No writers were harmed in the making of this piece. |
The onions jumped on the cutting board as I slammed the knife down. My husband looked warily up from his paper. “Everything okay?” he asked. “Fine,” I groused. I threw the onions into the pot and gave them a violent stir. “Obviously, the onions don't think so,” he said as he hid behind the newsprint. I sighed, “Sorry. I'm just frustrated at this writing assignment.” A cautious eye peeked over the newspaper. “What's the assignment?” he ventured. “'It's a long story,'” I said. “Well, okay, I get that,” he said as he turned a page. “I do have time.” “No, sorry,” I said, stirring the onions again. “That the prompt. 'It's a long story.' I have to write something using that phrase, and it's just not coming tonight.” “Ah, I see,” he said. “Why not write about your dad? Didn't he always say that?” “Not really,” I answered. “What he said was, “To make a long story tedious and monotonous.'” “That's right,” my husband said as he put down the paper and stood. He handed me the can opener. “Smells good.” “Thanks,” I said, taking the opener from him. “I'm really stuck on this one. Part of it is that I can't get past the irony of the situation.” “Irony?” He asked from the depths of the refrigerator. “Are we out of diet?” “There's more out in the pantry,” I said as I struggled to cut the lid off the can. “I have to use three hundred words or less. OUCH!” “'It's a long story' but short,” he mused as he wrapped my now-bloodied hand in a towel. “What did you do? Hit an artery?” “Probably,” I sighed. “You think they'll let me write as I get stitches?” Word Count: 300 |