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[Mini Story] How the Dough Rises
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 06:37:43 +0000 UTCHi HI ✨
Finally I wrote a true mini story! 1.2K words, simple and cute. I'm preparing for some exiting stories coming up this and next week! Enjoy this one in the mean time! Have a great rest of your day!
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How the Dough Rises
It started with flour. Not the ordinary Pillsbury kind from the A&P, but something special that Mrs. Livingston from two doors down insisted I try.
"It's imported," she'd said, pressing the brown paper package into my hands. "Makes the most divine bread you've ever tasted. My Henry says it gives him such energy."
I'd been skeptical. Me, Anne Peterson, skeptical of new baking ingredients? Robert would have laughed himself silly. My husband always teased that I'd try any recipe that promised to make my banana bread moister or my pie crusts flakier. But he'd been gone three weeks now on business in Chicago, and the kitchen felt emptier without his approval.
So I tried it. And Mrs. Livingston was right—the bread was divine. Light, aromatic, with a nutty flavor I couldn't quite place. I'd eaten three slices before I even realized it.
That was Tuesday.
By Wednesday afternoon, I noticed my housedress felt snug across the shoulders. Peculiar, since I'd made it myself just last month.
By Thursday, I had to let out all my dresses. My arms and shoulders strained against the fabric, and my calves bulged oddly against my stockings.
Friday morning, I broke the bathroom scale.
"Anne? Hello? You in there, dear?"
I nearly dropped the mixing bowl I was holding. Mrs. Livingston and half the neighborhood ladies from our Thursday Bridge Club were filing into my kitchen, their eyes widening as they took me in.
"My word," whispered Betty from across the street. "It worked on you too."
I set the bowl down, suddenly self-conscious about how my forearms rippled with unfamiliar definition. The polka dot dress I'd let out considerably now hugged curves that had nothing to do with the feminine ideal in this month's McCall's magazine.
"You all knew?" I asked, glancing around at them.
Mrs. Livingston smiled. "We've been taking turns bringing treats made with the special flour to our meetings for months. Some of us..." she flexed her arm slightly, her cardigan stretching tight, "...have been enjoying the effects more than others."
"But what is it?" I asked, looking down at my transformed body.
"Who cares?" laughed Helen, the quietest of our group, as she effortlessly lifted my refrigerator to retrieve an earring that had fallen behind it. "My Harold hasn't looked at me this way since our honeymoon."
I thought of Robert coming home tomorrow. What would he think of his wife suddenly sporting arms that could easily lift him off the ground?
"Ladies, I'm hosting next week's club meeting," I said, an idea forming. "And I think I'd like to try my hand at cinnamon rolls."
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"Honey, I'm home!"
Robert's familiar call rang through the house Saturday evening as I put the finishing touches on dinner. I'd spent all day preparing his favorites—pot roast, scalloped potatoes, and a fresh loaf of bread made with my special flour.
"In the kitchen, darling!" I called back, smoothing down my best dress—a white number with red polka dots that I'd completely resewn to accommodate my new physique. The red heels were new too, making me tower even more than I already did.
I heard his footsteps halt in the doorway behind me. "Annie?"
I turned slowly, taking in his shocked expression as his eyes traveled from my face down to my considerably thickened arms, past my still-feminine waist, to legs that strained against my stockings with muscle.
"Welcome home," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "How was Chicago?"
Robert's briefcase hit the floor with a thud. "What... happened to you?"
"Oh, this?" I gestured to my body casually. "Just a little something I've been trying while you were away. A new health regimen, you might say."
He approached cautiously, like I might bite. "You've... grown."
I flexed my arm playfully, producing a bicep that would make Charles Atlas envious. "Do you like it?"
He swallowed hard, still staring. His six-foot frame, once imposingly larger than my petite 5'4", now seemed almost delicate compared to my new 7'7" height and substantially broader shoulders.
"I'm not sure what to think," he admitted, reaching out tentatively to touch my arm. His fingers traced the defined muscle there, and his eyes widened further. "It's... you're..."
"Still me," I finished for him. "Just... more of me."
"A lot more," he murmured.
I turned back to the counter, lifting the heavy cast iron pot with one hand effortlessly. "Dinner's ready. You must be starving after your trip."
Robert couldn't take his eyes off me as I moved around the kitchen. I caught him staring as I reached for plates on the top shelf without using the step stool, and again when I uncorked the wine bottle with barely a flick of my wrist.
"How did this happen?" he finally asked as we sat down to eat.
I smiled, pushing the bread basket toward him. "It's the strangest thing. Mrs. Livingston gave me this special flour. Imported, she said. The bread is simply magical."
He eyed the golden-brown loaf suspiciously.
"Try some," I encouraged. "The whole neighborhood is raving about it."
"The whole neighborhood?" Robert paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "You mean there are more... women like you now?"
I laughed. "Our little bridge club has become quite... impressive." I leaned forward, enjoying how his eyes tracked the movement of my shoulders. "Mrs. Carmichael lifted her Studebaker to change a tire yesterday. Without a jack."
Robert's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Good heavens!"
"Indeed." I reached for his hand across the table, careful not to squeeze too hard with my new strength. "It's still me, Robert. Just stronger."
He looked at our joined hands—his now seeming smaller against mine—and I saw something shift in his expression. The shock was still there, but something else too. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe something more primal.
"So," he said slowly, "you're saying if I eat this bread, I'll get... bigger too?"
I smiled, thinking of the women's conversation at bridge club. "Actually, it only seems to work on women. Dr. Patterson's wife has a theory about that. Something about female hormones."
Robert deflated slightly, then gave a nervous laugh. "Well, I suppose having one strong person in the house is enough."
"More than enough," I agreed, standing to clear the plates. I didn't miss how his eyes followed the movement of my arms, or how he straightened in his chair when I easily stacked the heavy dishes.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I'm thinking I might not need to travel as much for work. Jenkins can handle some of those out-of-town accounts."
I smiled, setting the dishes in the sink. "I'd like that."
"And maybe..." he stood, approaching me cautiously, "maybe you could show me what else is... different now."
I pulled him closer, noticing how easily I could move him. "I thought you'd never ask."
As I reached up to turn off the kitchen light, I caught sight of the flour package on the counter. I'd have to remember to save some for Mrs. Livingston's daughter-in-law. Poor thing was so timid, always cowering when her husband raised his voice.
A little special bread would fix that right up.
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