In The Stir Of A Hand

Robots Contest Entry

“Squeal! Crunch!”

“What’s that sound?” questioned Susan.

Tom ran into the kitchen to check. AngelCakes attempted to blend soup with the batter, including the tin can.

“Darn, instructions weren’t clear,” Tom fretted, making necessary adjustments.

With a replacement of ingredients, the smell of spicy tomato soup cake soon filled their house.

“Hmmm...crunchy!” Susan commented, spitting out bits of cake.

“Yuck!” Tom balked, taking a bite. “Should’ve written: Put egg into mixing bowl. Throw out shell.”

He made another note in the recipe.

“I’ll have our baking robot ready in time to make you a birthday cake, hon.”

Susan grimaced.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Warm Memory

A friend says he thinks of Andy Warhol and his pop art when he sees Campbell’s soup cans. But when I see Campbell’s soup cans, I think of my mother.

When younger, I would come home from school on frigid days to the smell of Campbell’s tomato soup, anxious to sit and have the warmth sooth my chilled body.

Now an old man, I still sip Campbell’s soup and remember my mother’s radiance lighting up the room and her deep blue eyes sparkling under the overhead light in our old kitchen. She’s been gone years, but I feel her presence.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher