Friday, October 26, 2007

Chicken Soup

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

You press the dial and listen for the automated click. As the blue flame flickers, you move the saucepan onto the burner. Slicing through the yellow butter, you push and prod at the piece stuck to your knife. The smell of sizzling diary fat is your reward.

Next comes the onions you chopped from larger rings into small white squares line with green. You watch as they pale and become translucent, as your wooden spoon ushers them across the black Teflon.

The door opens. You can hear his voice calling your name.

You reach for the celery—green crescents. Galaxies and galaxies of worth of symmetrical moons.

His lumbering steps echo in the hall. Ragged breaths between the syllables of your name.

Carrots join the rue. Orange planets, but each world is flat.

You stir. Adjust the heat. Then you wait.

When he enters the kitchen, your hand is on the knife. Black handle cool in your grip. You hold the butcher’s blade so the light turns it silver.

“Why?” he asks.

You plunge the blade in, and hold out the empty chicken stock container to catch the red liquid.

1 comment:

Rachel said...

There's another delightfully halloweenie tale!