Nightly Krumbs Novels & Stories

I replied as Kola chuckled slightly. "I'll come and pick you up tomorrow" Kola replied. "You know somewhere?" I asked. "Of course I do" Kola replied. "Is there is still rice in the pot?" David asked as Paul walked towards the car and gave me a packaged nylon. I peered inside it to see a packed takeaway food I had cooked. "It’s not for you. It’s for Atinuke" Paul replied as he threw his face somewhere else. "Eeeeeeeeee" Felix started teasing.

I waited for the excruciating pain but it never came, instead, I felt a soft bump on my body and my eyes snapped open to see Night nudging me with his head. “Oh,”I gasped in surprise, but my heart instantly melted. “Aren't you a good boy?” I raised my hand and hesitated, but something told me he wouldn't hurt me so I gently rubbed his head. “Are my eyes fooling me?” We turned to see Kraven, his siblings minus Kohen and their retainers standing behind us. “Your highness.”We greeted him simultaneously and bowed. “This is amazing.”Kraven said while watching Night stand close to me. “Come here, boy. Have you decided to be a good boy again?”He whistled and motioned for Night to come closer but he

I didn’t quite catch it before it drove out of sight. Things slowly began to calm down, so I got ahold of my buddy Andrew to make sure he was okay. He’d already been outside when the fire alarm went off, so he wasn’t really in danger in the first place. When I learned that everything was clear and there was nothing I could do to help, I went back to my little pickup and pulled up a search engine on my phone. I typed in all sorts of variations of “bakery” and “Kringle” until I was certain I found the one–Kris Kringle’s Cookies. It was in the next town over, Noel. I’d been there once or twice, but it was too far for this time of night considering nobody would be there at… nearly two AM.

I stood at the kitchen counter in my pajamas eating it while Caleb watched from the doorway with a very careful expression, not saying a single word. “You’re judging me,” I muttered around a bite. “I’m not, I’m admiring your commitment.” “Good. Because if you say one thing about how this looks, I will cry. Again.” Wednesday: sour cream and onion crisps dipped in honey. One moment I was reading a report, the next I was texting James. Two bags of onion crisp the thick-cut ones. With honey, the good kind, kindly add sour cream to it. When James delivered the bag I tore it open on the spot. Caleb walked in a few minutes later and reached for one crisp without thinking.

Chapter 3 The kitchen of L'Oro was a cathedral of chrome and white tile, silent save for the rhythmic *thwack-thwack-thwack* of Chloe’s knife. It was four in the afternoon, the dead zone between the lunch rush and the dinner service. She was alone at her station, surrounded by the raw ingredients of the proposed autumn menu: roasted chestnuts, sage, butternut squash, and a bottle of aged balsamic that cost more than her monthly rent.

They listed their dream meals: [M9-grade wagyu, charcoal-grilled!] [Black truffle pizza—looks pricey as hell.] [You guys are basic. I want nyotaimori, with Patricia serving herself!] Their sneering faces seemed to leer through the screen, but my grin only widened. ... The next day, as I prepared another round of deliveries, the doorbell rang. It was my cousin, Della Harris, whom I hadn't seen in ages. "I saw what was happening online," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Don't let it get to you. Those people are scum!"

The nights were long, and all day the wet wind gnawed; business at the bakery, however, grew only stranger. Early mornings, bleary-eyed delivery boys would find offerings on the stoop—peculiar breads wound with cress and copper coins, single slipper orchid buds tucked into the scoring, loaves that, when sliced, spelled letters of the alphabet, trailing acrid, hopeful promises. As if the city’s hunger had grown a tongue, and now spoke in crumbs and crusts.

“Okay. Everyone. Eat. We’re entering crunch season. If you’re not carbed up, corporate will eat you alive.” “Crunch,” Paul echoed from the couch, one arm slung over the backrest like he owned the furniture and the concept of rest. “Love that word for a job that’s actively trying to kill us. Is this a free-range, artisanal crunch, or the usual existential dread variety?” He crossed the room, reached for a pastry, then stopped mid-motion, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “Is this one of Celeste’s rituals? Should I be worried about being inducted into a pastry cult?”

OSTARA’S POV The week passed like a soft blur. The Halloween flavor competition had taken over Harvest Bloom. Someone had drawn a scoreboard on the break room wall. Every morning, new sticky notes appeared with flavor names that ranged from brilliant to borderline absurd. “Caramel Blood Moon.” “Pumpkin Praline Panic.” “Ghoulberry Crunch.” By Thursday, Sabrina’s absence still felt strange, but the team’s excitement had a way of filling the gaps she’d left.

Just the scent of baked bread from the open-air kitchen three blocks down, and the sound of mismatched music spilling from three different corners of the city violin, drum, soft synth. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did. Nova passed around chipped mugs filled with something vaguely citrus, courtesy of a district growhouse. “Officially,” she said, “this gathering is unrecorded.” Aria grinned. “Unofficially?” “It’s the first time no one’s asked for a plan.” Cassian leaned back against the fountain, gaze lifted toward the cracked mural above them once Eden’s first emblem of dominance. Now weather-worn, faded into nothing but abstract light and erosion.