weak.meat.strong.eat.

storytimesaturday:

This week’s theme shall be:

furniture

Hey everyone! I probably should have done this long ago, but I have finally built a brand new home for Story Time Saturday, as it seems to have long outgrown my humble little blog.

I’ll be posting all your stories over at storytimesaturday.tumblr.com from now on, so please follow along over there if you’re interested!

Thanks!

writethreehundredsixtyfive:

There is a moment that comes early on in any relationship where you realise you are going to have to define it. We’d been spending a lot of time together recently, just us. We’d previously spent a lot of time together with others. Now it was time for that conversation.

Inevitably, it began as we were lying in bed. It was late afternoon, we had met for lunch and now we were naked and wrapped in your duvet and the setting sun was peering through the half-closed blinds spilling fractured shadows over our comfortably exhausted bodies.  

Your hand was lolling casually on my shoulder and your eyes were closed. My hair was spread out like an open sea anemone across your shoulder and chest. It was warm and hazy and in that moment I heard the words as if they were coming from far away, almost a beat before they slipped from your lips. “What should we call this?”

I tried to stay still, not wanting to appear alarmed. I tried not to, but sighed a little as I breathed-in to respond, “Do we have to call it anything?”

You shifted to lean on your elbow, looking down into my face. My head bumped the pillow as I readjusted my position so I could focus on your eyes. They were by far my favourite part of your face, then, sleepy and blue but intense even when the rest of your body was languid.

“Seriously, though,” you pursed your lips, “What are we doing here?”

I tried to refrain from the mental eye-roll. “We’re lying in bed, we just had mind-blowingly great sex… But that isn’t what you mean is it?” I half-smiled, to show you I was happy and to show you I meant it.

You smiled back, but there was a touch of coldness, “So, if I introduce you to anyone I should say “Hi, this is Annie, we have mind-blowingly great sex.”. Okay, fair enough.”

You smirked and I slipped my hand out from under the covers to stroke your face.

“Obviously not. But, do we need to say anything? Couldn’t you just say “This is Annie”?” 

You frowned, “But what I’m asking is, what are we to each other now?”

I looked at you, searching for a clue. “We’re friends.” I spoke softly.

“Friends. Yup. okay.” You fell back on the bed.

For a few minutes we lay just like that. You with your intense eyes closed, me with my hand stroking your cheek.

You shifted again, staring long and hard into my eyes. “It’s just… What is the first thing you think about when you wake up every morning?”

Your cheeks were flushed, there was a trace of a flutter in my chest, I felt the warmth spread through me as your fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face.

“Breakfast.” I offered.

Your smirk reappeared, “Well, alright then.”

I raised an eyebrow.

You held my gaze. “Breakfast. Good. Glad we got that cleared up.”

Jack did a good job of distracting me from it for a few hours earlier today, but but but…

I miss my Jordan.

:(

electronicalrattlebag:

The Ort materialized on the old wooden stool next to Daisy’s highchair as Sandra gave Daisy her breakfast. It’s saggy bulk made the old thing creak, it was the oldest piece of furniture they had.

Daisy chortled merrily to see the creature, and then she bagan spooning the porridge into her mouth. The Ort burped encouragingly, looked over at Sandra, then returned it’s attention to the feeding human infant.

The toddler and the creature giggled together, then Daisy took up banging the highchair table with her spoon and the Ort dripped residue onto the linoleum.

Sandra and Alan had become aware their child was communicating with an invisible entity as soon as she started talking. At first they believed it to be a passing phase, but when the Ort started assuming an actual physical form it began having a serious effect on their marriage. 

Alan was convinced he was losing his mind, Sandra tried reassurring him, no, it was real, the thing was real and it was happening to them. Soon, Alan was demanding they call the authorities to have it “removed”, but predictably the Ort failed to appear at mealtimes if any third party was present, and the more calls they made, the more Sandra felt that they were risking having their only child taken away from them. So she insisted they stop the calls.

It was soon after this Alan left them. He maintained he had fallen in love with the receptionist at his new work and had decided to move on. Sandra wasn’t even sure they had a receptionist at his new work. She found the idea amusing.

 

It made life simpler not having him around anyhow. The Ort was much less agitated with Alan gone, and, consequently, the stink it gave off mellowed.

Sandra finished mixing Daisy’s drink, looking across she caught the Ort’s blank stare, it nodded at her encouragingly. She placed the drink in front of Daisy, the Ort farted it’s approval and Sandra turned to the sink. 

eversonpoe:

breakfast is important, so we’re told. over and over and over.

breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

there was a long period of time where breakfast was the most dreadful (and sometimes only) meal of the day. i would wake up with such anxiety, either from having terrible dreams that i could not separate from memories, and thus, thought they had been real, or from the stress of real life and constant depression. breakfast was gut-wrenching because i knew that if i ate it, i would surely throw it up soon after; but if i didn’t eat it, i would feel weak and dizzy all day.

sometimes, breakfast was safe. when mom would put gel in my hair and spike it just the way i liked, but was unable to do myself. a chaotic mass of jagged protrusions at the front, and the rest tight to my skull like a protective shell. but i could see her frowning with frustration at my inability to eat a proper meal, and at the despair locked away in my eyes that she just couldn’t destroy, no matter how much she loved me.

years later, when i moved out, breakfast became every sunday, with my closest friends joining me at the house with my parents, and spending the day there. family day. breakfast was ritual and welcoming and wonderful.

now, breakfast is occasional. not in a way that’s intentional or painful. but there’s no thought. breakfast happens before work so i have the strength to lift heavy objects. breakfast happens with sarah on the weekends, sometimes in our pajamas, sometimes at restaurants. sometimes breakfast is going for a chai with mom, who is trapped in her own well of despair, and that only i can see, now that i am happy.

breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

lynchianbedhead:

It’s a little after midnight, but not late enough to be considered morning. There hasn’t been the clean delineation of sleep to differentiate night from morning and it’s still dark. Time has assumed a homogenized state. It no longer matters if it’s 12:30 or 2:30 or is it really 4:30 already? Christ. Light is a lamp, and the rest is as dark as it has been and will be for however long since I forgot to notice the sunset to when I forgot to finish reading the page that sends me to sleep. And once I do go to sleep, when I wake up, it will probably no longer be morning. So: Does this bowl of cereal, consumed just almost quickly enough not to be soggy at the end, count as breakfast?

thoughtsfromachair:

weakmeatstrongeat:

You didn’t think I’d forget did you?

This week:

Breakfast.

My story this week:

“Bacon.”

This is absolutely a valid story.

You didn’t think I’d forget did you?

This week:

Breakfast.

see you folks in a week!