Wedge

/ Liz H-H

The challenge? Write a story in exactly 6 sentences based on Denise’s one word prompt: AGENCY. Visit, comment, and write & post your own on  SIX SENTENCE STORIES. The Café is open. Come as you are!

Midnight, and everyone has slipped into the sleep of the dead, the moon itself absent from the sky, stars snuffed by the thick November fog that leaves a layer of glittering hoarfrost on stiff, silent grass and branches.         

No one is up and stirring, moving through the darkened house.

No one but me, I think, creeping on silent slippered feet, stopping now and again to listen for any other signs of life.

Implement in hand, I approach the kitchen counter, the object of my hungry desires just ahead, shiveringly readied for another attack.

Just going to straighten the edge a bit, I reason to myself as a furry black body with luminous hazel eyes bumps against my calf.

And so I cut another, smaller wedge for Bosco the dog, from the Thanksgiving apple pie, and realize that the edge is once again crooked and needs more straightening.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2024)

In memory of my dad, who blamed it all on a giant mouse. Shenanigans!

22 thoughts on “Wedge”

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