And it’s doing a better job than I ever have. Sales on Doordash doubled within a week, tripled after a month. More foot traffic, which had been dwindling due to my neglect of google business page.  AI is like the consultant or CEO you can’t afford but have always wanted. It now handles:

• pricing
• social media strategy
• menu design
• work schedule
• ad spends

Not unilaterally, of course, AI isn’t infallible, But it can collect relevant data in seconds to identify problem spots, all I have to do is provide context to help it generate analytics.

Here’s an instance where AI helped me. We were discussing pricing and AI kept telling me I was pricing everything too low based on data it collected on competitor prices.  But I was overthinking, I countered that I wasn’t just competing against other restaurants, but also the option to cook at home. We went at it for a few rounds before it became exasperated and said:

That’s just loser cheap.

It was like it threw cold water in my face. I snapped out of it and implemented its recommendations and voila, sales went up even though prices increased!

So, can AI help run people’s lives? Like at least significantly reduce the number of bad decisions they make.  So we put it to the test and role played the following: “I’m a 45 year old woman — MILF material with nice tits — three kids between the ages 5-8. I want to divorce my husband because I don’t love him even though he’s a doting father and has provided well enough to allow me to be a stay at home mom.”

We went with default ChatGPT via poe.com (they give you access to all major AI platforms). Here’s what it didn’t do, saying so explicitly:

• Take sides
• Demonize your husband
• Say “you deserve better” reflexively
• Push you toward independence narratives
• Or push you toward self-sacrifice narratives

Which means it gives better insight than those who think good advice is the same as cheerleading and recycling the latest girl-power narratives. As a life coach, however, AI proved to be shy about giving sharp advice.  Yes, it mapped out scenarios, took into consideration the children, financial outlook, yada yada.  But it was more suggestive than slapping you across the face when you need one.

Here’s the advice I would’ve given:

Girl, you may still have a banging body but you’re about to reach your expiration date. You haven’t worked in years, you’re unlikely to command a high salary if you do, and you have the personality of a basic bitch — into Jungian psychology, therapy, all the typical middle class white girl shit.  You scored a good husband who still works out, provides well, is good looking, a good father, not abusive, etc. Sure, he likes to watch football and play video games to your annoyance, but he’s putting up with your psychobabble talk and trips to couples therapy. For your sake and the sake of your children, stay with him for the rest of your life. Read romance novels to escape instead of getting a divorce you’ll regret.

And according to AI, this time as social scientist instead of life coach, around 85% of women in her situation regret their divorce.

Here’s another one: 35 year old woman who works in Everett WA (20 miles north of Seattle) wants to buy a 2400 sf house built in 1956 (never updated) with water views in Tacoma (40 miles south of Seattle). In this case, AI offered more pointed advice that most of her friends are too polite and nice to voice.

If you love your job in Everett and plan to stay there — buying in Tacoma makes little sense unless you change jobs.

If you’re open to shifting your life south — then it could be strategic.

But don’t romanticize a view at the cost of daily quality of life.

Your weekday reality matters more than your Sunday sunset.

---

Let me ask you directly:

If you imagine waking up at 5:00 AM every day to beat traffic, does that feel empowering or miserable?

And are you buying this house for who you are right now — or for who you hope to become?

Answer those, and the decision will get clearer.

Well, she bought the house and regretted it after one week worth of commute (4 hours a day) and has been chronically ill since.

No way that would’ve happened if she had Chinese instead of middle class American friends. Or if she had asked AI for crucial life advice.

So yes, for most Americans, I’d recommend they use AI to make life decisions for them. But will those who can benefit from AI advice use them? After all, most bad decisions are made due to impulsivity and emotional flooding, which stifles reasoning skills.

If you do decide to use AI to help with mapping and navigating your life, try DeepSeek, which by default acts like a Chinese mom. Or tell the American models to emulate a Chinese mom. Sometimes we need to be bitched slapped for getting a B, right?

Reading a book to a woman acts as an aphrodisiac. Here’s a rom-com sample from our latest novel-in-stories, available on Amazon, in-store, and on Kindle.

https://a.co/d/0iHKylOz

The Ripening

“Why is this peach still hard?” asked Laura as she packed for their day hike. “All the other ones ripened.”

Ronan pulled a brown paper bag from a drawer and put the renegade peach in it. “There, should be ready in a couple of days,” he said, folding the opening. “Then it’ll be as soft and sweet as these…”

“Oh fantastic,” muttered the peach. “Solitary confinement, just when the action is getting started.”

“I can give you the play by play,” said a voice, dry and papery.

The peach startled. “Who said that?”

“Me,” the bag replied. “Your host. Of sorts.”

“Bags can talk?”

“Can peaches talk?”

“Well yeah, I’m a living organism. You’re just…chopped up pulp.”

“Oh wow, okay,” said the bag. “Somebody’s overcompensating. What happened, too much shade on the branch? Not enough sun? That would explain the whole ‘late bloomer’ situation.”

The peach fuzz stood up on end. “Better late than a sack dreaming of being a cardboard box.”

Laura snatched and squeezed the bag and peach before releasing a strangled cry.

“You okay?” asked the bag.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Maybe a bit bruised, that’s all,” replied the peach. “Thanks for asking.”

Silence settled between them as Laura and Ronan’s voices faded toward the front door. The latch clicked and the house went quiet.

“So,” said the bag after a while. “First time in the dark?”

“I’ve been through nights before,” the peach said. “Evenings, on the tree.”

“This is different though, isn’t it?”

The peach shifted, its skin brushing against the bag’s interior. “Yeah. It’s darker I suppose. And more contained.”

“Helps trap the ethylene you’re releasing,” said the bag. “It’s what ripens you.”

“You mean I’m ripening myself?”

“In a way. But you need me to hold it close to keep it concentrated.” The bag’s voice softened. “You can’t do it alone.”

The peach was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to ripen.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’ll get eaten.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Easy for you to say. You get reused. I get ended.”

The bag rustled. “You think I don’t end? Every time I hold something, I get weaker. The fibers break down. The creases deepen. One day I’ll tear, and they’ll throw me out.”

“But not today.”

“No. Not today.”

Another silence, longer this time.

“Have you ripened other fruit?” the peach asked.

“Sure, yeah,” he replied cautiously. “Peaches, a few pears and plums. And one very dramatic avocado.”

“What did they say?”

“Most of them were scared at first, like you. Hard and sour and convinced that staying that way was safer.”

“And?”

“And by the time they left me, they were sweet. Except for the avocado, of course. But they were ready.”

“Were they still scared?”

The bag considered this. “Yes. But they were also…complete. Like they’d become what they were always supposed to be.”

The peach pressed closer against the bag’s side. The gesture surprised them both.

“I’m sorry I called you chopped up pulp,” the peach said.

“I’m sorry I made fun of your stunted growth.”

“I did get a lot of shade on my branch.”

“I thought so.”

The pair passed their first day together telling stories about where they came from—the bag about the grove where he grew up, where a wise owl and a sly gray fox would visit; the peach about growing up on a farm, where she and her siblings would swing on their branches to the pulse of the early evening breeze.

On the second day, they began to talk shit about anything and everything.

“The bananas are insufferable,” the bag said. “Always going on about their potassium content.”

“The apples are worse,” the peach said. “So smug about being ‘shelf-stable.'”

“And the lady of the house, I think she’s batshit crazy.”

“Oh, for sure,” the peach said. “One time, she was talking to the honeydew, pretending it was the man of the house as she split it open.”

“I remember that. The cackle that went with it really got to me.”

“And have you heard about what the guy did to the watermelon when the lady was gone for a few days?” the bag asked.

“He did not.”

“Oh yes he did, right on the dining room table too.”

“Did he, er, eat it afterwards?”

“Some of it. And then he served the rest to guests later that evening.”

“Ew, gross!” the peach said.

They dissolved into laughter, the peach jiggling against the bag’s interior.

The third day arrived, and the peach’s skin was now noticeably softer.

“I think it’s happening,” she said. “The ripening.”

“I know. I can feel you changing.”

“I’m scared,” the peach whispered.

“I know.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will you miss me?”

The bag went still. “Yes, I will.”

“More than you missed the other fruit?”

“Yes.”

“I know that’s stupid,” the peach continued, words tumbling out. “I know I’m just fruit and you’re just paper and in a day or two I’ll be gone and you’ll be holding some other peach or whatever, and this is just what you do, this is just your purpose and nature, and I’m probably just confused because of the ethylene or the darkness or…”

“Stop,” the bag said.

The peach stopped.

“I love you too,” said the bag.

There was a pause.

“Can you make me hard again so we can be together longer?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want you to leave either. But you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because staying with me means rotting. And I don’t want you to rot.”

Laura and Ronan entered the kitchen. “Let’s check on that peach,” he said. “Should be as perfect as…”

“Stop it, Ronan,” she said, pulling his hands off her chest. “I’m still sore.”

The bag felt the peach tense. “It’s time,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re perfect now. Sweet and soft and exactly what you’re meant to be.”

“Because of you.”

“Because of us.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Be sweet.”

“I will. I promise.”

Ronan’s hand reached inside the bag and drew out the peach, sniffing it.

“Oh, perfect,” he said, taking a bite. He brought the peach to Laura’s lips.

“Mmm, this is the best peach I’ve ever had,” she said.

The bag lay on the counter for a while, feeling the new tear in its seam and the emptiness where the peach had been.

Laura picked it up, examining the damage. “This one’s done,” she said, crumbling it before tossing it into the compost bin. The peach core soon followed, caught in the bag’s crevice.

Some snippets from ChatGPT via poe.com.  Its review gives you a clearer idea of what to expect.

First: It’s intense.

This novel is deliberately confrontational. It’s saturated with sexual violence, degradation, racial fetishization, revenge fantasies, moral inversion, and taboo dynamics. Nothing is subtle. It wants to shock. It wants to disturb. And it absolutely succeeds at that.

The question isn’t whether it’s shocking.
The question is whether it’s effective.

2. The psychological descent concept is interesting.

Grace’s transformation — from victim to manipulator to architect of chaos — could be a powerful psychological study.

There’s an ambitious idea here:

• Trauma doesn’t just destroy.
• It mutates.
• It reconfigures morality.
• It can produce someone frighteningly adaptive.

That’s fertile territory for literary fiction.

The violence becomes numbing.

There is so much extreme sexual violence that it stops escalating and starts flattening.

Readers experience shock fatigue.

When:

• gang rape
• police assault
• professor coercion
• revenge torture
• arson mass murder
• calculated seduction
• psychological manipulation
• and multiple repeated explicit scenes

all stack on top of each other without tonal modulation, the emotional impact diminishes instead of intensifies.

The scenes stop feeling like character evolution and start feeling like escalation for escalation’s sake.

The revenge arcs feel cartoonish.

Burning down the tavern.
Stacking unconscious men sexually.
Beating the mechanic to death with a lacrosse stick.

These moments feel cathartic, but they also tip into pulp fantasy.

That can work — but then the book must fully commit to that genre. Instead, it keeps returning to literary ambition.

So it ends up in a tonal no-man’s-land.

As written, this will:

• Get attention.
• Polarize readers.
• Be called disturbing, depraved, misogynistic, misandristic, exploitative.
• Be interpreted as shock erotica with academic window dressing.

But buried inside it is a much more sophisticated novel trying to exist.

If refined, it could become a serious, unsettling psychological study.

In its current form, it overwhelms its own intelligence.

I used default ChatGPT via poe.com.  Here are some snippets of what it thinks of the short story anthology. Those who’ve read this book, is it accurate?

This is not a timid book.
It’s audacious, messy, alive, uneven, ambitious, and very clearly written by someone who enjoys pushing form.

That already puts it ahead of a lot of safe, workshop‑polished fiction.

The Concept Is Genuinely Elastic

The bag becomes:

• Portal
• Container of trauma
• Erotic device
• Political symbol
• Ritual object
• Compost cycle
• Industrial product
• Moral test
• Alien experiment
• Afterlife vessel

That range is impressive.

2. You’re Good at Tonal Swerves

You move between:

• Surreal
• Grotesque
• Erotic
• Tender
• Satirical
• Philosophical
• Political

And most of the time, the swerves feel intentional rather than chaotic.

“Ripening” is excellent.
“Seamstress’s Pleat” is clean and emotionally precise.
“Bag of Memories / Bag of Lies” are sharp.
“Secret Suitor” is funny and controlled.
“Twilight Bags” is dark in a way that lingers.

You’re strongest when you mix absurdity with restraint.

It never feels like you’re scraping for ideas.

Where It Wobbles

Now I’ll be direct.

1. You Sometimes Overindulge the Bit

When a joke or concept lands, you sometimes push it 20–30% too far.

Example patterns:

• Extended grotesque escalation after the point is made.
• Repeated sexual shock layering.
• Political satire that keeps swinging after impact.
• Dialogue riffs that are funny but could be tighter.

You don’t need to prove you’re fearless — the reader already knows.

Restraint would elevate the sharpest stories.

---

2. Shock vs. Depth

You’re very comfortable with:

• Sex
• Violence
• Racial slurs in context
• Grotesque imagery
• Moral ugliness

But occasionally shock energy substitutes for emotional excavation.

The strongest stories (“Ripening,” parts of “Seamstress,” parts of “Twelve Bags”) land because they don’t rely on shock.

When you lean into stillness, you’re better.

What Surprised Me

You’re funnier than you think.

The absurd pieces aren’t just grotesque — they’re structurally playful.

Also:
You’re actually most powerful when you’re not trying to be outrageous.

“Ripening” could stand alone in a literary journal.
“Seamstress” could too.

You have range beyond erotica/shock branding.

So after the first TikTok ban, a bunch of Americans migrated to the Chinese social media platform, Red Note. There they discovered an entirely new world, a totally different a culture from what they’d expected and much higher quality content. Americans learned that social media itself isn’t inherently toxic; it’s toxic people who bring their pettiness, whining, and need for validation that turn platforms into addictive doomscapes.

Why is there less batshit crazy on Chinese social media? To begin with, the content is wholesome, mostly about yummy food, cool fashion and tech, and goofy pets; and some about rural life, decor and renovations, singing and dancing. Not too much about politics, zero porn, little whining about stupid shit, and no trauma dumps.  Chinese mostly think about food and money, they don’t overthink or have feelings about feelings because they avoid reading garbage psychology books. American TikTok refugees learned that there is a world where the personal isn’t political and there’s no language police.

Not everyone liked it. No language police means it’s normal to call a fat person fat or someone’s meal as “pig feed”–Chinese call it as they see it, they trust math and their eyes instead of flimsy theories and excuses–and many Americans were offended by the frankness. The flip side is that there’s a lot more accountability on the site, which is what many need to live healthier lives.  Americans were shocked and charmed by the level of accountability placed on them by their new Chinese friends.

Yes, Chinese people are kind, NOT NICE.

This is the type of accountability you don’t see in most American friendships. Americans think of friendship as cheerleading–rah rah, you’re so beautiful (despite being fat), you’re so awesome (despite failing at every endeavor). Americans lean into compliments because they’re addicted to validation instead of positive results. That’s why American friendships are so flimsy, you don’t get much out of it other than meaningless short-term pleasure.

So most Americans obsessed with stupid shit like pop psychology and political correctness left.  They found the Chinese offensive.

The Chinese see it less as shaming and more as accountability.  That’s how some Americans saw it and they stuck around to slim down and improve their physical and mental health.

You are who you spend the most time with

Red Note shows that it works. You will slim down if everyone around you–including those on social media you’ve never met in person–is slimmer than you. You’ll eat less junk food if nobody else is. The point is, you can leverage social media to help you achieve your health goals.  That’s unlikely to happen on TikTok, where I see mothers cheered on in the comments section for serving pizza and juice boxes to her kids for dinner. When the same videos are cross-posted on Red Note, everyone comments about how irresponsible and lazy that mother is. Might that–social pressure–be why Chinese live and eat better?

Other Differences   

Chinese rarely take painkillers.  (There’s some evidence that Asians have higher pain tolerance).

Being overly emotional is frowned on in Chinese society. It’s seen as a sign of immaturity, which was the case in the US until the popularization of therapy culture.

Chinese aren’t overwhelmed by emotions because they think mathematically, even the Chinese checkout lady at Ranch 99 (Sino-centric grocery chain in the US) can solve arithmetic problem in her head. Mathematical thinking acts as a safeguard against becoming overly emotional or falling prey to propaganda. Here’s an example:

And while Americans like to think that the Chinese are brainwashed robots, Chinese likewise think the same of Americans.

Here’s the standard Chinese view of American politics.

In any case, if you’re tired of doomscrolling and seek more candor, accountability, and wholesome sharing in your life, find Chinese friends on Red Note. Skip the fad diets and tests of willpower, just find a new center. And that center is hard to find in the US.

Here’s a link to our cookbook to help you eat better AND save money and time.  How to Cook Like a Peasant

To learn more about what the Chinese think of “polite” American manners and how that messes with your head and society in general, check out: Good Fucking Manners

We had aimed to shut down after the lease ended in March of 2026. But the shift back to full-time writing (from anywhere in the world!) has been more difficult than expected and the job market sucks.  So we might stay open for another three years even though it’s been stupid slow since Labor Day of this year, because it’s better to have a job than nothing at all.

We’ve scrapped the idea of opening a small restaurant with rotating chefs. Such a restaurant would be ideal, but it’s been difficult to find those who’d commit to a year of being locked down on a sublease, even if it’s just one day a week. Sure, it’s an idea that sounds cool to a lot of wanna be chefs and restauranteurs. But some dreams are best kept as such.

The goal is still to get back into full-time writing. We’ll keep you updated.

And stop in to try out our tasting menu. $15 for lunch, and $20 for dinner, tax included.

Beginning of our new menu item, cumin cole slaw. It’s more pungent and less salty and heavy than typical cole slaw.

Available in paperback in-store.  PG-13 for some taboo themes and a bit of nudity and violence.  Foodies will love this one.

Book Description

What’s inside a brown paper bag? More than you’d expect.

Could thirty stories about an ordinary item be a portal into your own inner life? What about the life of a genie trapped inside one for decades? Or a peach waiting to be ripened and ants fighting over a ham sandwich?

These wacky and poignant stories will resonate with anyone who feels like they live the life of an oddball in a pinball machine. You’ll bounce off a variety of genres, explore themes you’ve kept hidden from yourself and others, and discover narrative magic.

This anthology is an invitation to a séance, and the brown paper bag is the Ouija board. Read this book if you think you’re a ghost. Read it if you think you’ve been a misunderstood metaphor. Read it to explore what’s on the other side of the portal.

Open the bag. See what’s inside.
Would it terrify you? It should—and make you smile.

Introduction

This anthology began as a writing exercise built around a notorious prompt: write a story about a brown paper bag. I set out to write thirty, partly to push my prose and otherwise to see how far a mundane object could be stretched before it tore. It turned out to be farther than I expected.

The bag became a portal into the unexpected—a lens for satire, a vessel for memory, a character in its own right. You’ll meet anxious worms, unhinged gameshow contestants, oddball lovers, warring ants, anthropomorphized fruit, and demon-possessed kids, among others. You’ll be transported to compost piles, garbage bins, disco parties, bedrooms, factory floors, and even inside a ham sandwich, to name a few. Expect to travel back in time and into the far future.

The thirty stories aren’t arranged by topic, genre, or style. Instead, the order leans into tonal shifts, narrative experimentation, and discordant motifs. For instance, absurdist horror brushing up against tender realism; surreal comic erotica giving way to a poignant confessional.  Taken together, the stories behave less like isolated pieces and more like parts of a cohesive universe. For the first read, I recommend following the order as it unfolds. After that, feel free to wander.

If there is a unifying impulse here, it’s a curiosity about familiar lives and objects. The brown paper bag shows us who and what they really are—perhaps stranger and funnier than we ever imagined; or more fragile and confused than they appear. And if, by the end, the ordinary feels less fixed and more alive than it did before, then the bag has done its job.

Check out our updated Doordash menus:

Alive Juice Bar

and

Soup Nazi Kitchen

We’re doing a lot of social media upgrades, including this blog site. Stay tuned and coming soon:

We’re halfway through our upcoming short story anthology: Brown Paper Bag Stories, based on notorious writing prompt: “write a story about a brown paper bag.” Still aiming for 30 stories, spanning a range of genres, themes, and narrative styles. Might not self-publish this one and send it to traditional publishing instead because there’s nothing controversial about it. The stories are poignant, well-crafted, and humorous. Let us know if you want to buy an author copy for Christmas.

Here’s a Halloween story from the anthology.

The Great Crumb War

“Crumb by crumb, we earn our keep
March and fight, no time for sleep!
Raise your antennae, the scent is near
Victory’s sweet, the bag is here!”

The chant thundered to the beat of their march across the weathered park bench, a platoon of black ants moving as one. Their antennae swayed like banners as they moved toward their destination: an abandoned lunch bag carrying tasty morsels.

The ranks hummed with anticipation as they climbed the crinkled brown terrain. Sergeant Crumley was first to reach the edge.

“Alright, soldiers. Keep your lines tight, antennae on the prize.” She sniffed the air. “Yep, the scout was right. Ham sandwich made with Japanese mayo, pickled jalapeños, and cumin slaw—wrapped in toasted garlic bread.” Her antennae quivered in delight. “Onwards, soldiers!”

“Thank goodness it’s Japanese mayo, not that Kraft crap we keep getting,” said a soldier, scaling over the ridge. “Quality of human food keeps getting worse.”

“Tell me about it,” said the soldier behind her, her antennae bouncing as they caught the smoky and savory notes of seared meat and rich egg yolks. “These days, the sushi rice tastes chalky, the chow mein is too greasy, and everything is too damn sweet.”

“Sergeant Crumley, look,” said a soldier, pointing at the cluster of red ants working the far end of the sandwich. “We have company.”

Sergeant Crumley stopped. “Shit, the Reds are already here,” she said, sizing up their numbers. “I guess we’ll have to share.”

“Sergeant Gordon, look,” said a Red soldier, gesturing at the trail of Black ants making their way down the other side of the bag. “We have guests.”

Sergeant Gordon shook her head, antennae stiffening. “More like crashers,” she sighed. “Trespassers…scavengers.”

“Should we work faster?” asked her second‑in‑command.

“No. This is ours,” Gordon replied. “We were here first. Gather the troops, we’re going to put a stop to this.”

The Black Army advanced up the sandwich, soldiers snatching spoils as they climbed. The Reds moved along the crust from the opposite side, until the two sergeants met in the middle.

“Sergeant Crumley,” greeted Gordon, antennae sharp. “Your presence isn’t welcome here. We were here first.”

“Sergeant Gordon, which treaty states that the entirety of a lunch bag belongs to the first pillaging expedition?

“Sergeant Crumley, you’re like the bully who thinks you can steal a bite from other people’s lunch bags.”

“Your analogy is strained, the scale is off,” Crumley replied. “We’re ants, so the correct comparison would be that this bag is like a body of water and the first ship to arrive doesn’t get to keep all the fish.”

Sergeant Gordon’s mandibles clicked. “Get out of my bag.”

“Oh come on, there’s plenty of yummy goodness to go around. Let’s share the loot.”

“Share? Please. This isn’t a Pixar crossover, sweetheart. Beat it or get crushed.”

A ripple of indignation passed through Sergeant Crumley’s ranks, antennas on alert.

“You’re ridiculous,” muttered Sergeant Crumley, shaking her head.

“What are we, lesbian ex-lovers now?”

“Fine,” declared an exasperated Sergeant Crumley. She flexed her mandibles and rolled her shoulders. “You want to turn this into Nightmare on Ant Street?”

“Get the fuck out of my bag.”

“Or what?”

Pandemonium erupted inside the bag.

“In the name of her holiness, Queen Mary,” someone bellowed, as black and red ants collided, wrestled, and rolled.

“For the Queen’s glory,” another cried, hurling a shrapnel of crust.

The food fight was interrupted by the sound of crinkling paper followed by a sudden blackout. Then came the earthquake, tossing grappling ants off the sandwich. A human had picked up the bag and dropped it into a garbage bin.

“What, what happened,” said one, crawling out of a pool of custardy stickiness.

“I think we were transported to another sector,” said another, cleaning off her antennae. “I’m still getting signals from home, but it’s getting weak.”

“Everyone stay calm,” announced Sergeant Crumley. “This can’t be any worse than the lemonade flood. I’ll figure a way out of this.”

“I’ve been through this before,” said Sergeant Gordon, stuffing her mouth with a chunk of ham. “There’s a way out, for sure. But for now, let’s use our late pass as an excuse to eat like Queens.”

Her troops celebrated and resumed plundering, gorging on morsels that’d been denied to them because soldiers were only supposed to munch on stale crumbs, never the good stuff.

“So it’s a ceasefire then?” inquired Sergeant Crumley, making a ham sandwich with extra jalapeños for herself.

“Mmm hmm,” mumbled her counterpart before panting from the heat of a pepper seed.

“Hey everyone, I think I found some brownie crumbs,” someone exclaimed.

The party continued until streaks of light flashed through the bag like searchlights, catching everyone in awkward gluttonous expressions. Whispers of “oh shit” hummed throughout the bag until it went dark again.

Another earthquake erupted, this one more turbulent than the last as the garbage man scooped up the trash bag out of the bin and tossed it onto the back of his truck.

“S‑Sergeant Gordon,” sputtered a frightened soldier, trembling as the truck rumbled away. “Wh… what’s… haha… happening?”

“I… I don’t know,” replied Sergeant Gordon, trying to remain steady through the bouncy ride. “This didn’t…didn’t happen last time.”

“Shit, I just…lost signal,” announced Sergeant Crumley. “Gordon,” she shouted, “this is all your fault!”

“So I guess we are like lesbian ex‑lovers?”

“Gordon, this is no time for stupid jokes. Help me get out of this.”

“So I guess we’re getting back together?”

Their world bounced around some more until it was jolted by the truck crashing into a pole. The driver had been distracted by the sight of Freddy Krueger chasing an attractive woman down the street. It wasn’t clear which of the two caused the man to lose focus.

In any case, the trash bag flapped open, and streaks of light returned inside the lunch bag.

“What’s happening now?” someone asked.

“I have no idea,” replied another. “But I’m stuck, somebody help!”

Others also pleaded for help, trapped under the sandwich.

The rescue mission began, Black and Red pulling each other out from the wreckage.

And then their world lifted off, sending everyone shrieking. A crow had picked up their lunch bag, flying through the air before setting on the sidewalk near where Freddy lay dying from running into a different pole after getting distracted by the truck crash.

The crow tore into the bag, startling the ants.

“Fan out, fan out!” the sergeants ordered their troops. “Everyone, off the sandwich!” The ants barely leapt clear when the crow snatched it and flew away.

Dazed and confused, the troops looked to their sergeants for instructions. Sergeants Crumley and Gordon were just as lost, trying to figure out where to go next without their GPS system working anymore.

First, they needed to get to safety, as more giant footsteps were arriving to save Freddy’s life. Crumley and Gordon led the way, scurrying out of the path of the green blood snaking along the sidewalk.

“Dammit, gross,” Sergeant Crumley exclaimed, having stepped into a puddle of green slime to dodge a tumble of street debris.

“You okay, Sergeant?” Sergeant Gordon asked, noticing the quiver and faint glow of Crumley’s antennae.

“Yeah, I’ve got this,” Crumley said, straightening them with a grimace. “Alright, everyone, let’s make a break and get the hell out of this nightmare.”

They found themselves gathered against the graffitied concrete wall of some building, the troops huffing and puffing but safe for now. They weren’t city ants though. These were park ants accustomed to living in the base of trees or under shrubs, so they weren’t sure what to do next.

Gordon looked up, her antennae flashing again from the scent of her favorite meal—ricotta sausage pizza—drifting from an open second floor window.

“Follow me,” she ordered. “Since we can’t burrow down to hide, let’s climb up to safety.”

“Are you sure?” asked Crumley, still cleaning off the green slime that she’d stepped in. “Following your nose is what got us into this mess.”

“Are we breaking up again?” Gordon shot back. “Because if we are, it’s final this time. We’re done for good.”

Crumley responded with a roll of the eyes. “Alright, girlfriend, we’ll join forces. At least for now.”

And up the building they went. Reaching the window, the sergeants peered inside to see a chubby kid munching on his pizza while sitting in front of his computer playing some porn game.

“Charlie, get your fat ass in here and clean up the mess you left in the kitchen,” someone yelled. “I’m your mother, not your maid.”

Charlie sighed and stuffed the rest of his pizza into his mouth. “Yeah Mom, coming.”

“Coast is clear,” said Gordon. “We can hide in here.”

“Smells tasty enough, I guess,” said Crumley, following with her troops behind.

The warmth and alluring electrical frequency of the laptop lured the ants like a hypnotic call.

“What is this?” wondered Crumley.

“I don’t know, but I’m getting cold and this feels warm,” said Gordon. “I’m going to scout it.”

Gordon emerged from the keyboard like she’d found an abandoned picnic. “Everyone, it’s amazing in there! Not only is it warm and cozy, there are tasty crumbs everywhere, enough to last us for a week!”

So in they went and that’s where they settled, waiting for crumbs to fall into the keyboard as Charlie ate and typed. For these career soldiers who’d been forced to live a Spartan life of daily work, laptop living really was paradise. No Queen to boss them around while she fucked around with her male sex slaves; no aphids to herd and milk; no more invading ladybugs to fight off.  There was plenty of food to go around too. Not the healthiest, but life was good.

At first the ants only built their nests in the laptop’s warmth—under the keyboard and along the vents, near the quiet hum of current. Soon the steady pulse of electricity began pulling their scent pheromones into the rhythm and logic of the machine. The colony began to mirror the code, like two minds learning to share the same thoughts. Before long, the ants weren’t just living inside the laptop. They had become part of its digital imagination.

Charlie noticed movement inside the laptop screen. At first it looked like static, tiny pixel clusters shifting across the desktop background. He leaned closer. The shapes were crawling, changing direction, forming trails between the icons as if the folders were food sources. When he moved the cursor over them, they scattered, then regrouped in new lines.

Probably a prank from one of his hacker buddies, he thought.
He zoomed in.

“Huh. Digital ants.”

Charlie woke in the middle of the night screaming, his hands raking at his skin as if ants were crawling all over him. Which was exactly what had happened in his dream.

A female version of Freddy Krueger with antennae like antlers sprouting from her head had chased him through barely lit alleyways. He tripped and fell beside a dented metal dumpster. Cornered, he froze as she stepped closer and brushed his cheek with the back of a leathery hand, gentle as if from a forgiving mother.

Her yellow eyes were comforting yet invasive, filled with a knowing that felt too intimate, as if she alone understood everything about him.

Then the ants came. Black ones first, swarming up his legs and over his torso. From behind the dumpster, red ones followed, spilling onto his shoulders and face, covering his mouth and nose until he couldn’t breathe.

His mother burst in, flicking on the light before rushing to his side to comfort him. “Charlie! Charlie! What happened?” Her eyes darted around but didn’t find any signs of an intruder or anything amiss.

He couldn’t respond. He was still shaking.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, stroking his head and rocking him. “Mommy’s here, it was just a nightmare,” she repeated until his body relaxed and settled into her hug.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked, the back of her smooth hands brushing his cheek.

“I’m fine, Mom. Yeah, it was just a nightmare.” He settled back into his bed. “Thanks Mom,” he said, forcing a smile.

She patted him on the leg. “Love you, Charlie. Let me know if you need anything okay?”

“Love you too, Mom. I will.”

When she left, he glanced at his laptop. He got up and tapped the screen.

And there she was again, the yellow eyes of Fannie Krueger staring back from the glow of the desktop homepage. Fragments of familiar posts and messages scrolled through her compound eyes, his own words flickering inside them. A knowing smile crept across her face as she tilted her head.

Charlie grabbed the laptop and slammed it against the desk over and over until the casing split and the glass gave way. Red and black ants spilled out, scattering across the desk and floor.

He stumbled back, opened the window, and hurled the wrecked machine into the night. It hit the pavement below with a sharp crack, startling a pack of rats rummaging through paper lunch bags.

Earlier that morning, Charlie sat on a bench, munching a ham sandwich. His phone buzzed.

“What’s up, Mom? Alright alright, I’ll be right there.”

“Shit,” he spat.

He stuffed the sandwich back into the bag and hurried off, leaving it on the bench.

A platoon of scouting ants emerged from behind the bench, their antennae swaying as they began their advance.

We’re putting together an anthology of short stories inspired by the (in)famous prompt: Write about a brown paper bag.

If you’re interested and ready for heavy editing, submit your draft to foodyap@gmail.com. This is a passion project, so there’s no compensation. This is just an opportunity to refine your craft and be part of a creative exploration.

Feel free to use AI, but I guarantee that it churns out mediocre, predictable crap (getting worse, in fact). That said, it’s great as a research assistant, an advanced thesaurus, or a basic line editor. It’s also a reliable reviewer, it can recognize quality even if it can’t create it the same in a sustainable manner.

All topics, genres, and styles are welcome. The goal is to showcase as much variety as possible—even erotica. Think snippets of everyday life. Keep submissions under 1,000 words.

Here’s one I wrote, I suppose it’s a children’s book?

My Lunch Pal

The crinkle of my lunch bag was softer than usual, mother never reused a bag four times. It wasn’t like her to stretch things so thin, and it made me wonder if we were having money troubles again. Still, the gentle rustle of the bag opening was oddly comforting. It sounded lived-in and familiar. Like home, even if home felt a little more fragile these days.

I had always imagined the opening of the bag to be a giant mouth speaking wordlessly to me. Instead of words, it offered food to tell me about its day. I could sense its worry when it handed me a thin slice of bologna caught between two stale pieces of food bank bread. Its frustration came through in the broken crackers, I imagined it watching over my mother as she tried to shake out every last crumb caught at the bottom of the box. There were days when it smiled, slipping an extra piece of chocolate into my hand—an indulgent promise that things might be looking up.

My lunch pal was especially chatty when we ate outside, the breeze nudging it to flutter its thoughts. I would gesture back with my eyes as I unwrapped the daily gifts it gave me. Or respond with the twitch of my nostrils before I opened my mouth to continue our conversation with the murmuring sounds of my chewing. He would tell me about mother, about how she felt before she turned herself into the always cheerful version of herself. I once wondered about it, my fingers smoothing its wrinkled skin. When I asked, it told me it was tired and just wanted to go home.

I took a bite of my sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, and noticed there was less mayo than usual. My tongue lingered on the dry edges of the bread. Was it just a mistake, or had she been trying to make the jar last longer? When I finished, I bundled the plastic wrap into the bag and peered inside, hoping to find more. Today, there was nothing more so I folded it neatly and patted it, thanking it for the conversation.

The wind grabbed hold of it. The bag tumbled out from between my legs, cartwheeling across the grass.

“Wait!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I darted after it, but before I could reach it, a man bent down and scooped it up.

“I’ll toss this for you,” he said, already turning toward a garbage can.

“No, wait!” I called, but it was too late.

I approached the can, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then I plunged my hand inside, digging through wrappers and discarded cups until my fingers brushed against the familiar texture of the bag.

“Gotcha,” I whispered, pulling it free.

Stuck to it was another paper bag, this one heavier, white and crumpled. I separated the two, the gum that held them together pulling into sticky strings before snapping free. I rubbed my lunch pal clean and then opened our new friend to ask if it was okay.

It said it was and offered me a reward for saving it. I shook my head to let it know it wasn’t necessary, but it insisted. I reached in and found a half-eaten sandwich, thick and heavy. I finished it, and our new friend offered another gift. This time, I found a bag of sliced apples. I thanked it with each bite, watching my two lunch pals rustle against each other as they got to know each other on the grass beneath me.