“Sorin Oak Review” Full Stories

An Ode from Marinara Sauce

The only true way to know

how happy you are in a day

is to imagine how unhappy

you would be without something.

Tread lightly, my love

know that you are loved with

whole hearts

but do not forget that humans

rarely love for a 

whole eternity.

Take your time sitting with me,

feel a warmth that is not stolen

from another

even while they complain they are cold.

Understand that your happiness

is not hinged upon the fickleness

of others

but on the unending promise

of love

by marinara sauce.

Breakfast for Dinner

“The trick to a perfect fried egg,” I say without turning my head to look at you on the barstool but knowing you were listening, “is not in how hot the pan is, but how hot the air around it is.” The click-click-click whoosh of the stovetop hosting a fire punctuates my sentence. “I didn’t know that for the longest time. I always turned the heat up so high that the egg would sizzle and burn on the bottom before the top even cooked.”

“That’s a lot like a good friendship,” you reply, because you must always have the final word. “The key isn’t in the actions one takes, but the intentions around it.”

I interrupt. “If I’d known that’s what you thought, I wouldn’t have started teaching you this trick.”

“Did I offend you?”

“This isn’t about you. This is about eggs.”

“Is breakfast food your favorite food?”

“Breakfast food is the epitome of all foods. There is nothing breakfast-for-dinner can’t solve.”

“What makes it so good?” you ask, and this time I don’t mind.

“The butter, probably. The stuff that transforms a pan from hot metal to an altar.”

The butter sizzles in the pan like it’s in on the conversation too, but our conversation feels more like an interrogation. “Come to me,” the butter says in its happy way. “Forget your troubles. I will cover them and you will forget that they are there.”

You break the butter’s monologue: “Is that what you think butter sounds like?” I don’t realize that I say this out loud.

“Yes.” You reply. “Butter does make you forget troubles. Well, my troubles, at least. The egg is just meeting its cracked fate, which certainly can’t be comfortable. But most things are uncomfortable at first, and at least the egg knows that it will all be worthwhile in the end. Not all of us are so lucky to be dinner.”

“You think it’s lucky to be dinner?” You ask.

“I think it’s lucky to know you’re appreciated,” I answer.

“I think the pan’s hot enough for the egg now.”

“You waited until the pan was hot enough to break me too.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit melodramatic?”

“What, do you want me to thank you? You don’t deserve that. I still haven’t hung up the dress I wore to your wedding. I probably should fold my laundry.”

“Why don’t you fold your laundry more often?”

“The trick to keeping the yolk intact on a perfect fried egg is to be gentle in placing it into the pan. Nobody got anywhere dropping eggs from miles in the sky. Your egg deserves to be treated gently. It is your food, after all,” I say.

“Are you still thinking of yourself as my egg?”

“At least I can say you treated me gently. I could say thank you for that. But I won’t.”

“Why do you prefer to look at butter over me?”

“Before I can put the egg in the pan, I have to prepare a lid and a cup of water.”

“Is the water for you?”

“The water is for all of us. You aren’t listening to my lesson. You just want to be more important than butter.” “I am more important than butter,” you say.

“Not to me, you’re not. Now I’ve put the egg in the pan, and I’m going to pour just a little bit of the water in there too. The water mixes with the butter and makes a ton of steam, so I’ll cover it with the lid and the egg will cook from the air. But the yolk stays runny.”

“If you really are my egg does that mean the yolk is your heart?”

“If you knew anything about food you would know how ridiculous you sound right now.”

“Why did you mention the dress you wore to my wedding?”

“I’ll only wait a few seconds for the egg to cook.” I tell you. “And how could you say that? My dress is still on my bedroom floor, which means that your wedding was so recent that I haven’t even picked up my room since before your wedding. You didn’t even wait until I picked up my dress from my floor after your wedding to tell me that you wish you’d gotten with me instead of your wife who you want to learn to make eggs for.”

“Would it have been better if I told you after the eggs or after the dress?”

“After the dress, before the eggs. Because now you’ve ruined breakfast-for-dinner for me.”

“But you said this could fix everything.”

I hand you the plate with my passive-aggressive egg. I tell you, handing you the fork with the tongs facing your hand in the hopes I can get a good stab in. “More tricks don’t fix anything.”

Gargoyle

Every single tourist can kiss my ass. 

The thought only just stayed behind my closed mouth as yet another flock of leering creeps armed with flash photography waddled past me. I rolled my eyes at their retreating backs. Technically they hadn’t broken any rules. The line of cobblestone separating the church I guarded from the town that surrounded it had not been crossed by even a stray shoelace. All eyes averted as they should, so none made contact with a statue, or worse, me. That didn’t make me want to glare at them any less.

My stomach growled. I would kill for a panini right now. I rolled my shoulders, trying to ignore the new craving niggling my brain and keep my eyes directed straight ahead. My legs protested against the hours of crouching on the rain-slicked roof, but since my sentencing I’ve trained myself to ignore that too.

A small figure in jeans and a black hoodie pulled over their face began striding purposefully toward the line that now marked everywhere I wasn’t allowed to go. I narrowed my eyes, focusing on the tiny hands peeking out of the too-long sleeves, carrying a cardboard box like a peace offering. The breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding escaped like it wanted to meet the intruder before me. I watched the figure step haltingly on the deserted cobblestone that hasn’t met a human in...nevermind.

Stretching up like a tree, spreading my wings behind me, I hopped off the roof of the church and plummeted to the ground. The impact nearly unglued my teeth from my gums, but I found that if I acted intimidating enough in my new job, it made it a whole lot easier. The intruder jumped and took half a step back before they seemed to remember their goal. A small hand took its grip off the to-go box and lowered the hood to reveal the round smooth face of a boy not much older than Sophia had been before --

I interrupted my own thoughts by crouching until I was at eye level with the kid and holding out my hand. He had moxie, I’ll give him that – his clear brown eyes didn’t leave my own when he stiffly handed me the box. Fighting back a smile, I took the box from his hand, but didn’t move to get up. Who knows the next time they’ll feed me. Might as well enjoy the company, too.

Another breath escaped me in a groan as I leaned back until I sat cross-legged on the ground, my wings stretched at an awkward angle around me. I still wasn’t used to the giant bastards. Ghosts knew if I ever would be. Lifting the lid off the to-go box revealed sweet potato fries and...oh, hell. A turkey panini. Sending a silent thanks to the ghosts who answered my prayers, I took a bite so big my mouth remained open when I chewed.

“My friend told me you only let children bring you food because you eat them for dessert,” the kid cut through the silence quicker and louder than a bullet. My eyes flicked up to him. “Is that true?”

I tilted my head side to side noncommittally before gesturing that the kid should sit. He did, crossing his legs mere inches from me. Despite his apparent fear of being eaten, he didn’t seem that scared of me. Warmth that had nothing to do with my lunch spread through me.

I swallowed my bite just enough to mumble, “Did you bring ketchup?” The kid gasped like he wasn’t expecting me to answer him at all, or he wasn’t expecting me to sound like a normal person. A handful of sauce packets suddenly sprung from the kid’s pocket and were held in front of me like a blood sacrifice. I took them gingerly and tore one open on the cardboard.

“Another friend said you used to be one of the ghosts stuck in the church and you escaped. But then all the ghosts that were left got jealous, and a girl ran into the church and they all possessed her and you had to kill her and now you keep all the ghosts in as your punishment.”

A sweet potato fry froze hovering over the pile of ketchup. Well damn. Going off the first rumor, I didn’t expect the next one to be true. I squinted at the kid suspiciously, then sighed. Who knows when I’ll get to talk to a human next, right?

“Three,” I replied.

The kid’s breath hitched. “What?” he asked.

“Three questions. That’s how much you are allowed, then you get to sit there in silence until I hand you my trash and you leave.”

The kid scratched his head pensively and glanced around me to the church. Forget my comment about him being brave. Little bastard was just plain stupid. I shook my head slightly, but he saw, and averted his eyes again.

“Why do you only let kids bring you food?”

I nodded in understanding. He was still nervous about being my dessert. 

“Kids are nicer,” I answered. “Adults get mean when they know you can’t do anything about it.” Or when it’s your punishment to allow all of that to happen to you. The scar that stretched from one side of my throat to the other tightened as I swallowed. This kid was obviously disappointed in my short and not really helpful answer, but beggars can’t be choosers. Which is probably what he decided as well, since he asked his second question as soon as he knew I was done talking.

“Did you always have wings?”

I licked my fingers free of salt. “Nope. Got ‘em with the promotion.” I gestured vaguely behind me. “Goes with the new name.” Not that I chose it. “Did you bring me something to drink?”

From the same pocket where he held the ketchup, the kid produced a can of coke. I hummed in appreciation at the sticky sweetness sliding down my throat.

“If your name’s not really Gargoyle, what is it?”

I choked on my drink. The voice of the judge came back to me in waves. Your punishment is as follows. Guard the church; keep everyone away, and everything inside. Do not interact with anyone not sent by us, or attempt to speak to the ghosts. Forget your past life.

But a promise was a promise. And I won’t lie: I felt a thrill deep inside my gut at this small act of defiance, this last attempt to remember who I was before my mistake. I am a ghost. I tried to be human. Worse crimes have been committed.

I handed the kid my now-empty box. “If I tell you that, you’re not allowed to come back.” It was for the best; the last thing I wanted was to rope this innocent kid into my own shit just because I was lonely. He nodded energetically. I stood up and he scrambled after me while I strode to the line I wasn’t allowed to cross.

I glanced down, begging for that warmth in my chest to stay even when my new friend left. A flicker of a smile flashed across my lips before I whispered, “Rosemary.”

Before I allowed myself to watch his reaction, I spread my wings and flapped back to my damp perch on the roof of the church, and settled my gaze on the gray sky.