Creativity sometimes is expressed best within bounds. Come then, all ye who call yourselves writers, and complete the metaphor begin within the following phrase, then place it within a relevant paragraph or passage
Complete the paragraph:
…and when Hazel realized what was really in the soup, it made her feel like a tree in a…
what was in the soup? and what kind of tree are we talking about? this is a real soup to nuts dilemma.
Comme ca, Randy:
Hazel had always trusted her sister to keep her safe. No matter how attached she became to her boyfriends and husbands, it was her sister that she really relied upon when things fell apart. So, it was a profound shock when she discovered that her sister had been slowly poisoning her for weeks.
It was on Thursday morning that Hazel finally read her sister’s recipe for cream of leek soup, and when Hazel realized what was really in the soup, it made her feel like a tree in a green pasture on top of a toxic landfill. There, on the 3 x 5 card in her sister’s recipe box, between 1 cup of minced leeks and 2/3 cup condensed milk, her sister had written, “2 tablespoons of Ortho rat poison, added surreptitiously”.
Voila! That’s why the entry is under “fiction experiments”.
Being a mother is never easy, Hazel thought to yourself. You give and you give, almost as a matter of habit, and you learn not to think of yourself. You eat the worn half of a salami and cheese sandwich, because God knows when you’re going to get the chance to eat again, following your son to soccer practice. You wipe the snot from your daughter’s nose on your sleeve, and make an artful fold to hide the mess. If necessary, you could go through the whole day with boogers rolled up against your arm. You could learn to say the word “boogers” without a hint of irony or shame. There are so many things you can deal with as a parent that would have made the younger you cringe.
But everyone has their breaking point. Carlos had told Hazel that he felt it was time for him to learn how to cook, and that he wanted to make dinner that night. Hazel was dumbstruck; Carlos had never indicated an interest in taking responsibility for himself before, much less tending to the needs of other people. For Christ’s sake, she thought, he still hadn’t cleaned up the garage from his last experiment with gasoline and matches in a coffee can. But people can surprise you, she chided herself; kids grow up. Maybe this was Carlos’ time to bloom.
So she gave her blessing to Carlos and even shut the door behind her as she exited the kitchen and went to the family room to sit with her legs up and read the latest issue of Horse and Hound, not really caring about horses or hounds, but reveling in the freedom of leisure at 5:30 in the afternoon.
Then came supper, and the first item on Carlos’ menu. He said it was French Onion soup, and she believed him. She took her soup spoon in hand with confidence, with radiance, with the kind of embarassingly honest love for her son that felt like it might actually burst out of her chest.
Years later, when she recalled that moment of blazing love, followed by the moment when Hazel realized what was really in the soup, it made her feel like a tree in a Wal-Mart parking lot: roots spreading out wide in search of a drink of pure water, leaves splayed under the sun in expectation of a passing wind of fresh air, suffering another suffocating wave of exhaust fumes, breaking hard against a wall of tough, tarry pavement.
She hadn’t looked at the calendar. “Like the cayenne, mom? You sure are one HOT mama.” Carlos giggled uncontrollably, snorting beneath his breath for some time before he managed to gasp out the words “April Fools, mom.”