The next topic is PICK TWO Brand awareness, Lot, Random, Envision, Dozen, Secretary
LIZZIE
“Bread crumbs, I need bread crumbs,” thought the restless crow. He wasn’t hungry. He just wanted bread crumbs. He read a story about dropping bread crumbs to leave a trail. He wanted to leave a trail! People would trickle out of the forest into the open field and marvel at his beauty! But he found no bread crumbs. He did consider resorting to his collection of glass eyes, but it was becoming more and more difficult to steal them from grumpy Old Maggie. So, he just sat on his scarecrow and waited. And he waited for a very long time!
RICHARD
All natural ingredients
Times have been tough since the Great War, but we survivors are tougher still.
We manage to get by on the bare essentials, and where even the bare essentials are lacking, we improvise.
Take our bread, for example: Flour is hard to come by, so we substitute sawdust instead. It makes for an interesting texture, but the flavour’s not too bad.
Mind you, if it wasn’t for the bread we’d starve.
That’s our diet: Bread and water.
Except the water is polluted, and the rain is far too acid to drink.
I won’t tell you what we substitute for water!
SERENDIPIDY
Smells can be so evocative.
Some may enthuse about the aroma of freshly baked bread, the fragrance of newly mown grass or the perfume of night scented stock on a warm spring evening.
Homely, comforting smells.
Not for me though. My tastes are very different.
In fact, those smells make me want to vomit.
Give me instead, the honest, ferrous tang of freshly spilled blood, the sweet smells of death and decay. Better than any bouquet of flowers or the most expensive of perfumes.
And above all, the dank, earthy aroma of the grave.
The smell of home, sweet home.
LISA
A Despondent Incident Room
Another day and another late afternoon briefing; there’s another three photos up on the board. It looks like our man’s working a lot harder than we are. He’s giving us nothing, and we’re working right round the clock.
I’ve not had a meal at home for weeks now. Mum’s doing me double sandwiches.
I used to eat at my desk but I can’t eat with them watching. It doesn’t feel right. They’re all around my age: I think all the women feel the same: it could be me up there. The bread from the uneaten sandwich hardens on my desk.
TOM
Pore more Sugar on It
Going Meta-Meta tonight. My personal rule for writing is: the first thing that lands in my head it the central theme of the story. It can produce some pretty weird stuff. Take tonight’s topic: bread. Before I could take a stroll down memory lane of my years working in a Bakery. I was the guy who choose how many loafs of vegetable herb we were delivering to San Fransisco. But No, what popped in my brain pan was Bread the band. And I use that term generously. If you took rock and roll and dipped in sugar Bread would come out.
NORVAL JOE
Linoliumanda continued to ignore her father’s requests to get into the car until he was clearly ready to blow his top. Red faced, he got out of the car and stomped his size fourteen wingtips toward her.
Just then, a rusty, late 50’s, Chevrolet Biscayne, huffed and rumbled to a stop next to them. A gray-haired woman in a bright orange mumu under a olive rain poncho climbed out, carrying a small brown loaf of bread.
Mr. Withybottom’s jaw dropped. “Buhmilda. What are you doing here?”
The woman smiled at Mr. Withybottom. “I could as you the same, Cousin Charlie.”
PLANET Z
Tonya went to school and opened a bakery.
Hired a few of her neighbors and friends, worked long hours.
Everybody got paid well and got great benefits.
She even covered child care, which for single mothers, is everything.
Then the riots came.
Her bakery was broken into and burned to the ground.
The security company kept the video off-site, so she watched as one of those friends used her keys to open the security grate to get inside.
And set the fire that consumed her business.
All her hard work. All she did for others.
Years of sacrifice.
For nothing.