We’re honored to share some recent work by writers in the Frequency community.
Local writers are encouraged to share short pieces to be posted here.
She would roll the dough out on the small kitchen drop table that my dad had made for her.
The table was held up as a level work surface by a removable wooden pole, with each end of the pole fitting perfectly perpendicular into the floor and the table.
With the pole removed, the table dropped down, flush with the counter it was attached to.
The corners that were not attached to the counter, were rounded by design.
These features gave my mom the option of more room in the kitchen when she needed it, or more work space. Mom would work on one side of the table and I would kneel on a chair directly across from her, watching her every move, asking questions and chatting away.
Evidently I was a very talkative child as my father often explained to their friends that ‘As my mom rolled out the pie dough, I would sometimes get impatient and beg her to make some cinnamon rolls, please, please, just for me.She would tease me a bit and pretend that she may not have enough scraps of dough to make the cinnamon rolls.But she would always have some extra pie dough, after trimming the dough to fit the pie pans.She would put all of the scraps together to roll them out, sprinkle the flattened dough with sugar and cinnamon, and using her hands, she would carefully roll it into a small –sized log, and add a smear of butter on the top. “I cut off the heads and hooves.” She’d never been on a date with a factory man.When they came out of the oven, flakey and lightly browned, she would cut them into one inch pieces; cool them quickly so she and I could eat them. Baruch Kirschenbaum wrote this piece in the Improvisatory Poetics class in conjuncture with the River of Words project: Only dim memory of those who named them who knew where the salt line ceased where the moose came down to drink and where the wild black geese flocked only dim memories over time down the Woonasquatuxet down the Moshassuck down the Seekonk down Narragansett Bay to the waiting sea passed Chibactuweset passed Conanicut passed Aquidneck to where the bay meets the sea as if memories of those who named them long ago are carried with the ebbing tide leaving behind the names of the rivers now rich in industrial waste and sewerage where the moose no longer come down to drink nor the black geese to gather Laura Brown-Lavoie wrote this piece during the July Open Fiction Workshop. The next morning there were shrubs wilting all over the place.Most of the children playing tag in the courtyard of the housing complex were stunned when she faked left and took off to the right. ” “I’d rather not talk about the past.” The grass looked like potato sticks, and crunched like potato sticks as she ran.