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.