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Weekly Flash Contest #4: Write a Poem About a Found Object in your Kitchen

Go into the kitchen. Stand in front of a cupboard with food in it (or the fridge). Close your eyes, open the door (or better still, have someone else open it for you), stretch out your hand, and touch something. Keep your hand where it is. Open your eyes. Look at the thing you are touching. Congratulations! You just found the object that you are going to write a poem about.

Every week during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements we are running a Flash Contest, based on the first Daily Creativity prompt of the week. The prompt is posted on Monday, and entries are due by Friday. The week commencing April 20th (Daily Creativity prompt #21) was our fourth week, and our food theme really got everyone's creative juices flowing! You obviously had fun finding your food objects, and thinking of creative ways to write about them. We enjoyed reading each and every one of the entries, and it was just as difficult as ever to choose our top 5 this week–so difficult, in fact, that we chose 7, and we added some Honorable Mentions again. Congratulations, everyone!

(work published on this page)

Eliana Aschheim, 13, Santa Clara, CA
Iris Fink, 8, Beloit, WI
Enni Harlan, 13, Los Angeles, CA
Julia Marcus, 13, Culver City, CA
Ava Shorten, 10, Mallow, Ireland
Adele Stamenov, 10, Bethel Park, PA
Emerson Swift, 12, Mill Valley, CA

Honorable Mentions

"My Journey" by Alexander Frey, 9, Herndon, VA
"A Kid's Gotta Eat" by Liam Hancock, 12, Danville, CA

We also received another drawing from Allie Dollar, 11, of Monticello, FL, that provides the perfect illustration for this week's contest post. Thank you, Allie!

Remember, we are running the Flash Contest every week during the COVID-19-related school closures and shelter-in-place arrangements. It is always based on the first Daily Creativity prompt of the week. The prompt is posted on Monday, entries are due by Friday, and the winners are chosen and announced the following week.


By Eliana Aschheim, 13



I can only watch
Him sitting there with Her
Peanut Butter and Apricot Preserves
His arm wrapped around Her shoulder
So pleased, so charmed
To be together

We were an item
The two of us
We loved each other dearly
PB and J

We were adored
All the good magazines raved about our perfection
Kids everywhere rejoiced when they saw us
Peanut Butter and Jelly

A new movement swept in
Like a scheming hurricane
It rattled through my life
Igniting, spreading viciously,
Gaining followers, making its way to
Even our most devout supporters

Was the cause
“Low sugar” and “All-Natural”
Were the rallying cries
Taken up by supermarkets everywhere
I watched
As this new Apricot Preserves
Dared to enter our sacred home
Of Peanut Butter and Jelly
Alas! Her cunning ways!
Even Peanut Butter,
My faithful companion
Was taken with her
I watched
As I slowly was pushed to a corner
Of the fridge
From disuse

And Peanut Butter
He took her arm instead of mine
With only a regretful glance at me
My eyes were on him the whole time
Here I watch
From this desolate corner,
Among the moldy Sour Cream
And a rotting, half-eaten Apple

But the thing is,
Sour Cream and Jelly
Does not make a good sandwich
Even the bread agreed
It’s just not a good combination

I’m an outcast, now, in this fridge
Once I stood proudly in the front
Now I slump, saddened, in the back
On the same level
As Sour Cream
And a rotting Apple
And I watch
Peanut Butter with that
Apricot Preserves

Animal Crackers

By Iris Fink, 8

Animals in cracker form,
a truly delicious food.
If you add banana,
it will brighten your mood.
But don’t you ever feel
that biting their heads off is rude?

An Onion

Enni Harlan, 13

I peel an onion, layer by layer,
Watching it shrink slowly.
Onions are a bit like people;
You have to work hard
To see what is truly inside,
Deep, deep, down
at the core.
Tossing aside the flaky yellow peels,
I stare forlornly at the perfect sphere.
It looks plain, yet lovely,
Simple yet elegant,
This onion whose inner beauty I have yet to find.

My dark eyes drill into the onion,
which seems to stare back at me,
With one hand, I grasp the ebony handle of
a razor sharp knife.
I clutch the smooth surface of the onion in the other hand, preparing to make
My blow.

My knife digs into the flesh of the onion.
Juice squirts out,
and tears spring to my eyes.
I wipe them hurriedly,
But they refuse to stop.
Blinded by my watering eyes, I continue to cut
Somewhat aimlessly.

The onion, now sliced,
Lays before me in a pot
Darker than night.
The flame is ignited, and the onions begin to sizzle.
Its sharp, distinct smell transforms sweet
As the stove works its wonders.
The wooden spatula in my hand
Clanks against the pot,
Creating a symphony.

A while later, I raise a few slices of onion to my mouth,
Which is now watering
more than my eyes.
Thoughtfully, I chew, until a smile spreads
Across my face.
It’s delicious.


By Julia Marcus, 13

The white drops of sweetness.
The snow spilling over the top
of the pancakes.
The roughness scraping against the spatula
as I attempt to submerge every grain
into the floury abyss.
The particles left on the counter
when the brownies are warming in the oven,
the purest form of heaven and tantalization
for my nose.
The one thing the mug of cocoa needs more of,
without it it’s just a bitter, milky cup of steam.
The huge cylindrical container in the cabinet,
blocking the view of countless bags and boxes
and sporting the familiar faded label:


Ava Shorten, 10

I twist the cap, anticlockwise
Pour myself a big glass,
Take a gulp.
In the bathroom mirror
I proudly inspect
My white moustache.


By Adele Stamenov, 10



Add me to any dish
And I’ll bring out the flavor
Take a bite
And savor
Back then I was a big deal
No, I wasn’t only used for meals
In ancient times
I was so rare
It was me
They tried to steal
If you are salty
You’re resentful
So, take things with a grain of salt
I am a mineral, not spice,
And on the coldest days
I’m there on the streets
To chase away the ice
I have indeed
Been used in many ways
Throughout my flavorful
And timeless days

Ode to Raspberries

By Emerson Swift, 12

For a while
I misspelled you.
Forgive me,
I was young.
Now, old enough
to appreciate you,
when someone
says that you’re
my cheeks burn
your color,
like the top
of a mushroom,
only redder.
In vain, you are
the berry that hangs
on a bush, higher
than the rotten
So sweet, in a war,
you would win
over grapes
both sour and sweet.
In the end,
squashed fruit
lines the walkway
of your pride.

Food Road by Allie Dollar, 11



Allie Dollar, 11
Monticello, FL

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