Ask not for Whom the Jada Veasey Dough Rises

Ask not for Whom the Dough Rises

Jada Veasey

I am making a mess of the kitchen, but I do not have the wits about me to care. I know that somewhere else in this room there is a bread pan made of sleek glass with smooth edges and a plastic lid. It would be easier to find than the dingy one I am looking for, but I don’t care about that. I am a woman with strong opinions; one of them being that bread that comes from ugly, dented pans older than I am just tastes better. Maybe beat-up pans have magical properties. Stranger things have been true. At last! I am victorious! I’ve spotted the pan, and I set it on the counter. Now it’s time for the actual baking to begin. I throw the ingredients in the bowl and let my mother’s fancy mixer, the one with the bread hook and everything, do its thing. I dance around the house to the beat of its mechanical whirring. Eight minutes go by; I’m dizzy, and the dough is done. Into another bowl it goes, this time greased and covered in cheap plastic wrap that wants to stick everywhere but where I need it to. I win the war with the plastic and set the bowl on the oven. Time for the dough to rise, time for me to pray that it rises, time for me to text someone about how long it’s taking for this damned dough to do anything. I must wait for an entire hour. An hour. I am a toddler with no attention span. Hell is not a burning pit, a crowded shopping mall, or a bowling alley; Hell is waiting for dough to rise. I twirl around some more, and time ticks by. The hour runs out quicker than I expected it to. Out of the bowl and into the bread pan the dough goes. I slide it into the oven. Oh God, the oven means even more waiting. Half an hour more at least! May-

be baking bread isn’t Hell, but it’s Purgatory, at the very least. More praying, more dancing, more texting. The timer dings again. It’s done! And now the dough is bread! And now I’m yelling up the stairs that “the bread is done; do you want a slice?” And the answer is a resounding “yes!” And now suddenly we’re buttering, laughing, eating, savoring.

Heaven is having someone to share a slice of bread with.

Void Sarah Langholz

I thought breaking your heart would heal mine but it left me empty with a hole I cannot fill. I should know I’ve tried but strangers are a cheap fix the sweet nothings whispered sour in my ears. As the night comes to an end and they disappear into the darkness I’m left alone with my heart aching for you.

Flora Guides Alex Diercks

It spreads quickly in all nature, found even in the harshest conditions. its roots pollute the earth, encouraging the thorns of negativity.

It grows slowly only with care, blooms with a gentle touch and time. One must be a sensitive botanist to cultivate flowering positivity.

Negativity is a weed, thriving without aid. A beckoning thicket to those rushing for answers.

Positivity is sparse, it must be watched over. Those with care and patience will blossom with its peaceful glow.

Among the Roses Anonymous

30 You were a weed growing among a garden of Roses. It was too late when we finally noticed. You had taken everything from us, and even now you just want to take. You harmed us in ways that cannot be fixed, trust us the gardener has tried. You just kept coming back, asking for more. You would leave, and we would worry. The following season you returned, you would bring more of your family, hurting us more, without a care in the world. Your roots and those of your family took up all the ground. There were times when you were generous, and opened up space for us, but it was all for your own convenience. The next time we would owe you, and would take more than what you had given. There are still some of our Roses that fall for your tricks, they carry a disease, and everytime you leave, it hurts them, they begin to wilt. Everytime you come back, they stand right back up. This last time that you left, they turned their backs and said no. It was for your own good.

It was your family you abandoned, in order to make your own, your version of perfect. The one that raised you. That loved you. Who got tired of your tricks. Now you’re just a weed, trying to make your own garden of Roses.

Panic Hannah Tesar

Panic waits. It builds. Until you can’t breathe. Just breathe. It finds moments, imperfect times when you pause. Just pause. How does it find me? I learn to hide. Just hide your fears. Why must it do its best to strike? Just strike against your thoughts. They would go away if I could learn to be mindful. Just be mindful of where you are right now. They only stay for an instant. Not long do they last. I just want this one to be the last.