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Soup Stories

© Sarah Thompson Scribner 2018, All Rights Reserved

                                                                                               &So It Was

Once____________________________________________________in order to be ______________. _______they went on_________________for days_______________listening______________listening_____________________with____________with hope. Time grew_____between_____days, _____colors changed______fell.

__________by the trees______-ing up at the tower______________________________. Could this be_________e__need?

____pup which accompanied them growled like a ____, his walker _____-ed, "Is that your editorial on the violence between humans?"

The pup looked ________-ed.

The two______-ing_____-ed and smiled to_____other. 

"I believe______________I dreamt of you last night. ___; _____I woke, I lost____dream to the day." said She.

You_______, "Tomorrow wake____into the dream."

The matters of which are______________________________:soup for lunch, served, __________________________________________________________&so it was. 

From Recent Developments 

From Recent Developments 

                                                                                               Ritter Sport

Somedays linger on in mind. Dancing because of the heat, in the street, sweltering on to the sound. Or just to, as we might get cold feet if we are without a beat. 

Back to Broadway several is the fact not intact, br(e)ak(e)s in bread;making wheels of lemons cut for lemonade to drive abstract adverted cars for company lunches to connecting corners where Pret is ready to Manger. 

Seasons change to coated escapes, no longer days, no longer sweating on Subway. Cole has found he becomes more interesting tomorrow than Hann was today by seeing that only those who are boring become bored. 

When wind is wild&coming from under to above a Square station proximal to Garden warmth is found in a Spot for Soups. Heat fogging the windows as lunchers fight the cold to get hot to bring to stand then sit at desk on a forty-fifth floor. Homeland Security taking the clues from men at front desks who are keeping up with their check(s).

Pigeons walking the lines Beatles sounding on Pandora

Crossing town below books coyly conversing about chocolates with Roy at Royce'

nothing to say cept, ‘its imported from Japan’. Pop up shops in spaces where sugar simply is sweet&staff at the library lend subjects to discuss. 

For a Girl in America to Scout in order to compete with Construction on Park. The likes of looking in tunnels falling to the center of Manhattan has Men dizzy. Isn’t it a pity they think one might fall, for what we are unsure. 

Having some Rye with some boys from Rye at a restaurant called Rye. One whose bed is bruising. The other who has got a ring wrapping his finger says well words about his wife. Another who has lost sight. Reminding of rewinding images of the day, what words said reflect in his mind. 

Concluding conversations of days spent at the deli. This leads to splitting a Ritter with a Muslim while discussing the Sport of dating as a Christian in like with a Jew. 

                                                                                            Across The Hudson

Went to Hoboken on a whim. We saw how we look from/to the other side. With plans to return, iPhones died. With no maps we fell deeper into Jersey. Driving by Newark we thought to take flight. We feared we would eat wings for dinner that night.

I asked at a station, "Where would we find soup served?"

To which I was responded with one word, "Wendy's."

I said, "&the bridge or  tunnel is where?"


 It began on a winter Sunday in Brooklyn.

Thom missed the soup traditionally served during the Fête de l'Escalade in Geneva, Switzerland. Finding nothing in store, she sourced local, seasonal ingredients to create the perfect bowl of soup.

The Genevois credit a hot cauldron of soup to the defense of their city during an attack in 1602. 
Today in Brooklyn, friends meet for Sunday Soup to entertain the possibilities of the coming week.

Find your answer in a spoonful.


When she was with us we were three. Without one we are two not three and without two I was alone again. Here. Three not a crowd. Alone there is more clutter, without the eclipses of conversation between three to edit trains of thought, en route always.

We woke from where days end to begin again, the night tripping on where we walked. Between walls we spoke to see if the other was up.


—Of course thank you&please. 

 Continue on, that was what we knew to do together. Venture added to what we asked of the day, to take us on our way. In chorus we concluded that there was much to be done, to be seen, there would be little sleep. 

With what was the weekend, we had seventy-something hours, when she landed in town, hours to celebrate from birth to twenty-something years which had flown in and by. The weekend flew by too. With wishes to fly back together I recall for you where we went to explain why we must reunionize.

The mix doesn't make much sense to those who see as we walk down the street. From apperances we look like we don't know who the other might be. Except the chatter is candid, the affection genuine, the cause of the chaos blending into the background. As together we just are.

Sorrel Soup is common from where M made her way from.  Nepalese make a nine-bean soup called Kawatee. Confused by this, imagine what happens when Kawatee is made in Switzerland by way of the London and the French campagne.  I suppose then I  have come from a can of Campbell's thus I will make this condensed and move along with what we knew for a few days when we were three. 

With my running buddy with whom I never ran with, more persuaded by Parisiennes than running shoes on pavement we would:::

 To Be Continued 


Thom Scribner

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