© Berky I bought Flora Proactive for years, but Clover makes the toast. The bread doesn’t matter with Clover. My friend put me onto it when he asked if I wanted any butter on my burger. He puts it on everything. The same could be said for red sauce. My friend puts red sauce on his Sunday dinner. 100% true.
Why I’m sharing my thoughts on toast, I don’t know. I never believed I’d live to see the day when I had nothing on my mind but toast.
I eat 4 rounds, then I eat another 4. I wash it down with Ovaltine. Within 10 minutes, I feel like more toast. It’s quick, it’s simple, it tastes divine. It’s filling, you can chomp on it, there’s little washing up to do afterwards (all I do is stroke the crumbs off and reuse the same plate). There’s nothing else like a mouthful of toast.
I went through more than a whole loaf one Sunday and started to panic. My mouth was all greasy and my heart started palpitating. I felt like all the ingredients in my stomach were taking over my body. No matter how many times I licked my lips it felt like I was licking fresh toast. I decided to get some fresh air.
Toast, toast, toast, was all I could think. I couldn’t take my mind off it, even outside. I’d amalgamated the insane amount I had eaten into the physiology of my body. My fingers stunk of toast. I was breathing it, sweating it, thinking it. I was swallowing my saliva and it was like drinking it. I had become something else, prior to this record ingestion. I had become some kind of TOAST MONSTER.
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To budding writers: If you ever find yourself writing about toast, you need to seriously evaluate your life. Either that or apply for day release. Anthony Horowitz says that writers need to get out and experience life, otherwise they will end up writing about being stuck in a room, or at a desk etc. We’ll let Berky off as an exception because his flash fiction is culinary-based. He makes his living from a mobile food unit.
2nd Opinion. There’s no sign of a middle or end. This is like writing for writing’s sake. Mercy have it that it’s so short. Imagine how this would develop into a longer work? What would be next, that this toast monster attacks a child? This prose is so idle it hurts. It’s brain numbing. It’s coma inducing. It’s auto-fiction without the fiction. The most boring running commentary in the world. Is it supposed to be funny or what? What’s it supposed to be? R. Stevens
Why I’m sharing my thoughts on toast, I don’t know. I never believed I’d live to see the day when I had nothing on my mind but toast.
I eat 4 rounds, then I eat another 4. I wash it down with Ovaltine. Within 10 minutes, I feel like more toast. It’s quick, it’s simple, it tastes divine. It’s filling, you can chomp on it, there’s little washing up to do afterwards (all I do is stroke the crumbs off and reuse the same plate). There’s nothing else like a mouthful of toast.
I went through more than a whole loaf one Sunday and started to panic. My mouth was all greasy and my heart started palpitating. I felt like all the ingredients in my stomach were taking over my body. No matter how many times I licked my lips it felt like I was licking fresh toast. I decided to get some fresh air.
Toast, toast, toast, was all I could think. I couldn’t take my mind off it, even outside. I’d amalgamated the insane amount I had eaten into the physiology of my body. My fingers stunk of toast. I was breathing it, sweating it, thinking it. I was swallowing my saliva and it was like drinking it. I had become something else, prior to this record ingestion. I had become some kind of TOAST MONSTER.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
To budding writers: If you ever find yourself writing about toast, you need to seriously evaluate your life. Either that or apply for day release. Anthony Horowitz says that writers need to get out and experience life, otherwise they will end up writing about being stuck in a room, or at a desk etc. We’ll let Berky off as an exception because his flash fiction is culinary-based. He makes his living from a mobile food unit.
2nd Opinion. There’s no sign of a middle or end. This is like writing for writing’s sake. Mercy have it that it’s so short. Imagine how this would develop into a longer work? What would be next, that this toast monster attacks a child? This prose is so idle it hurts. It’s brain numbing. It’s coma inducing. It’s auto-fiction without the fiction. The most boring running commentary in the world. Is it supposed to be funny or what? What’s it supposed to be? R. Stevens
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