The Bakery (still changing)

The harsh red bricks surrounded me as the smell of bread wafted through the bakery door. The slight warmth creeping beneath the door wrapped me in a blanket of bliss. I inched closer to the door, as it swung open. The smack of the door hitting the stopper rattled every bone in my little body. The baker stood, menacingly staring out the doorway. He shifted, as his bad leg seemed to give way to his immense weight. His body enveloped the doorway as I looked into his eyes, begging him to feed me some scraps. In his big brown eyes I could almost see his pain. His life of warm pastries must have had some hidden torment. As I sat huddled with my life’s processions, his gaze turned upwards. His large wrinkled hand rose as he invited me inside. As shocked as I was, I was deeply moved. A man I had seen only twice was inviting me into heaven. Little did I know that his work place would later be just that, my heaven. I grabbed my bag and blanket as I timidly stood up. I thought of running but the old man seemed harmless as he waddled backwards. I entered with nothing to lose. His hand hit the door with such force it slammed closed as I entered. The hairs on my neck rose as I started to doubt my decision a little bit more, but it was soon overcome as my eyes found a loaf of bread on the white counter. The man limped to the large silver oven and flipped a switch. Silence blanketed the room until a chair screeched on the floor.
“Come, sit.” He mumbled. He sounded sad.
There was no refusing the chair. The chair was just as hard as the cement stoop outside but the room was much warmer. My blanket fell from my shoulders as he grabbed a knife. It was the first time I noticed the rack of knifes, each sharper than the next. For such a big knife I was not at all afraid. In fact, as the knife hit the bread I couldn’t have been happier. It was as I imagine cutting into a cloud would have been like.
“There is a plate on the counter. Go ahead.” His voice was quiet even in the quite room. I stood and took the plate off the opposite counter. As I reached for the plate I saw the storefront, which I had seen a few times before, but from a different angle. Once a dream now it seemed more of a reality.
I sat back down as the man reached over with a piece of bread. He replaced the knife in its allotted place and waddled off behind a curtain. I gazed around, trying to take in everything I saw. For once in my life something I had dreamed of was coming true. I was warm and dry inside the place of my dreams. Many a day I had walked past stores just like this. Looking in the windows I had yearned for the delicacies displayed. The less I had the more I dreamed and it had only been a few days before when I had dreamt of this exact shop. I had been walking the streets all day. My feet were tired, and I still had no place to sleep. I was used to walking by this point but not the hunger that came with it. The more I walked, the hungrier I became but my food shortage remained same. It was a beautiful day when I had first seen this shop. The sun hit the front glass with such a sparkle I was surprised anyone walked past without looking. It had caught my attention and held me, perplexed by the beauty. As I shifted outside on the street I got my first glimpse of the displays. Lined with lacey white paper, the shelves were stocked full with sweets. Long sticks of light brown bread stood in baskets. Like an army of pastries the cookies and cakes sat, lined perfectly together. They ranged in order of size, with one end being occupied by a large chocolate cake and then other a small cookie. The cake was a dark brown that seemed to sparkle behind the glass. A beautiful red rose sat opposite a similar pink one. They each lay on a light green leaf that seemed to float above the cake slightly. No fake rose or decoration was out of place. The cookies were all decorated with smooth frosting and sprinkles. The frosting was a rainbow of colors. Nothing could have been more beautiful.
As I took a bite of the bread I could feel the bread hit the top of my mouth. It was like a cloud melting. As I sat with a smile plastered on my face the old man walked back into the kitchen. He placed his hand on the counter and leaned down on the cold hard cement block. His hand looked like a head with a bad comb over. Each of his immense fingers had about three hairs per part of his finger. The hair on his fingers and hand seemed to have a need to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. He was bald at first glance by at closer inspection he had gray stubble covering his round head. He wore a flannel shirt under a white apron. His apron was covered with the remnants of many cookies and cakes. Red, blue, some green, yellow, and pink adorned his apron. A nametag sat squarely on the right corner of his apron. “Hans.” There was a clean shine to it that no other article of clothing had. His kitchen space seemed cluttered and he seemed slightly scattered. And yet his job was to create perfection. The cakes and cookies and breads all held a perfect quality. They appeared to have no component out of place. He must be some sort of saint for having invited me into his work place. I would later find out that this was also his home. His partner, one of the sweetest men alive, sat in front of the fireplace reading. The baking couple had met many years before and discovered they shared a dream. Both loved to dream and had always wanted their own shops. Years later they found the perfect shop and home. Soon after they moved in. The shop at the time was nothing more than a shell. Both gentlemen had experienced a life of chaos and this shop had been the first thing they both had full control of. They fixed up the entire place by themselves; Hans pounded each new nail with such force that his whole body had shook. Hans had helped Roy place everything in appropriate places in the kitchen area. Each had chosen one thing they liked about the kitchen. Hans loved the big silver oven more than anything. The thing loomed over the room, very much like him. They were friends, if an oven and a human can be friends. On the other hand Roy loved the decorating tools. He had mastered the plastic bag that would squirt the beautiful colors of frosting. He had lined up the sprinkles in rainbow order. He had red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple pastels set aside right next to the rack.

I have been living with the men for a few months now and working everyday in the bakery. I have learned to cook, something I never imagined I would. I have gone from begging for food to making too much and selling it. Everyday I do the same things and the routine was something I have long yearned for. The more I work, the happier I become.
Every morning I have woken up at the crack of dawn and risen from my bed to help Hans put the first breads in the oven. We have already made the dough the night before and have slept as it rose. Then I dress and prepare for my walk. I normally walk a few blocks north of the bakery and then along the beach. The blocks near the bakery are full of stores so when I walk I see the many owners opening the shops. Most stores were all brick with beautiful big windows. Down by the beach were more houses, vacation homes for the rich and the famous. As the people in the houses along the beach woke I walked, with my feet in the water and a smile on my face. Walking here has become my first inspiration. When holidays came around we have to bake cookies in different shapes, bats or Christmas trees. But in between I get to choose what to bake. It had been a morning when I was walking along this beach that I found some of the most beautiful shells I had ever seen. I brought them back and had placed them on the counter by the spices so that I could bake from them. Now sugary shells and sprinkled porpoises take the place of the normal cookies. I go to the beach every day looking for more inspirations to turn edible. I have learned of the animals of the sea as I have studied them to create the sweets that are now a big hit in the bakery. I have cowry shells and kellets whelks all covered in sprinkles. Colorful abalone shells adorned with sugars and sprinkles sat in rows in the window.
So every morning I would come to the beach and walk along the water, watching the birds fly overhead or run as if chased by the water. Then I would return to the bakery to officially begin my day of work. I would open the front door as the smells of fresh bread and cakes filled my lungs. I was required to start the morning coffee every day. We needed to be prepared as a slew of morning customers would flock, like hungry birds to the bakery. The warm breads would later attract mothers, and after school was finished we would see kids of all ages feeding their many sweet teeth. My shells of the day would soon become crumbs on the shirts of many a glowing face.
Hans entered the room in his morning slumber. It isn’t his nighttime slumber because then he would actually be asleep. This is a sort of half asleep but function period that last until his morning coffee. He had gotten up when I had but instead of a walk he had gone back to sleep. He has said that he does his best work in his pajamas, half asleep. I handed him his coffee. The steaming cup seemed to give life to the large man. He seemed to enjoy having me here. He did much less work and he got out of working the front most days. He wasn’t the best “people person” and could not be happier baking without every seeing the many faces that would eat what he made.
Being up front in the store I have all the access to the money of the store. It is one of my responsibilities and I am happy to have it. It was a few days ago when I first started taking money. It isn’t much just a few cents here and there. It is my reserve. In case anything ever happens I will have a little money to help me. No matter how wonderful this place is you can never fully trust anyone.
I have only stolen about a dollar a day. But I have been here for about two months so I am now $61 richer! I do not think the men know but even if they did I am not ashamed. This is how I have survived during my seventeen years and it is how I imagine I will survive the rest of my life.
Life has been very nice here but one can never fully trust all that has happened. It is almost too good to be true. I get warm meals everyday and most of the time I get to cook them. I work during the day, which although not technically earning money, is, in fact. The money that I take goes into the little wooden box that lies right next to my pillow every night. It is safe during the day since I either take it with me or hide it under my bed. I live in a bedroom apart from the bakery. It is more a flat above the back of the bakery where I first entered a few months ago. In the cold nights I can feel the heat from the oven seeping between the cracks in the floor. When I go to sleep it is just turning off and when I wake up it is just starting. I have adopted the schedule that evolves around the oven, as Hans has.

As I changed the calendar to June I realized just how long I have been here. Seven whole months later I have immersed myself in the life of the bakery. Not much has changed in the last few months, as everything in the bakery seems to work the same way, everyday. I have made some friends, generally costumers who come in on a regular basis. I love spending late nights talking with people and when Roy and Hans go to bed I generally go looking for adventure. The more I stray, literally, from the bakery I also feel I am drifting away from the men. I have an obligation to stay since they did save my life. So I stay. Day in and day out I do the same chores and I make the same if not similar cookies. The window is still perfect, and always will be. The costumers get the same things. I have been feeling a need for danger for something like I was used to seven months ago. I yearn to be back on the streets, something I never thought would happen. I feel more prepared to take care of myself if it were ever to occur again. I could easily pack my things and survive, especially with all the money I now have.
About $300 ago I Hans had asked if we were short money. I quickly said no, that in fact I had delivered money to the bank early this week. Little did he know the bank had become the box under my bed. Now about $400 richer than I have ever been before the bank has continued to increase, slower than before however so that the men do not suspect a thing. I imagine one day they will find out but I will be ready if it does.

It has finally happened.
I had become more trusting, the exact opposite of what I had planned. Yesterday I left the box under my bed and since the men had now lost so much money they had gone through my room. Suspecting me of stealing they knew me better than I thought. They found my money, well theirs actually, hiding under my bed. They have kicked me out so I now am back on the streets. However they are giving me about half the money I stole since they both have a heart. Now I am walking past the front window. My stuff is tied up on my back and there is $200 in my pockets. The pastries are still gleaming but no longer with me around.

Roller Coaster Ride

My life
The roller coaster ride
Of life.
The organ chants
The people scream
Blood curdling yelps
Escape their tight lips.
Their heads rock back and forth
The man beside me
Cracks his neck
One last time
His head goes rolling
It rolls off the ride
It keeps on rolling
Until it disappears.
The person behind me
Has no face
The person in front of me
Slouches as they are hit
With a bullet
Not coming from a gun
I sit there
The rope tightens
I ride my last ride
As I go through my last loop
I get off
Just too go again.
On the roller coaster
Of life.

American Dream

The waves rocked
The sails swung
The voices chattered
The babies cried
The air excites
The ship sailed

The girl thinks
The girl smiles
The girl laughs
The girl plays
The girl screams
The ship lands

The smiles faded
The frowns appeared
The mothers wept
The fathers worried
The children stared
The homes leaned

The rats scampered
The people wished
The trash pilled
The filth gathered
The American Dream failed

Rose Garden

The buds bloomed on the rose bush
The petals plucked off the beautiful buds
The brown, withering flowers lay on the ground
Unrelenting hands squeezed the life out of them
Enclosed in the garden bed
Shut off from the world
They stood, faltering.

Slowly one rose
Outlived the rest
Planted its seed
To grow new flowers
It stepped outside the garden
It stood, stronger.

After her came many others
They too left the walls of the garden
They too pushed off the hands
They too grew to flowers
They stood, strong and together.

Untitled

The tree stands
Withered, tattered, and dying
The holes
Made by metal acorns
As they flew to the tree
Whizzing and whirring.

The sap
Dark and thick
Drip, drip, drip, drip
It goes
Falling and falling
Then it disappears.

The trees roots upturned
By the little animal tunnels
Under the ground
As I touch the tree,
It leans, creaking
It falls.

As I come here today
The tree no longer exists
Its just a memory
Hidden beneath the ground
Ashamed of its existence
We have buried this tree deep.

World War Two Poetry: Wish

I wish to meet him
For the very first time
To look deep into his eyes
To see his innocence,
Happiness, and
Glee.

To come home without the nightmares
To not be the baby,
Crying at night
To not remember the days of the war
The dead and the dying
The healthy and the ill.

Lying in this cage
The white walls enclose
As the door creaks
My heart beats
The freedom of light
Flowing through me.

To get to go home
To meet him at last
To look deep into his eyes
To see his innocence,
Happiness, and
Glee.

To meet my baby son,
Is my last,
Dying
WISH.

Scariest thing that ever happened to me..

I was seven years old and only a lowly second grader about to experience something that would drastically change the next few months of my life. Like any other weekend night I prepared to cook dinner with my father. My favorite meal of pasta and spinach was sizzling on the stove next to me when I began stirring our homemade sauce. Standing on a little stool I sang along as the music in the background played. A few seconds later all time seemed to stand still as the pan I was stirring slowly tilted off the stove. Little by little it approached my body. In a split second decision my left hand moved forward. The pan hit my hand and all time sped up. Seconds later I was covered in sauce and lying on the floor. My hand hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before in my life. My body shook as I felt a burning sensation on my legs as well. Seconds later I was undressed and covered in bags filled with ice. My mother was on the phone in the distance and my dad sat pouring water on my hand. Then I was in the car, terrified and hurting. We dropped my sister off at my friend Sally's house while I made an appearance at the ER. As we entered the doors slide open. The woman at the front desk asked our emergency and I pulled the bag of ice off my hand to reveal a blister, which was about the size of a quarter, and high off my hand forming where the pan had hit. She sent me back to a room where they set up a drip so there was constantly water on my hand. The diagnosis: second and third degree burns on the inside of my left hand with spotty first-degree burns on my legs and stomach.
Hours later I excited the ER with a huge bandage of gauze on my hand and wearing scrubs from the hospital. For the next few weeks I soaked my hand three times a day in bleach while my mother changed my bandage. My blister in the end was about half an inch off my hand and from the bottom of my pinkie finger to the palm of my hand. A week after my ER adventure I reported to my daily trip for whirlpool treatment at Saint Johns hospital. For three months I went in and listened to my mother read while my hand was in the whirlpool. All together I missed about four months of school but in the end very worth it since I have no physical evidence on my hand of the experience.