring. They remind me of a fruit we have back home. I wonder if I should try to have them roasted. It might be too hot for that just yet though.
She peeked into the over, her eyes squinting against the heat. “Almost done… I think.”
He laughed from the other room. “Do you want me to take a look?”
“No, no, I’m doing this on my own. I’m figuring it out. Set the table and we’ll eat soon.”
inspect me under a lamp
the funeral was okay
but was yellow
really her favorite color?
girl in traffic
on a porch swing screaming
all fifty branches
bored by completely naked
and running hands across bodies looking for more clothes to take off
Oh man have I been roasted before. It was quite actually fun because I can take their blows and see that it simply means an opportunity for me to improve. So being roasted is quite okay. It means they see you. But it can’t be always the way you want to be seen.
The roasted cinnamon nuts permeated the air. It was such a beautiful sunny day at the ballpark. The kids were laughing and running around behind the dugouts. Little Adeline was chasing the butterfly she had seen perched atop the fence. It’s little yellow wings helping her keep track of it as she followed it for a closer view. These are the days I am so glad to be a mother, to see the joy written across their faces. This is love.
Emma
dissatisfied
William
when u say something to someone so the will be triggerd
radin
We ate cherry pie first and roasted chicken later, drinking wine in between intervals of gorging and gluttony, smoking old cigarettes found in the attic by Timothy when he started scavenging for hidden treasures. It all tasted like resin and sap in the end – even the fruit seemed aged and trapped in blobs of amber in our mouths.
Belinda Roddie
Chicken skin in the oven
Ghost skin in the sun
Frog in a pot, he calls it love
Feast of a face
Laid out, never enough,
Too much,
Never enough,
Enough now,
Words abandoned in the heat,
Left to dry before they’ve lived
An evergreen with needles through the summer
The world heating up, the season,
The tension across
the globe, the ozone,
melting ice-caps,
the world is salt-water and the only thing dry is my eyes
going blind
all I hold are
red threads woven between my fingers
clinging like vines
across the kitchen
a bond to outside the oven
arched back
see the world upside-down from the stained window
and the meat in my chest
grows warm
the roasted almonds i bought from the small kiosik were so crunchy that with each bite my fellows could listen the sounds of fresh almonds being chewed.
Naeem
The glazed, roasted duck sat nestled in thick cutlets between slivers of overripe peach and drizzles of an unidentified red berry jam.
emily rowe
Roasted. Toasted. The roast will be roasted and the house will smell of onions. What a stench! I’d like to roast my husband for his decision to make roast with onions. Toast. Roast. Roast. Toast. I think I’ll take the toast, especially since I hate the smell of roast at breakfast.
rachelzana
The chicken in the oven is entirely way more roasted than you wanted it to be. You stared at the chicken on the container, stared at the oven door, and then shoved the entire chicken back in. If it dared come out too roasted, it might as well come out burned.
In a creative mood, God got up from his breakfast and walked to the veranda. He looked down over the railing of balcony at the white flecks of sails and sailboats floating on the azure water. A salty breeze tossed his hair to one side. Vines and olive trees on the cliffs under the villa shook similarly. When the breeze halted he could hear the muffled noise of bathers and sailers mixed up with the rhythmic cries of seagulls. The scene was a radiant source of happiness and peace. It was, by most definitions, perfection.
Which is what bothered him, I suppose. Perfection is static. There was no drive in such a world. That radiant peace was a blanket that would spread out to other places, warm and comforting, and smother all development. In this perfection, he thought, he had failed. A wave of sadness came over him. If only that were enough to redeem the scene. But he had overcooked this one.
He walked back in from the veranda, to the cooler shade of the marble inside and then out the door of the villa. Meanwhile, the atoms of every bit of matter in that world began to quiver. An energy excited them, moved them around in their places, and then compelled them to break rank. In great bursts of light and heat, the sailboats, the bathers, the seagulls, the azure sea, all of it, was unmade. It became energy, and then nothing. And then a thought in his head as he slowly drove away.
6:34 pm. There’s a storm outside when I think of you. I’m roasting chestnuts, your favourite, and I wonder if you’ll be knocking on my door tonight even though I know there’s a higher chance of the storm creeping in, taking off it’s shoes and sitting quietly with me. Well done, the raging weather is less of an arse than you.
9:04 pm. The rain is falling faster than someone who decided they weren’t enough and I find my thoughts drifting towards you again. The plate of chestnuts dusted with icing, now empty, sits in front of me. Fingerprints in the sugar like footsteps in snow, leading you away from me. Thunder rumbles and so does the rage when I think of your crooked teeth and your smile and your hands and your voice. I pray to the Gods that the rain will wash away all thought of you and think of the shrine at the base of our mountain, my mountain. Where you no longer take me with a basket filled with my favourite food, and of course your sugared chestnuts, the sickly sweet layer hiding the bitter taste underneath; a perfect metaphor for you.
12:18 am. The rain stops, the clouds recede, and as I drift off to sleep I do not dream of mountain walks, I do not dream of roasted chestnuts, nor do I dream of you. The storm is over and so are we.
So what comes to mind and this is probably a generational is getting roasted by someone. As in the say something to you and its mean but meant to be funny. Its also like ooh what a burn
fired meat
Yo mama so fat, that when she went to in and out, she couldn’t go in or out. #Roasted
Roasting in the sun, tan lines and warm light dances along the ground. Toasted notes of heat and crunchy leaves scattered, even though its spring
Last week I roasted chicken with my friends
I don’t like roasted nuts
I could feel my skin beginning to roast
Burn. The boy’s face started flushing red. He looked down in shame and guilt. Why didn’t I listen to my teacher? Now I’m getting scolded in front of the whole class.
Trell walked his ass back home, alone, dragging his feet through the westside of Jacksonville. Never had a homie been roasted so savagely. He knew what was next. He must purchase some real J’s and a fresh outfit and come back to school packing mad lyrical heat.
Bubbling and spitting over the open flame, the peanuts turned on the slow moving crank-shaft. Their skin popping off, their glaze dirtied sugary honey.
I’ve been eating lots of chestnuts lately, even though it’s spring. They remind me of a fruit we have back home. I wonder if I should try to have them roasted. It might be too hot for that just yet though.
She peeked into the over, her eyes squinting against the heat. “Almost done… I think.”
He laughed from the other room. “Do you want me to take a look?”
“No, no, I’m doing this on my own. I’m figuring it out. Set the table and we’ll eat soon.”
inspect me under a lamp
the funeral was okay
but was yellow
really her favorite color?
girl in traffic
on a porch swing screaming
all fifty branches
bored by completely naked
and running hands across bodies looking for more clothes to take off
Oh man have I been roasted before. It was quite actually fun because I can take their blows and see that it simply means an opportunity for me to improve. So being roasted is quite okay. It means they see you. But it can’t be always the way you want to be seen.
The roasted cinnamon nuts permeated the air. It was such a beautiful sunny day at the ballpark. The kids were laughing and running around behind the dugouts. Little Adeline was chasing the butterfly she had seen perched atop the fence. It’s little yellow wings helping her keep track of it as she followed it for a closer view. These are the days I am so glad to be a mother, to see the joy written across their faces. This is love.
dissatisfied
when u say something to someone so the will be triggerd
We ate cherry pie first and roasted chicken later, drinking wine in between intervals of gorging and gluttony, smoking old cigarettes found in the attic by Timothy when he started scavenging for hidden treasures. It all tasted like resin and sap in the end – even the fruit seemed aged and trapped in blobs of amber in our mouths.
Chicken skin in the oven
Ghost skin in the sun
Frog in a pot, he calls it love
Feast of a face
Laid out, never enough,
Too much,
Never enough,
Enough now,
Words abandoned in the heat,
Left to dry before they’ve lived
An evergreen with needles through the summer
The world heating up, the season,
The tension across
the globe, the ozone,
melting ice-caps,
the world is salt-water and the only thing dry is my eyes
going blind
all I hold are
red threads woven between my fingers
clinging like vines
across the kitchen
a bond to outside the oven
arched back
see the world upside-down from the stained window
and the meat in my chest
grows warm
the roasted almonds i bought from the small kiosik were so crunchy that with each bite my fellows could listen the sounds of fresh almonds being chewed.
The glazed, roasted duck sat nestled in thick cutlets between slivers of overripe peach and drizzles of an unidentified red berry jam.
Roasted. Toasted. The roast will be roasted and the house will smell of onions. What a stench! I’d like to roast my husband for his decision to make roast with onions. Toast. Roast. Roast. Toast. I think I’ll take the toast, especially since I hate the smell of roast at breakfast.
The chicken in the oven is entirely way more roasted than you wanted it to be. You stared at the chicken on the container, stared at the oven door, and then shoved the entire chicken back in. If it dared come out too roasted, it might as well come out burned.