Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Flash Fiction: Chop, Chop, Chop

At one point in time, I was experimenting with flash fiction. It's really hard and I don't exactly "get it" per se, but I do have a couple of complete examples. Here's one now.



Chop, Chop, Chop -- By Stephanie Thompson; 400 words 

Chop, chop, chop. Her knife slid in and out of the onion smoothly. She lifted the decimated onion up, checked for uniform shape, and dropped it in the pot, already boiling. She started on another onion.

Soups were her favorite. Giant pots full of warm tomatoes, hearty beans, spicy sausages, bright herbs and greens. Thick, chunky, together but separate. The hot steam pouring off the broth full of flavorful scents. It made her smile, inside and out. Stews, chowders, chilis, all of it.

Another handful of onion went into the stewpot. She felt like an over pureed butternut squash soup. All texture, all flavor, all color drained by water and beaten by rotating blades. It would be kinder to call it a juice than a soup.  That was her life, drained and strained.

“Frankie, is the soup on yet?”
“Of course, Sal. Two pots simmering, one still coming together.”
“What is it tonight?”
“Turkey, black bean, and greens.  I’m calling it Turkey in the Grass.”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek. His damp face left a humid mark on hers. “You’re a dear,” he said.

Her face moved to a cursory smile. His hand was a heavy dead weight on her back. Chop, chop, chop. In went the mustard greens. “I’m leaving tonight,” she said. “After service.”

“Of course,” he said, kissing her again. “But I don’t want you to leave.”
“I have to leave tonight.”
“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” he exploded. She said nothing “Fucking leave! I don’t care. I don’t give a shit!” He pushed her final pot over, off the stove.

The steel pot clanged on the floor and hot soup splashed up her leg. Her knife slipped and sliced her thumb.  Blood splattered on the cutting board. Her leg burned intensely. An intensity echoed in his eyes, staring her down.

“You...you can...you.” Words failed her. She pointed her knife, streaked with her blood. “Fuck you!” she shouted. The flood gates opened. She threw her knife.
“Fuck you!” She threw chopped mustard greens.
“Fuck you! Fuck your restaurant! Fuck the last six years! Fuck it all!” She threw the chopping board, salt bowl, tasting spoons, knives, and a bottle of oil.

Everything fell at his feet. She felt as though her own soup was thickening at last.
Her voice shook, “I am leaving.”


She left.



Thanks for Reading! :D <3