I recently passed 100 posts on the Tiny Tales blog, 61 of which were original short stories (find them here). What a journey from when I started sharing my work almost ten months ago! I knew then that I needed to write and did so with wild abandon. Not everything that came out was, to put it bluntly, good, but it was finished. Each story taught me something new about writing, about myself, about what I wanted, taking me a little further down a path I’m discovering as I walk it.
If you’re wondering where that path is headed, I don’t know. I can tell you that I have a list of story ideas about a mile long that I am slowly carving my way through. Will you see them all here? No, probably not. I hope to have some of my work, the best of my ideas polished to the best of my ability, published. But there will still be stories here for you every week.
I can’t wait to see where the next ten months take me. But in the meantime, to celebrate this milestone, let’s revisit the very first story I posted, inspired by the writing prompt “bread.”
She tipped the bowl, and the mass of dough landed with a puff of white on the floured counter. Some clung to the inside, and she picked at it, wishing the sticky mixture would stick to itself and not her fingers.
“It’s healthier than store-bought bread,” she said to her husband, who was bent over staring into the refrigerator, and lifted herself on her toes to press the heel of her hand into the soft dough. This recipe was one she had seen on TV and decided to try on a whim, carefully measuring out the ingredients into a shiny stainless steel bowl.
“The Perfect Bread Recipe,” the show’s host had claimed, taking all the credit for the tens of thousands of years of experimentation with the ratios of ground grass, moisture, and time.
She shook her wrist, sending a flurry of white over the soft lump and continued kneading, oblivious to the countless women toiling over grinding mills contained in her innocent white bag of flour, shadowed by the inevitable escape of its contents.
“I hope the yeast rises,” she mused to herself, considering the silver bag in the freezer she had bought on sale six months ago. “How long does yeast last anyway?”
The store hadn’t had any messy starters in jars passed down from generation to generation, stuffed in the back of dark pantries or cool cellars, only bags and packets with big chunky letters on them. Instant, active dry, rapid rise. A thousand years of slow growth crammed into an innocuous silver packet.
“Should have done this in the mixer,” she sighed, picking at the stubborn dough clinging to her fingers. She lightly clapped her hands over the dough to free them of their floury coating and gingerly moved it into a bowl, topping it was a light pat and a cloth.
“Leave in a warm area until doubled in size,” she recited to herself, flipping on the light above the stove with a beep and placing the dough-filled bowl beneath it. Now she only had to wait. There were no villagers to feed, no chores for impatient lords or masters, no hungry customers, just time as the tiny organisms, finally reawakened, began their work. She peeked under the cloth once, happy to see the dough climbing its way to the edge of the bowl. The little fungi gorged themselves until she moved the dough into the waiting loaf pan, and then they gorged themselves again.
She slid the pan into the oven and curled up with a book and a glass of wine. No fires, no fuel, no smoke or charred loaves, only a soft whoosh and a click as the oven toiled away. Soon she was greeted with the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread, no longer a necessity of survival but an act of pure decadence. Carefully retrieving her browned loaf, she pensively knocked on its crusty exterior, listening for the hollow echo, oblivious to the thousand years of human existence contained within.
Next week’s story is called “What Happened That Night at Greymouth Manor.” If you enjoy murder mysteries, make sure to check back in next Wednesday, and as always, you can subscribe here.
~R. E. Rule