Wow this is so exciting! I’ve got my first Lucidium written! I don’t know how good it is, but I hope you guys enjoy. Much love- Bella
600 word romance about a soldier, featuring an oven, using the sentence “whoopsidaisies!”
Generated at https://thestoryshack.com/tools/writing-prompt 55 min. 604 words.
I swear, there is nothing sexier than a man sweating over an oven with his hands coated in flour. He put the biscuits on a greased pan one by one, taking care to arrange them in rows. I stood back and watched those strong hands move with care and confidence. He wiped his brow after shutting the oven door and looked up at me. He grinned, asked me what I was looking at. “I just love watching you work.” He walked over to me, floured hands outstreached. I took a step back. He laughed. “It’ll wash out.” He jumped out the kitchen and pulled me to him in a kiss. His hands held me against him, sturdy against the uncertainly of our future. I could feel his wedding band through my dress. It would be a long couple of years, but nothing- nothing could shake this. My hands moved to his buttons. The biscuits burned.
Two years later his hands shook as he worked the dough, and I stood next to him, shaking the flour onto it as he instructed me. Sweat beaded his forehead, lines formed in frustration. The doctor told him the damage was only partial- that it could be healed with time. I turned the oven fifty degrees hotter than his mother did- the biscuits cooked faster that way. The rows were not nearly as neat, but he refused to let me straighten them. He lifted the pan and moved toward the oven. His hands shook as the tectonic plates of his nerves collided. The metal fell to the floor with a clang that rang out light a gunshot. He shouted and tried to cover his face. I wasn’t sure if it was shame, frustration, or fear. He’d returned from over-seas months ago, but it still felt like the army rewrote him. He sank to his knees to pick up the pan and I kneeled next to him. Damn what the doctor had to say. I grabbed him hands, gently, and kissed both of them. He breathed out and dropped his head to my shoulders. The tremors moved through his whole body as he cried. I put one hand in his hair, the other on his back, and sat firm against the ocean of his pain.
I laid on the couch crying. I could hear his hands smacking the dough, swearing at the moments his fingers didn’t cooperate. I didn’t want bread, didn’t want something warm from the oven, from my husband. It seemed to be the only thing that could bake in this oversized house. I heard the door close with a thud. He sat next to me, rubbed his hands in circles on my back. “I don’t want any,” I announced.
“They aren’t for you.” I looked up. He took my chin between his thumb and index finger. “We’re going.” I couldn’t imagine I would find a child in that place, only more shame. But he dragged me there.
In the home were boys and girls, babies and teens. We were meeting with the man who ran the group home, but my husband insisted on bringing fresh biscuits for the kids. He handed the box to a young teenager. The kid took them eagerly, ran two steps, and tripped, crushing the box. We both rushed to help him. He scrambled up, horror filling his eyes as he tried to apologize. I laughed, “whoopsidaises!” He froze. Slowly, he relaxed. My husband put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and he breathed out. In his eyes, I saw light. “What’s your name?”
“Aaron,” I asked, “have you ever baked before?”
Photo from Wiki Commons Buttermilk Biscuits page.