Food Writing
Box of Chocolates
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They say life is like a box of chocolates… I think you know the rest of it. So, why is it whenever I am given one, the rare time I’m given one, I always go right to the ingredients? I match each bon- bon to the shape that’s described, each truffle to the flavor it hides. I rearrange them so that I consume each and every treat in the perfect order. One after another in a meticulous pattern. And pretty soon, I realize that I’m…kinda boring. So I decided: the next time you get some chocolates, take a chance! I would have- if someone else hadn't taken the chance for me. My truffles were reduced to foil wrappers, my bonbons were all digested. My chance of disorder was quite literally left in disorder, and only the bow remained. Life really is like a box of chocolates, and I think my dogs took that too literally.
More is in the oven, stay tuned!
M I L K
“Meeeee-haw. Meeeee-haw.”
​
My family was utterly perturbed by the sound I was making, huddling around me at the dinner table as I was held hostage by the highchair. It’s the story they love to bring up, twenty years to date. The moment when my limited vocabulary of hiccupping cries and gurgling laughter suddenly became very peculiar. Very donkey-esque. At least, that’s how my dad loves to describe it; though my sister did sound just like a cat as a newborn, so I guess it just runs in the family. No one could really decipher my chant, and it only grew more desperate as I slapped my hands to the plastic tray, sending Cheerio crumbs raining to the kitchen floor.
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Children's Book Concepts
More on Perfectly You, The Little Traveler, and other stories coming soon!
Riddles
Hover over each box to find the answer!
I am often wanted when in sight
and resemble what's found overhead.
Often stuck like leaves to a branch,
strung meticulously like thread.
Gone within seconds, from big to small,
for my size may misled.
I remain as sweet as could be,
but in water I'm dead...
What am I?
?
Cotton Candy
A door impossible to unlock,
to the world of the absurd.
Some might call reality's mock,
Which crumbles once a chime is heard.
At the toll of a ticking clock,
or the tune of a morn songbird...
What am I?
?
A dream...
A dream...
Before the sun
sets off to rest,
and stars climb
beside a lunar crest;
witness embers spark
and wader abreast.
Until a palm ensnares
and a lid divests...
What am I?
?
