Prompt: Write a dialogue between toast and french toast.
Fiction
**Warning**: This piece may trigger feelings in anyone who has strong opinions about either of these breakfast breads.
"How dare you."
"Excuse me?"
"How dare you!" The anger was evident the first time he spoke, but it was hostile the second time.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," the crispy piece of French toast said mildly. He was hoping to bring things down a notch.
"Yes you do!" the piece of toast said accusingly. "You know exactly what you did! It's all over you!" the toast sneered, gesturing toward the French toast. I would call the two of them cousins but the toast would turn his ire on me and I don't need that right now, the crusty old curmudgeon. I'm trying to narrate a story.
The French toast looked down at himself and back up at Toast.
"What? These toast marks? I got them same as you!" he said matter-of-factly.
"No! No!" Toast combated. "I was toasted. You... you were dipped... and fried! You just, just laid there and let them flip you. You're a disgrace!"
French could see this was escalating and wanted to fix that quickly, before Toast drew more attention to the situation. Jam and Butter were already looking over at them quizzically.
"Why don't we go get a drink and talk about it. I know this seems kinda weird at first," French offered with a forced chuckle.
"Uh uh! No way!" Toast said, leaning a little away, a few crumbs falling off his sides. "I know how this works! Make me your friend, cozy up to me, convince me to 'see your side of things.' No chance bud! Not interested! I don't need that soggy mess rubbing off on me!" Toast was resolute. French noticed his toast marks were a shade darker than before.
"Okay. I'm just gonna head out. Sorry if I offended you Toast. I hope you have a good day." And he meant it. "I'll see you around." He turned to leave.
"You'd better not!" Toast hollered at him. French shook his head and winced for a moment as he walked away.
"What was that all about?" asked OJ when he made it to her pitcher.
"Ohhh, just Toast," French sighed. "I guess he's never seen one of us like this before," he said, gesturing to himself.
OJ gave him a once over. "Looks good on you," she said with a tone meant to close the subject. French ignored it.
"I even apologised to him," French moaned, grimacing at his timidity.
"When did you get so soft?" asked OJ.
"About eight seconds after they dipped me in the egg bath," he replied.
"Ya," OJ nodded.
"Ya," French sighed.
Thursday, 30 May 2019
Sunday, 19 May 2019
Dying Words
Prompt: "Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow." Steve Jobs.
Non-fiction
**WARNING**: This piece talks about death
My grandmother died alone and abruptly. She'd slept in a double bed her whole marriage, which was a long time because she was only 16 (and pregnant) on her wedding day, and her husband died 66 years later. She kept her phone on the nightstand by her bed, the kind with large buttons with even larger numbers printed on them. All the better to see should she need to call 911 in the middle of the night.
She lived alone the last 8 years of her life. Anytime I called her and asked how she was doing the reply was always the same. "Oh... Not good. I'm very lonely without your grandad."
My sister-in-law was her weekly housekeeper and she was the one who found her in the morning, face down in the carpet, her bathrobe on, the pills and things on the nightstand knocked over. The TV was on and her crossword was set up on the bed waiting for her as usual. Undone.
My sister-in-law tried to wake her, called out to her, called 911 and tried to roll over the stiff cold body when they asked her to check for a pulse.
She doesn't like to talk about that day.
At the funeral I tried to imagine what crossing over would have been like for my grandmother. The doctors think maybe she'd had a heart attack, something we had been anticipating, that she had been in her bathroom washing up for the evening, applying her night cream, always so diligent about her skin, when she'd felt the pains and came out into the room, maybe reached for her phone with the comically large buttons and instead toppled, dropping like a stone to the carpet. The morgue had to apply extra corrective make-up to cover the rug burn on her cheek.
What happened after she collided? Did she get up, her spirit leaving her body behind, and stand a little stupefied, "Oh my"? I imagined her retracing her steps and looking in the bathroom mirror only to see a much younger and smoother version of herself reflected back. "Oh my!" And then her name, "Thelma." And she'd look to her right and see the man who had gently, sweetly, achingly called out to her. "Oh my! Oh Russell! Oh! Oh!" And she'd fly to him and cling to him and kiss his face and he would hold her the way he always did, one hand on her chin and one on her arm. And they'd cry together, glad and reunited and young again as everything tangible around them evaporated and my grandfather took his "best girl" home to their next life.
Non-fiction
**WARNING**: This piece talks about death
My grandmother died alone and abruptly. She'd slept in a double bed her whole marriage, which was a long time because she was only 16 (and pregnant) on her wedding day, and her husband died 66 years later. She kept her phone on the nightstand by her bed, the kind with large buttons with even larger numbers printed on them. All the better to see should she need to call 911 in the middle of the night.
She lived alone the last 8 years of her life. Anytime I called her and asked how she was doing the reply was always the same. "Oh... Not good. I'm very lonely without your grandad."
My sister-in-law was her weekly housekeeper and she was the one who found her in the morning, face down in the carpet, her bathrobe on, the pills and things on the nightstand knocked over. The TV was on and her crossword was set up on the bed waiting for her as usual. Undone.
My sister-in-law tried to wake her, called out to her, called 911 and tried to roll over the stiff cold body when they asked her to check for a pulse.
She doesn't like to talk about that day.
At the funeral I tried to imagine what crossing over would have been like for my grandmother. The doctors think maybe she'd had a heart attack, something we had been anticipating, that she had been in her bathroom washing up for the evening, applying her night cream, always so diligent about her skin, when she'd felt the pains and came out into the room, maybe reached for her phone with the comically large buttons and instead toppled, dropping like a stone to the carpet. The morgue had to apply extra corrective make-up to cover the rug burn on her cheek.
What happened after she collided? Did she get up, her spirit leaving her body behind, and stand a little stupefied, "Oh my"? I imagined her retracing her steps and looking in the bathroom mirror only to see a much younger and smoother version of herself reflected back. "Oh my!" And then her name, "Thelma." And she'd look to her right and see the man who had gently, sweetly, achingly called out to her. "Oh my! Oh Russell! Oh! Oh!" And she'd fly to him and cling to him and kiss his face and he would hold her the way he always did, one hand on her chin and one on her arm. And they'd cry together, glad and reunited and young again as everything tangible around them evaporated and my grandfather took his "best girl" home to their next life.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)