Mushy Peas
It was an exercise in mind control. I was looking, presumably into space, beyond the boy, beyond the plate in front of him, out the window and into the very soul of the winter night outside.
And it was well into night. The peas sat, getting mushier, I could hear their little pea voices, crying out, muffled, drowning in the liquid as it made it's way through every cell of their being before it would eventually evaporate, leaving nothing but a hard little husk behind for me to chip off the table surface with a thumbnail and dish rag. Some of these touched off slumping squash, as if huddling together, lovers taking solace not in their ideal mate, but someone in a similar predicament; waiting.
Out there, in the winter night, I trained my mind on these poor vegetables, visualizing them leaping into the boy's mouth, catching him unawares. At this stage I wasn't concerned with the required number of bites before swallowing, I just wanted the food to disappear, preferably not to reappear when the boy was finally packed off to bed and I was crawling around under the table, finding scraps enough to feed our little family for a week.
Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw his little arm quiver, as if resisting the pull of my remote control. This, unfortunately, threw my concentration, I glanced over, and the quiver was gone. The boy attached to the arm in question leaned his head down onto the arm at which I was looking and smiled up at me. It was... well, not an evil smile, but it was... mischievous, anyway. He knew.
And I was going to have to use a lot more than Jedi mind tricks to get him to finish his dinner.
The clock in the kitchen beeped its midnight sentinel beep, warning all the kitchen devices that it was officially the witching hour, when the dishwasher could spill its soapy discharge all over the floor, leaving behind a mysterious film for the first one up in the morning, the refrigerator to kick to life, the coffee maker to blink it's heating light three times, and three times only. Only they weren't alone, performing these acts for a silent house. We were still seated, locked in bitter, mute battle of the minds, peas gone past quiet now an hour and into a hardening paste.
The only sound was the occasional burst of a giggle from the boy, usually followed by muffled laughter from behind his hands.
disclaimer:
And we're back. Publishing more or less on your expected regularly scheduled schedule.
You are so very, very welcome. See you next week.
SPONSOR MESSAGES:
Support Sane:
Tshirts & clothing: The Sane Magazine Shop at Cafe Press
A Book: Fenway Fiction
A Second Book: Further Fenway Fiction
For you writerly types: Download Writer.app (now at version 1.3.1! Joy! Double spacing!)
Or, visit our store at Amazon... check out some of the books that inspire or otherwise provoke the Sane Magazine writers.
Discuss this in the forums
Discuss the horoscopes in the forums
Forum hosting provided by forumthing.