Chosen presents:

Kitchen Tale

Written by: @Chosen

Asparagus: HERO

Potato: VILLAN

Carrot: KIDNAPPED VEGGY

*Curtain opens*

*Piano plays “We three kings” as Potato enters scene and runs/hops to “Lady Carrot”*

Potato: “You are comming with me!! HAHAHA!!!! *Whispers* (im kidnaping you)”

Carrot: “NO,NO,NO!! dont kidnap me!! I am an Innocent Carrot!!”

Potato: “I dont care, if thou arst an Innocent Carrot. I said you are coming with me!!!”

*Potato grabs Carrot*

Carrot: “Nooo *desprate voice*, help me Super Asparagus!!”

*Super Asparagus comes in with a bang of pots and pans*

Asparagus: “Let her go, you evil potato!”

*Asparagus runs/hops over to potato*

Potato: “Get back *pulls out fork* or I shalt spear thee!”

*Asparagus jumps back*

Potato: “stay away, or else!!”

*Potato exits the scene, awkwardly carrying Carrot as piano stops playing “We three kings”*

*Curtain closes*

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ {Go get some popcorn!}

*Curtain opens*

Potato: “Wow your heavy, Carrot”

*Potato sits down as Asparagus enters scene*

Asparagus: “Let her go *pulls out knife*”

*Potato stands*

Potato: “Think you can beat me with that?!! HAHAHHA!!”

Asparagus: “Nope, I cant.*puts down knife*”

*Asparagus grabs Carrot and runs of stage*

Potato: “Come back and face me like a proper.....*boy comes into kitchen*”

Boy: " Mom, you never said we were having potato fries tonight!"

*Mom answers from distant part of house*

Mom: "Well, actually I was planning on making soup today, but I guess we can have fries too. You will also have to make them yourself, because I have a lot of work to do."

Boy: "YAAAY! *boy picks up knife...*"

THE END

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your lack of culture astounds me; tell me Lily, i know,

you have your own wounds carved from the childhood

that strangled you, but why do you scrap the border

of my reality under the manicured nails you keep blood

red, regularly. Lily, mother, honey (i think it was you called

me), you told me i was too literal but you’ve yet to read

a damn ounce of my poetry. it’s ’cause of you i’ve decided

that the lines on my hands are destinies i’ll never reach;

because you keep pulling the fantasies and dreams like a rope

around my neck; so Lily, why can’t i be free to breathe easy?

i refuse to draw the line of balance; don’t you know impurity

is a balance of these times i’ve decided to call modern art? no,

Lily, you’re naive, blind too it seems; cause my skin’s the color

grey and i painted it out of metaphorical meaning. so please,

stop preaching your false religion as though it’ll save me from

becoming my own somebody; 10 years they’ll call me a writer,

even if, Lily, right now you don’t even know i crafted a soul

out of writing words and typing the bold things i’d never speak.

yes, Lily, you’re right about my bravery; it crumbles when

you’re within feet of me.

hope is the pair of rose colored glasses

we use when we are in the apocalypse

the burning limbs of a sickness

just getting started

the engine of a plane

as it vibrates towards a destination

without reason or direction

flight paths that make promises

the mutual understanding

eyes locking in anticipation

complete faith in what's coming

It had been years since her son had gently opened her bedroom door in the middle of almost every night, creeping across the floor to lay a small hand on her shoulder and whisper with warm breath, Mommy, come.

On nights when the fear-filled call came from his room, she would run to him, and croon, Mommy’s here, honey, willing him to awaken and lose the fear that caused his little body to quiver, eyes open, moaning incoherently. As mother-protector, she staunched her own childish dread of nightmares in the dark.

Until that night.

Since he was long gone from home, there was no reason for her door to open or for shuffling steps to approach the bed. In her fright, she wants to reach for her husband’s hand, but she cannot move; afraid to speak, afraid to see, she lays trembling with eyes squeezed shut.

A cold hand touches her breast, long fingers clasping her shoulder. In her head, she hears a voice like chalk on a blackboard say, some dreams do come true, as she feels the hand sink through skin, take hold of her heart and squeeze.

The medical examiner stated cause of death as myocardial infarction.

If I could go back I'd floss more. And brush more too.

And absolutely ditch soda.

Not kidding kids - at this point in my life nearly half of my mouth is plastic filled, like a bomb of decay waiting to erupt in my mouth as I approach the end of my days.

If you have a few moments of boredom, go check out the Youtube video where they leave a human tooth in a cup of Coke overnight and it disappears by morning.

Most sodas have so much acid in them they start eroding your bone marrow and leeching the calcium out of your teeth on contact for every minute you don't brush after a cracking open a can. My own dentist begged me to take up coffee as a healthier vice to alleviate my caffeinated Coke-fueled cavities.

The array of choices in sparkling beverages has vastly improved since my childhood, too - a can of cherry Bubly tastes nearly the same as a Dr. Pepper to me now. Yet it's not eating away at the last vestiges of my orthodontia (or adding to my middle-aged waistline).

The small bits of food that get stuck inevitably between your teeth - which is where most of my fillings lie - also create plaque and disturbing bacterial growth/decay, hence the importance of floss too.

If I could go back and change just one of my habits as a child/teen, this would be it.

Ditch the soda - pick up the floss.

Apelike atmosphere allows autocratic authority. Act. Appreciatively adulterate autocratic admonitions. Aptly amplify ambivalence. Apply ample, above average, audible ammo ably accentuating adverse accidents. Aim at affecting admiring audiences' accidental adherence. Adding attractive alternatives, amend ailing attitudes. Allow all autocrats' amiably ambling aimlessly away. Applaud.

There’s a place where the sidewalk ends and flowers seldom bloom. If they do, it is only to stare up at passerby and wonder why they did not turn back, to beseech them to run away, or to glance up, hopeful that some caring creature will pluck them up and carry them away from this hateful place where the sidewalk ends.

Even if I wanted to help the flowers out of their misery, I’m not allowed to go there. The little shed at the end of the kickball field, casting ferocious shadows over third base, is a warning to not go any further. We all know what happened to Ol’ Mr. Curtis who lost his hat in the wind and decided to head into those dark, forbidden woods. His name is now merely a hushed whisper on the tip of every second grade tongue.

I know I shouldn’t take those last steps into the forest. I know I should’ve turned back long before I stood before the grand oak trees, scraggly branches swaying listlessly in the autumn breeze, but it was too much. Everything was too much. I ran. I sprinted headfirst into the jagged edges of nature that closed its entrance as soon as I had entered.

I found a lush green clearing, empty but for a small brook. Finally, the sky was visible through the towering trees. I gazed up, letting my features be encased in warm sunbeams. Before me, lay an Eden so glorious only the dead poets could have captured its essence. Roses and daisies embraced each other as the berry bushes played on. The forest floor was alive with magnificent beetles cut from turquoise and a dancing butterfly that searched from flower to flower to find the sweetest treat.

In a moment, my sadness would return, I knew, but for now, I was leaping with the birds and soaring with the wind. I had gotten what I wanted: a break from reality. In the midst of my fun, a weathered hand reached out of a velvet cloak.

“Who are you?” I forced my voice not to quiver.

The figure removed its hood and said simply, “Someone who wants to help.”

Could this be true? Someone wanted to help me?

Now that I saw his face, I took note of a slightly hooked nose, cobalt blue eyes, and a patch of pavement gray hair combed over to cover his crown.

“What is it you want, child?” His gravely voice questioned in a grandfatherly tone.

I stared, shocked that he wasn’t going to cast a wicked spell on me or something worse, before hesitantly responding, “I...just want to disappear.”

“Whatever for?”

“They’re so mean.”

“Who?”

I broke into fresh tears, crystal roots springing forth from my eyes and flowering on my cheeks, “Every-everyone on the playground and m-my school. Nobody cares about me. They all hate me! I want to go somewhere they can’t g-get to me!”

My request was wagering on two things: that he was actually a warlock who would grant my wish and that he cared enough about a poor, little child in his garden.

“I’m afraid it’s hard for someone to disappear entirely, but I’ll give you the next best thing.”

My eyes widened, “Really? What’s that?”

“Invisibility. One day.”

He was right; that wasn’t disappearing completely, but I supposed it would be better than usual. I nodded. Anything to get me away from them.

“Here,” he handed me a gold bracelet, “this will do the trick.”

The bangle was pretty. I noticed small script letters engraved in the center and lilies decorating the sides. He beckoned me to put it on, but I felt a sharp pull when I did. The sun’s rays seemed to burn my flesh while the bracelet clung tighter and tighter still to my wrist.

“It hurts!” I complained, “Take it off.”

He was gone. Two footprints imprinted in dewy moss were all that remained. Like handprints in wet cement, the remnants stayed but he was gone.

“Am I invisible now?” I wondered to myself. It was an odd thought, to be totally transparent.

I followed the path I had taken into the woods that would lead me out. The arms of the trees brushed my ankles and swept past my elbows, but they did not hurt me. I was on cloud nine. Perhaps he really was magical.

The sun was falling behind the flat roof of my school. Cast in the golden glow of pink and orange hues, I wondered how I would get home. I knew the way but the aftermath of rush hour would be hectic, and it’s almost five miles. Maybe I can test my invisibilit, I told myself, hoping my plan would work.

It did. The last remaining teacher in the parking lot opened her trunk, and I slid in. I hoped she would have a guest bed or pull out couch. If not, maybe I could hitch a ride to the capital and play hide-and-seek in the White House. Oh, what fun this would be!

I was entranced by the way my hand was reduced to merely empty air. It was clear, such that I could see the brightly patterned blanket I rested on. The air was hot in the trunk though, and I wished I had asked that old wizard to make me invisible and immune to heat instead.

We arrived at the house when the sun had already tumbled past the clouds. The teacher got out, unlocked the trunk, and I ducked out before the door slammed on me.

“Daniel!” She shouted once we were inside. “What do you want for dinner?”

I settled into my hiding spot, the laundry basket near the kitchen, content to wait for any leftovers. A boy toddled down the stairs. He’s about three feet tall, has blonde hair, is maybe four or five, and answers to the name Daniel.

“Spaghetti or-”

Daniel began to throw his tiny arms up and wave them erratically. I don’t understand what it means and almost think it could be a seizure. Grandpa Cal’s an epileptic, so I would know it isn’t that.

“Alright,” his mother hoists him onto her hip, cuddling him like only a mom could. Maybe if my mom had held me more like that, I wouldn’t be in this position, but bitterness won’t get me anywhere.

He whines and kicks until she sits him in a little chair at a play-table. Ten minutes and a microwaveable bowl later, he’s calmed down mostly. I forget to eat because sleep overtakes me.

The house slumbered the night away without a care in the world, but I awoke too early with fear coursing through my veins. I wondered if I would ever be visible again. I wondered what the man meant when he said, “one day.” Originally, I believed he meant one day I could be invisible, but if I was already transparent, he must’ve meant only twenty-four hours. I could handle twelve or so more hours of this. Maybe I would even adventure to school. Yes, I thought, drifting off into the dark abyss, that could be fun.

If everyone hated me before, they certainly felt indifferent now. My teacher called my name, yet no hands rose to tell her my whereabouts. I guess because they did not know them. She took a deep sigh and rolled her eyes, marking my absence on the SmartBoard. Since I had leapt off the bus at eight o’clock, it had been like this: sad, heart-wrenching, terrible.

I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t sure whether or not the tears would be invisible. Somebody might suspect a leak, and then where would I be? I ran. Luckily, the door was open, yet either way, closed or not, I was out of there.

Now, I needed a way home or a meal or something. My interest was piqued by a bright yellow rectangle on the horizon. Of course, I mumbled, buses. As I knew from the week of community service where everyone had to help clean a bus, some drivers kept their vehicles at home to make the commute easier. Surely, one of them would not mind an invisible child sitting behind them and going home with them.

It was Mr. Fredrickson who I found scrubbing off the last remnants of children from his bus. He kept a tight ship, I knew. Five years in the army, 73 years of age, and arthritis everywhere, but it did not slow him down. I stepped inside my golden ticket out of school but was not prepared for the sight in front of me. Every seat and pouring into the aisles was filled with chocolate. There were bite-sized kisses and king-sized milk chocolate bars, flowing into seas of white and cookies-and-cream. Foreign chocolate perched with dark in the third row.

Every bar and bit was looking like heaven to me. If my classmates could see me now- oh, that’s right, nobody could see me now. That sure put a damper on my good mood. Nonetheless, the discovery was in immediate need of inspection. My stomach rumbles, alerting me that I didn’t eat last night. Before I could move past the front row, the bus jolted into motion, and I was yanked down. Where are we going?

He hummed as he drove, cruising down the interstate with practiced ease. I clicked my heels together like Dorothy, hoping maybe the magic would work on me. I just wanted it to be over soon. And maybe I wanted a chocolate bar too.

We arrived at a small house, decrepit with the siding slipping off at awkward angles and cobwebs growing on every window. The lawn was overgrown and damp, jutting every blade of grass into a sword to protect the house from intruders.

"Where are we going?" I wanted desperately to ask but refrained for lack of explanation as to a mysterious child's voice floating in the air.

My question was answered when we pulled over into the yard. Is this, I wondered, the place where he lives? Mr. Fredrickson barely took a step off the bus before three pixie-like children leapt into his arms and tumbled into his knees. The two boys looked to be twins; both had short, mousy brown curls and a tall frame. Their sister had red hair and a pronounced jaw in addition to a large nose that didn't suit her nearly as well as her brothers' features. While the boys looked maybe eight or nine, the girl was much smaller and could have been anywhere from four to seven. They could not be Mr. Fredrickson's grandchildren because he only had one daughter who had gone away to France and taken her son with her. Who were these mysterious children?

My question was one that would remain unanswered until later, for Mr. Fredrickson had a mission. He peeled seven wrappers off the glorious chocolate bars and gave them to the kids. They gobbled down every bite, except for one single bar that was left untouched and taken inside. I carefully followed them, curious as to their intentions.

The girl carried the sacred treat in unclean fingers. Each boy guarded her side like the treasure was golden, not just a sugary confection. They stopped at a white door with the paint peeling off and slowly turned the knob like a giant was slumbering within, and they did not want to wake him. Somebody was sleeping, but it wasn't a Grimm creation. A pink lump rested halfway on a pillow and half under a rustic quilt.

"Lily," the girl whispered, causing the lump to stir.

The three children moved as one, giving up being quiet as the baby had woken up already. They fed the small baby bitesized squares of the now-gooey sweet. She had one patch of chestnut hair and sweet baby blue eyes.

They began to sing, slightly off-key but peaceful nonetheless as they rocked their sister to sleep. It felt intrusive to stand there any longer and watch a clearly secret moment. I felt horrible because that's what I had been doing for the past day.

I returned to the big yellow vehicle in the yard, head hanging low and shoulders hunching down. All the candy was gone, probably somewhere inside the house now, I supposed. Too bad, I could've used some cheering up right about then.

A checklist decorated Mr. Fredrickson's dashboard. I hadn't noticed before, but the last tickmark on the list said Thompson Family in neon green lettering. Oh, I thought, that must be the name of those people we just visited.

"Oh, hello," a voice startled me.

"Mr. Fredrickson?" I asked, knowing he was speaking to me because I was the only one on the bus, "You can see me? How is that possible?"

"I have eyes, dear."

"No, I mean...it's a long story."

I told him the long, magical tale of how I came to be on the bus with him, and any other adult would have chatsized me for fibbing, yet for some reason, he seemed to believe me.

"Ah," he spoke at last when I had finished, "I understand."

"You do?" I queried excitedly.

He nodded, "Yes, I had a similar experience as a young boy. He made me telepathic."

"Really?"

"Yes, I was able to listen in and understand the woes of people who live in this world."

"What about when they're happy?"

"Well, we don't remember much good. Our memories are plagued in unhappiness, you see. For every two good days, there's one bad one that overpowers it. You see what I mean?"

"Yeah, is that why you were helping those kids?"

He smiled, dentures on display, "Exactly. You see, some people are less fortunate than others. Their mother works very hard, but she can't afford much other than the basic necessities. So I come here every so often and give them something to look forward to. They can use the chocolate to trade for food or sell to other kids."

"But how do you afford all of it?" I wondered, astounded by the sheer size of candy he had handed out.

"Oh, I write it off on my taxes." He winked, "Bus driving doesn't pay much, but it's decent living. My wife's father owned a chocolate factory, so everything's half-price."

"Wow."

"Now, tell me how to get you home."

“Honey, you look a mess,” my mother declared, tears falling steadily. I suppose I did. Now that I could see myself, I saw that my knee socks were dusty and ripped, probably from running through the woods the day before. My hair was tangled and matted at the ends; it would a burden combing through it.

“Where have you been?” Came my father’s stern demand that was not even a question, more like a statement as though he already knew where I had been, but he did not, for nobody could have known where I was.

"It doesn't matter, I love you guys."

Since I had the entire two hour long bus ride to think, I reminisced about why I had wanted to disappear in the first place. Of course, it was a silly wish, yet it paid off in the end. I learned the value of family, how some people don't have much, like Mr. Fredrickson who still tells me about his daughter in France and how he misses her or the Thompson family who I still see whenever Mr. Fredrickson and I deliver treats. I learned how one good thing can offset a bad thing, and most importantly, I learned that some people aren't as lucky as me, and I should cherish what I've got while I've got it.

"Alright, that's my report," I finish, a wide grin on my face.

My teacher smiles tightly, like a taut string is pulling her mouth from behind, "Izzy, don't you think that's a little, I don't know, silly for an essay?"

A chorus of giggles and comments break out across the classroom.

"Why don't you go home and write about something real?" She insists, not one for negotiation.

I glance out the crystal clear window to the dark, foreboding woods behind the school. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, but I swear a cloaked shadow just winked at me from behind a honeysuckle bush. Yeah, maybe next time I'll write about something real.