Broken pencil poetry. Eternal

Eternal
11 August 2024


There is a town
On the edge of time,
In the heart of nowhere
And in this town there is a garden,
Where trees stretch tall
Into the sky,
Old and wise,
Eternal trees.

And in this garden
There is a statue
White marble, pure and smooth,
A statue of a maiden,
Her lovely face lowered,
Tears frozen cold on her cheeks,
Fallen to her knees,
Bent down
In eternal subjugation.

People would pass by,
Glance at her,
Not seeing,
Not thinking,
Forgetting her,
The eternal porcelain shadow.

One day, a weary traveller
Drifts down a dusty path
And sees her.
He stops.
Saddened, he reaches out to her,
Placing a warm hand
On her stone-cold locks,
And a wind rustles
In the eternal trees.

He turns
And leaves.
His steps rustle the pebbles.
His steps,
But then other steps,
Sprightly and quick,
Catching up with him,
Lighthearted steps,
Free from eternity.

She stops before him
And he stops too.
And she smiles a warm smile,
Warm and bright
And whispers softly
"Thank you!"

Sarcastic recipe: Meringues

Foreword: Yes, this "recipe" has a foreword. Because it is not an ordinary recipe, but one that can think and talk and has opinions. Many opinions, most of them sarcastic. And the entire discourse is in fact addressed to myself, not towards the reader. The idea stemmed from my recent failed attempt at making meringues and my (possibly failed attempt once again at) taking notes for next time. It's just for a bit of cheeky fun. ^^

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So, you think you can bake? You've already got plenty of cookies and pastries under your belt? And while keeping those there is at least questionable, let me tell you straight off that the banal meringue is going to trip you off your baker throne.

You'll need some egg whites, which you will most likely have left over from another recipe that uses only yolks. Why else would you make meringues? But, since you're a master procrastinator, you will wait too long to use those saved egg whites, so you will be afraid they're too old and throw them away. So you will have to separate more eggs specifically for meringues. Which defies the whole "leftover whites" idea. At least you won't make some more grand thing out of the leftover yolks. Good thing for omelets, huh? So, you will use a random quantity of egg whites (let's say 160g), then double that will be the amount of sugar, plus a bit of vanilla sugar. And a teaspoon of vinegar.

First of all, get everything ready. All the ingredients and all the tools. You won't have time to catch your breath after you get started. What tools? Read the recipe ahead if you want to find out.

Quantities are crucial, but I won't tell you the proportion of vinegar to everything else. Do the calculations yourself. Get those brain gears turning. It's good for you.

Next, put all the ingredients in a bowl and heat them over a pot of boiling water. All the ingredients. You forgot the vinegar. And in the rush of things, you forget your calculations and just put double the amount of vinegar. Damn! That's exactly the secret amount only pros use, but I didn't want to tell it to a novice like you. Ah well...

Heat the whole thing up to 70 degrees. Celsius. Unless you prefer Kelvin. But for that, you'd have to do your own calculations. What do you mean, you don't have a candy thermometer?

Once it's heated up (as well as can be reasonably expected given the circumstances), use the mixer on top speed to beat the whole thing until you get stiff peaks. That is not an euphemism. So until there are no more grains of sugar in it or until you feel like your hands are going to fall off. Whichever comes first. Was it the second? Not surprising at all.

Next, shape the meringues neatly from a piping bag on a tray covered with baking paper. But, since you've done this before and are expecting failure (so am I, by the way), you will just put them there with a spoon, misshapen and blobby. You think they will just fall flat, like before. Oh, the irony...

Anyway, in the oven they go. You did preheat it to 100 degrees, didn't you? Well, you were supposed to find out about it when you were reading ahead to find out the ingredients. Oh, you actually did that? Well, ok. I suppose that is one redeeming thing. But you're not out of the woods yet.

Bake them for about 1h 30min, until they're hard as chalk. And, knowing your skills, just as tasty. I will tell you to keep the door open and to bake them on a middle tray position. You will do the opposite, since you think you know better. Who's the recipe here, me or you? Stop improvising, these are meringues, not hot dogs. Though hot dogs sound nice. I'm getting kind of hungry here, waiting for your meringues to be done. Hey, can you make me some hot dogs? What do you mean, you don't have the recipe?

By the way, your meringues are getting burnt.

 

Here they are, in all their burnt missapen glory

Bitesize fiction. The man in the fridge 2.0

Standing in front of my fridge, I hesitated. Why would one hesitate in front of one's own appliance? Simple. There was a man in my fridge.

I decided to knock.

The answer came promptly and cheerfully: "Who is it?"

"It's me."

"What's the password?"

I frowned. Password? "We never discussed about a password."

"That is correct! I was just testing to see if it really is you. An intruder would have tried to make up a password."

"Oh. That's very clever. Now that we've established that I am me, may I open the door? Are you... decent?"

"I may or may not be. Like Schrödinger's cat, I'm both until you open the door." His wink was almost audible through the fridge door.

I opened the door.

"Hello!" The smile next to the mustard was just as wide as ever.

"Hello. How are you today?"

"Oh, I can't complain. This is a nice place. The cheese is good."

"So you've told me, yes. Umm, can we talk?"

"Fire away. I've got nowhere else to be at this time."

"I've got something to confess."

"Oh?"

"You aren't a real human."

He raised an eyebrow. "I feel pretty real."

"You're not, I'm afraid. I wrote you into existence."

"Are you sure? When was this?"

"Last week."

"I see... Funny, I don't recall my birth."

"Most people don't. Do you have any memories from before that though?"

"Hmm... It's rather hazy. More like thought fragments than memories."

"I see. How... do you feel about it all?" I asked gently.

"Well... A tad confused, I must confess. I was sure I was real. Now, this might take some getting used to." He sat thinking for a few moments.

I waited patiently in silence for him to process it all.

He seemed to have reached a resolution, because his smile returned. He picked up the cheese platter and handed it to me.

I politely took a piece. "Thank you."

He nodded. "I've heard it's customary when dealing with one's creator to give them an offering."

"You don't have to. I won't rattle the fridge or storm it with locusts if you don't." I ate the cheese nonetheless. It was good cheese after all.

"I have a question for you as well, if I may."

"By all means."

"What's the purpose of my existence? Was I put on this Earth to guard your cheese? Is that my destiny?"

I looked down at my feet. "The truth is... I was just feeling inspired. You... just happened. I didn't intend any specific purpose for you."

"Is that why I feel restless?"

I looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

"I've always thought that life must be more than this. That the world must be bigger than this fridge."

"Oh..."

He became more enthusiastic as he spoke. "I can be more than just the man in the fridge. I feel that I can do more than just guard the cheese." He punctuated his sentence by taking a piece of cheese himself and eating it gleefully.

I watched in fascination.

"In fact, I feel that, even if you created me, I'm not inferior to you. I have my own mind, my own dreams. Wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, absolutely. I've never looked down on you, you know."

"I know." His smile softened. "I am very grateful for you having created me, but I must now be free. I will make my own destiny."

"I'm glad." I smiled and offered him my hand. "Come on, the first step is getting out of that fridge."

He looked at my hand, then at my face. His smile had faded. "It seems that I'm afraid."

I raised my eyebrows. "How come?"

"It's cosy in here. There's cheese... Out there, there are possibilities. Choices. What if I make the wrong ones?"

"We all make wrong choices." I beamed at him. "It's freedom. It's life."

"True... Very well, then." He took my hand and came out of the fridge. "It's warm out here," he observed.

"Indeed it is." I grabbed the cheese plate. "Let's have some cheese."

He closed the fridge door behind him and smiled his brightest smile yet. "Let's."

Bitesize fiction. The man in the fridge

There is a man in my fridge. I found out just this morning, when I went to get some breakfast, opened the fridge door and there he was.

"Yes?" He glanced at me from next to the mustard.

"I... I'm sorry, should I have knocked?"

"No, that's quite alright. I'm decent."

"I see... But, may I ask, what are you doing here?"

"I guess you could say I'm just chilling," he winked.

I chuckled in return.

"You've got great taste in cheese." he commented politely.

"Oh, thank you! I do enjoy good cheese. Please, help yourself. It's right next to your elbow." It never hurts to be a good host.

"You are very kind. I shall a bit later. At the moment, I'm not hungry."

We sat for a little while in silence.

"Aren't you cold? Would you like a blanket? Or I could make you a spot of hot tea?" I offered.

"I'm fine, thank you! It is a bit nippy, but one gets used to it after a while."

"Do you plan on staying long?"

He looked hurt. "Are you suggesting I'm unwelcome?"

"No, not at all. But I rarely have house guests in my fridge. I'm afraid the accommodations aren't exactly comfortable."

"I do agree that you're rather low on cheese..."

I glared at him. "Well, Mr... Mr... I didn't catch your name."

"My name is not important."

"Then, how about why you're here?"

"Simple. You've got good cheese."

"That's no excuse for you to barge in my fridge uninvited like that."

"I do beg your pardon. When I arrived you were sleeping and I didn't want to impose."

"How considerate... So then, would you please come out of my fridge?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Oh, why not?"

"Who else will guard your cheese? If I leave, someone is bound to sneak inside your fridge and help themselves to your cheese!"

With that, he smiled merrily and pulled the fridge door shut.

Bitesize fiction. The apple thief

The apple. Round, shiny, red with a hint of yellow and possibly quite delicious. No, definitely delicious, as most apples tend to be at this stage. And absolutely tempting, a pair of beady eyes eyeing it with hunger.

The eyes blink and the nose under them sniffs deeply at the air. As if to get a feel for its prey, which is sitting on the table, oblivious of the danger it's in.

A small hop, then others following in quick succession. Swift and nimble, the creature is on the hunt, though there is no obstacle, no competition, between it and its prize.

It reaches the table and hides beneath it, its heart beating loudly in its little chest. At last! The apple it's been dreaming of, defenceless, within reach, oh my!

Cautiously, the predator lifts its eyes over the table's edge. The apple is there, inviting and desireable. With trembling hands, the apple thief reaches out. And hesitates. Dare it take this holy grail of all fruits?

But perhaps the apple wants to be eaten. Why else would it sit there, forgotten on a table at the end of the world? The apple... has been waiting. Maybe for just this little creature to snatch it up and bite into its juicy core. So the little apple thief smiles. There is no need for an apology. With sure hands, it takes the apple and disappears into the mist.

And all that remains is an empty table at the end of the world.

Bitesize fiction. High tide

The sea water was cool around my feet, but the air was pleasantly warm. I waddled around a bit in the shallow water of a narrow stretch of beach, flanked off by concrete walls. It felt like a beach within a room, cosy and private.

An empty table by the wall caught my eye. What use could a table be here, with its legs dipped in the water? To store the bathers' things?

"Vodka tonic!" a voice chimed behind me cheerfully.

I turned around. A young man was beaming at me from a group of equally young, equally enthusiastic people.

"Hello." I replied politely. It barely occured to me that his greeting had been unusual. This was an unusual place after all.

"Are you here for a swim? May we intrude?"

"Go right ahead. I don't mind company."

"Thank you!" He smiled widely. Quite a friendly fellow. He turned towards the sea and stared into the distance for a while. "I advise you to get to higher ground though. The high tide will be coming soon."

"Yes, you're right. I'd almost forgotten about that." I started towards the stairs that led to the top of the cliff, but stopped midstep and remarked: "It's a shame you and your friends arrived here right before the high tide. It will cut your swimming short."

"No worries. We meant to come at this time."

In fact, they were doing something even more unusual than the greeting from before. They were laying papers down on the table. I enquired: "Wait... Won't your papers get swept away by the sea? I don't think you should put them there."

He smiled widely once more. "That is also deliberate. You see, that is our homework."

"Oh?"

"We lost one of our teachers out at sea last year... He went swimming and was swept by the current and drowned." His smile softened and became sadder.

"I'm sorry to hear that..."

"Thank you. Well, he was such an amazing teacher, that our group has decided to pay homage to him every week by studying together and leaving our homework here to be taken by the sea..."

"Oh... Such a lovely tradition! I'm sure your teacher would have been proud of you. Erm, may I add to your offering? I have my notes from my language studies with me."

"Of course! Our teacher appreciated people who wanted to learn. Your notes are welcome."

So I put my papers on the table and we all went up the steps, out of the reach of the soaring waves.

And as we watched together our homework floating off the table, we all felt united by this small moment that we shared.

 

This story is an embrace between the sea and a dream at the edge of waking.

Broken pencil poetry. Van Gogh's ear

Am I going to cheat by digging out an old piece of writing from the past? Yes, yes I am. But it hasn't been published here, so it's just like new.

Almost 7 years ago, I wrote a little poem. I'm not sure what triggered it at that time. But, after dusting it off and reading it again, it certainly feels very fitting to my current situation in life. So, here it is:

 

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Van Gogh's ear
21 nov 2016

I think the world is far too narrow
As I lay another brick -
I think the wall is far too tall
But I'm the one
Slathering the mortar.

I think the eyes are far too bright
Because they see me in my corner
And even if I bare my teeth
The world is still, still far too narrow.

My back is itchy and I'd really like to scratch
And the cards are still not good
For helping me out with my bluff...

I feel like Van Gogh's ear,
Cut off and given away,
But I can still hear, mind you,
I can still hear it!
The echo is still there
And I can hear it over and over,
Lost in the nooks and crannies
Of this discarded old ear...

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As a little interpretation hint, it's still a poem about building one's own enclosing fence, not feeling quite right in the middle of this reality and still being haunted by the past. Well... Some things simply never change.