crashing plates

An offcut from the Story Kettle

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Copyright © 2011, Michael M Wayman

It was my turn to cook. There were ten of us in the “commune” and nine of us couldn't cook and I was worse.

That evening I was my usual useless self, the food wasn't bad, it wasn't burnt, it wasn't undercooked, worse, it was boring.

And he said so, he always did, he was right, but I hated it.

And this night, he said so, long and loud and often.

The food was awful and I knew it and I hated him.

I had had enough of the food and I had had enough of him.

I grabbed my plate by the rim and skimmed it just over his head and it smashed on the wall behind him.

I ducked under the table as his plate skimmed low over the table and smashed on the wall behind me.