Of Potatoes and Poets: 📝 Writing 📓

Isn't It Obvious?

Hazel — Thu, 18 Jun 2026 07:09:57 GMT

Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash

Note: For about $10/year, you can become a member of the Hot Tot Club and support my writing. Thanks for reading <3

Prompt: A time-traveler and an immortal have had a feud for several centuries, the immortal leading the traveler in a mist of wild goose chases. During one of their skirmishes, you get caught up in the middle of it. Then, rather quickly, you begin to realize the two have feelings for each other.

“You think you can just stop me?” The immortal smirked at the time traveler, “We have been playing this game for several centuries- Mere seconds to me!” The god was laughing, knowing the scavenger hunt he recently put on the traveler was only to confuse them further. Secretly, it spelled out clues about the immortal’s own feelings. But that didn’t stop the fun from happening.

“I need you to tell me something,” The time traveler said. The man was wielding a sword and a gun, an rather odd mix of weaponry to use against the god. The immortal merely nodded at him and jumped to the side, quite easily dodging the blade of the sword. “Why do you have to make this so difficult?”

“Oh hon,” The immortal laughed. “Difficult? I don’t understand what you mean by that.” It was flirty banter, but the traveler didn’t recognize it.

“You put my entire timeline into disarray, and for what? I don’t understand. You have the power to do anything you want, why be an asshole?” The immortal gasped at the word. And the traveler continued to speak: “Why are you here, don’t you have more important things to do in your realm.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Indeed, no.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, you’re too oblivious. I can see it from a mile away, and your awkwardness- it uh suits you. Kind of cu-”

“Hey guys,” You say, looking at the two bickering from down below. “Can I get down please, I really need to get home to my cat.” The god looked at you, blushing rather intensely.

“You have a cat?” He asked, walking over to you. “What’s your cat’s name? I love cats!”

“Huh,” the time traveler says. “Hey get back here, we’re not done yet!” Ignoring him, the god continued to gush about their own cats at home. You didn’t have any idea how to feel about it, but it was almost better than having to be at work. In fact, it was kind of cute to see the immortal being take such a liking to something… so small. And it was also kind of terrifying too.

“Immortal one,” The traveler says. “Are we going to finish our fight? I have a reservation at 8pm tonight and I really don’t want to be late for it.” The god stops squeaking about cats and turns towards the traveler. His excited grin slowly morphed into a frown and a slight look of confusion.

“A reservation?” The god said. He was kind of hurt, what did the traveler mean by that? “You’re not uhm, going to dinner with someone are you?” So many possibilities of what it meant roared through the immortal’s mind, that when the traveler nodded, it was almost like his heart was being shattered in front of his very own eyes.

“Oh for goodness sake,” you mutter, watching the two. “Right. Let me tell you something, whatever your name is.” Both of them look towards you, but you’re talking more to the traveler than the god. “Listen, this big old doofus has a crush on you. I don’t know how long he’s had a crush on you, but clearly he does. How can you not see it?”

“What,” the traveler steps back, “what do you mean?”

“Non-sense!” The god speaks in a shrill voice. Their hands are shaking, and clouds are beginning to form where he stands. They move to cover his beet-red face, hoping to hide it from the traveler. “The mortal is lying, they can’t possibly know anything like that.”

The traveler faces the god, his eyes widening as the realization dawns on his face. “No… way, this feud… it’s all because you like me?” The words came out colder than the traveler intended, blushing in embarrassment as he realized it. “I’m sorry… it’s just. I don’t know, I never imagined you actually liked me back.”

“S- sorry?” The god picking at their fingers, stammered back.

The traveler laughed, marveling at the god’s awkwardness. “It makes so much sense now. All the witty bantering, you calling me awkward – cute! I was so oblivious. How did it take some random spectator to realize the truth?”

“Hey now,” you yell out, and the traveler quickly apologises.

“Look, you big goof,” he then says to the god, “you, me, dinner at 8.”

A flash of confusion spread across the gods face, “but what about your date?”

The traveler grabbed the god by their shoulders and pulled them in for a huge kiss, drawing it out before finally saying: “Forget about that. You’re my date now, and it’s going to be a splendid time. Unless…” he grins, “You’re chickening out?”

“N– never,” the god stammered. “Of course not.”

“And I…” You say, watching the two love-birds flirt and plan out their date, “Am out of here.”

Before you manage to sneak away however, the traveler and god call out to you together: “You, we need you.”

“Huh, why?”

“To be our third, of course.”

And before you can attempt a protest, you along with the traveler and god, are now seated at a fine restaurant. The two are gobsmacked in deep conversation, while you on the otherhand, are left to wonder how you got roped into a three-way-date.

Man, were gods and time travelers weird.

Notes:

First written in 2022 for a series of 15-minute freewrites I was doing, I finally came back around to give this short story an ending. It’s a pretty unserious prompt, which I think I’d pulled from Tumblr, probably. But the premise is funny, and how it turned out is great, too. Hope you enjoyed, and if you decided to write a story based on the prompt, make sure to let me know! buh-bye <3

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The Search for Myself.

Hazel — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 00:59:49 GMT

Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash

Note: For about $10/year, you can become a member of the Hot Tot Club and support my writing. Thanks for reading <3

The Search For Myself.

There was once an occasion, where I heard a cry.
It sounded like it came from a child, but when I
Turned around the street corner, there was no one there.
Instead, the voice floated afar, away from there,
Leaving me wandering precariously through:
Empty streets and shallow alleys, lost and confused.
Was it a plea for help, or was it a lure to draw
A good samaritan into the clasp of an unseen trap?
Either way, with no end to the time I had to kill,
I pressed onward as the sun had began to set–
The moon rose beautifully from the horizon,
And the voice I had been searching started to fade.
It went from a call for help to a whisper behind me.
I turned around and saw a kid standing there,
But they didn’t seem hurt, or rather emotional at all.
Rather, they raised their hand, forming a fist,
And staring intently at me they stepped forward.

There was once an occasion, where I heard a cry.
It sounded like it came from a child, but from where
There once stood a kid, I found myself face to face
With someone I swore I’d never let myself see again;
Light brown hair, smoothish skin, innocent eyes.
They stared back at me with wonder, but I couldn’t
Tell what they were thinking, just feet away from me.
Would they be proud of me, or disappointed?
What could I tell my own self to let them know,
How much I hated the way my life ended turning out?
But before words could form from the cusp of my mouth,
The other me raised their hand, forming a fist–
I expected a blow, to be thrusted down into the ground;
To feel blood streaming down my face– a cut in my lip.
Instead I was greeted by a warm embrace and tears.
It was as if they were meeting an old friend for the
First time in several years, an “I missed you” moment.

There was once an occasion, where I held a hug.
And just before the hug ended, I had one thing to say.
It would be to myself, a promise only I could keep.
To myself, I began to spoke, recounting my life.
Each childhood memory, everything that built me,
And together we laughed, we smiled, talked.
We danced through the times we cried, and we
Hoisted each other up over other weird times.
Reminiscence flowing through our words and actions,
I decided it was finally time to wish myself goodbye.
That kid in me was never disappointed in who I am,
Nor did they ever stop loving who I had become.
They were my core, even as they faded into the night,
And left me wondering where I had ended up–
A wandering masqueradist who finally understood
That if there was somthing life could provide,
It was that the kid inside will never hate you.
Perhaps, they’re scared, and perhaps, they need hope,
But to them, you are the rock that keeps them grounded.
And likewise a light to them you are, the same that
They are to you: a beacon of hope and love.

Hazel Allen, 2023.

Huh… I wonder why some of the text is purple. Would I purposefully hide something within my own writing? Nahhhh… I’d never do that. You should however, see where it leads you anyway. Not that I told you to, or anything. Edit: Nevermind the code thing, Substack didn’t save all the colored text….

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This Garden of Mine.

Hazel — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 03:19:45 GMT

Photo by Erda Estremera on Unsplash

Note: For about $10/year, you can become a member of the Hot Tot Club and support my writing. Thanks for reading <3

This Garden of Mine.

I know the sadness will never really go away,
But it also gets a little quieter here and there.

The melancholy is a weed that cannot be plucked,
But we are garden beds that thrive beside it.

An Eden of flaws and beauty, experiences which
Form daisies alongside shrubs and dandelions.

Making for an ecosystem which would fail to
Thrive without all of these things.

This in truth, turns sorrow into a friend, a
Component to finally feeling whole once more.

A new opportunity to bloom.

Hazel Allen, 2026.

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Some Words With A Mummy.

Hazel — Sat, 13 Jun 2026 17:04:38 GMT

Photo by Narciso Arellano on Unsplash

Note: For about $10/year, you can become a member of the Hot Tot Club and support my writing. Thanks for reading <3

This poem is based on a prompt I’m hosting over in The Poe-tato Writing Collective. The premise is to write a piece inspired by Some Words With a Mummy — a satirical short story by Edgar Allan Poe — whose crew works to revive a mummy, only to have things take an interesting turn. Here is my response:

Some Words With A Mummy.

When you’re asleep for
a thousand years.

You don’t expect to be greeted by
blinding bright lights.

Wincing as you stare straight
ahead, while the knick in your neck
forces you to stretch, cracking
as you bend and groan in pain.

And nothing feels worse
than discovering the handful
of eyes watching you closely,
some in awe, the others in horror.

Or the fact they’re dressed
In uncleanly clothes, foreign
and uncivillised, as if they’re
from elsewhere.

“He’s awake,” one of them grins,
though to you, it just sounds like
a garbled noise.

Then another begins to speak,
his voice fluent in your tongue,
clean and perfect, as if he too
was from your home.

“Dr. Pannoner,” He says,
“May I have your name?”

Name? Sure, why not.

But as you attempt to speak,
You find your throat raspy,
consequential of the many years
you’d spent dehydrated in the
veils of a dark, uncleanly room.

“My apologies,” the doctor muses,
before shouting to the others, “C’mon,
go get the poor thing a cuppa!”

“What is this place?” You rasp out,
groaning alongside each syllable.

The doctor smiles lightly, “Your
new life… Khafre.”

New… life?

“Too much pain,” you mutter,
“I’m going back to my slumber.”

Dr. Pannoner frowns, but as
you close your eyes, the magic
of the resurrection dissipates,
and you fall back, no longer alive.

One of Pannoner’s associates
finally arrives with some water,
but the doctor, grim with frustration,
slaps the cup out of the man’s grip,
and simply walks away.

Like all the other subjects,
you had decided eternal sleep
was better than living anew.

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Congratulations, you’ve found the secret part!

The second time you awaken,
you moan, desperate to go back to sleep.

But a sweet, savory aroma wafts
right into your nose, tense and overwhelming
for just a second.

You track the source to a wooden bowl
laying next to you.

Were those… potatoes?

Slowly, as best as you can, despite
every muscle in your body aching.

You reach out and take a slice of the
russet spud into your hand, biting the
soft, yet crispy baked good.

And you weep, for you haven’t
had a tot so good in years.

Two eyes glow then, and you realize
Dr. Pannoner is there, watching.

You gulp, as he opens his mouth:
”Finally, shall we begin?”

A Drag Path

Hazel — Fri, 12 Jun 2026 15:01:01 GMT

Photo by Nicolas Messifet on Unsplash

Note: For about $10/year, you can become a member of the Hot Tot Club and support my writing. Thanks for reading <3

A Drag Path.

He walks, under wooden canopy,
Stumbling, over olden overgrowth,
As light breaks, between green leaves.

His hands mark the ground,
Etching a trail as he continues on.

Until he stops, his eyes greeting you,
The glowering, pointed chin and beard,
Grinning, painted with mischief.

Neither you nor him speak, though
The same thought occurs to each.

What good is a drag path if
No one notices that you’ve gone?

Hazel Allen, 2026.

A musical pairing for this poem in particular…

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