Posts Tagged flash fiction

Making a sandwich

Chuck Wendig’s got a flash fiction challenge over at his blog, Terribleminds. The challenge was that you’ve got 1000 words to describe someone making a sandwich. My piece is a bit shorter at 635 words, but it says what needs to be said. Enjoy.

Making a sandwich.

“Hey, baby,” she crooned into his ear. “Wanna have a sandwich?”

He mumbled something unintelligible, which she took as a yes. She hopped off the bed and walked to the kitchen, hips swaying to music only she could hear. The GE fridge wept rust stains down its sides and moaned like an old woman when she hauled its door open.

She stood illuminated in a pool of butter colored light. Auburn curls tumbled down her back down to the spot that he had kissed such a long time ago. He could see her profile, the pert little nose and plump lips, hiding teeth that could inflict such pleasure and pain.

She stuck her head in the fridge’s cavernous depths. “Mmm, let’s see. You don’t mind day old cold meat, do ya?” Her voice was muted but he still heard her and pretended not to.

She exited the fridge, carrying a white plate. “It’s bone china, all the way from the real China,” she chatted as she moved around the kitchen, collecting bottles and tins and bread from the bin. “Now let’s see,” she stood with one hand on a hip cocked to the side and the other hand’s fingers tapped her lips.

“Where did I put that knife?” Annoyance tinged her voice as she looked around the table.  “Oh, never mind, it’s more fun this way,” she giggled and broke a Panini in half. She scooped a handful of mayonnaise from a jar and spread it out; her fingers massaged and pushed the white, creamy substance into the bread.

“Tomatoes … you do like tomatoes, don’t you honey bear? Especially Italian ones … luscious … aren’t they?” She took a big, ruby red tomato and tightened her fingers around it, squeezing until juice and seeds ran down her wrist to her elbow. “Oops,” she giggled again. “Did you know that humans can’t lick their own elbows? Unless, maybe, you’re that guy from that band … you know the one.”

Fingers tapped lips again as she contemplated the sandwich; leaving blotches of white and red around her mouth. “What else, hey baby? Some lettuce?” She grabbed a head of green and tore into the leaves with her nails, ripped pieces off and flung it onto the bread. “Mama said to always wash lettuce ‘cause it can hide worms. Yeah … never know what hides beneath the surface …” She sighed and looked out of the kitchen window at the cracked, concrete yard beyond. “I sure do miss my Mama.”

She was distracted for a while but then noticed the sandwich again and gave it a bright, cheery smile. “Almost done!” She grabbed the bone china plate and carefully lifted the clingwrap away from the meat. A big, green blow fly crawled out of the plate, shook its wings and buzzed off. “Ugh,” she cried and swatted at it. “A bloody fly!” She ran around the kitchen, curls bouncing and arms waving, trying to chase the fly away.

She gave up after a few minutes and stood panting next to the kitchen table. “Sure can’t give you a sandwich with spoiled meat on it! No worries, there’s lots more where that came from … just have to find that bloody knife!”

She rummaged through drawers and went down on her hands and knees to look under the table. “Grrr,” she growled like an irritated dog and shook her head. “Oh! I got an idea!” She opened one of the drawers and took out a vegetable peeler. “Mama got this one from the shopping channel on TV, they said it’s made from stainless steel … it can peel right through the toughest skin!”

She put the sandwich onto a plate and balanced it on one hand, vegetable peeler in the other hand, and walked over to the bed.


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Time (a poem)

(I wrote this as my submission to the Muses at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.)

By moon’s silver glow

we hold fast to those

golden threads we spin and cast

out to drag the past behind us.

Time moves on yet here we are

looking back at what follows behind,

caught in the siren song

of what could have been.

“Let go,” Time whispers and folds her hand

over ours as she smiles and we ache

with weariness yet stubbornly cling

to what we know.

“Let go,” she demands and we’re scared

of the insistant command but we listen

and the golden threads slip away into the dark

ocean of forgetfulness.

“Come,” she says and holds her arms

out to us and the moon dances its joy

on the black waves of the past when

we move forward under the cover of Time.

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