Today feels like a writing day, so let’s try an exercise together. Write a scene, up to 150 words (no more!), about making a sandwich, but do so in a way that makes the genre clear. I’ll go first. Guess the genre:
Almond butter.
She hugged herself. Oh, he loved almond butter. But not just any almond butter. He loved the organic kind, the kind that had one ingredient: almonds. It wouldn’t take her long to pop over the store and buy a jar of organic. She’d make the sandwich just the way he liked it: his favorite bread, two knife-swipes of almond butter, and one generous dollop of strawberry jam. She’d take it to him, and his eyes would light up. He’d smile at her and turn off the TV…
Oh yes. Almond butter.
He wouldn’t even notice the arsenic.
YOUR turn!
Publishing in the Rear View Mirror
“I’m fine,” Susan insisted as she swiped peanut butter across a slice of bread.
“You sure?” Julie looked skeptical.
“Yes.” Susan wheeled around and stabbed the knife in the air. “I’ll tell you what, though, missy. I was buttering my bread long before he ever came on the scene, and I’ll keep on buttering it after he’s gone.”
Julie ducked. “Hey, watch it with that knife, will ya? I’m only saying that maybe you should hear his side of the story before you jump to conclusions.”
“Oh, it’s perfectly clear what’s going on.” Susan yanked open the refrigerator door and reached for the jelly. As she grabbed the jar, the lid came loose and clattered to the floor. He’d left it askew, as usual.
She collapsed into tears. The thought of his peanut butter sharing bread space with someone else’s jelly was more than she could bear.
“Forget it Fred. You’re not going to get that machine to zap anything with that hundred year old recipe.”
Zap!
“My beams been corrected, it’s toast.”
“Oh man it was suppose to be roast.”
Zap!
“Posted.”
Definitely Sci-fi!
Erin floated around the kitchen as if strings were attached to her arms and feet with someone else gracefully controlling her movements. With the package of rye bread in her arms, she gently hugged it and whirled around once before setting it onto the counter.
Swinging open the refrigerator door, Erin thought of how turkey and Swiss sounded great together – like they belonged to each other. They appeared that way too as she lay the Swiss across the layers of folded white meat. The cheese, so unselfish that it allowed its partner to shine through its unevenly spaced holes.
Spicy brown mustard was the perfect finish to her sandwich in the shape of a heart. The sight of it made her own flutter again. And the taste – had turkey and Swiss always tasted this good?
This has to be romance. What a lovely, romantic interpretation of sandwich-making.
Thanks Theresa!
She meticulously laid out the ingredients for her midnight snack: whole grain bread, Romaine lettuce, fresh tomato, Swiss cheese, leftover Thanksgiving turkey…He watched as she began to assemble the ingredients one by one. Like everything in her life, each ingredient had a specific place in the sandwich, an order that could not be messed with. He respected that about her, understood her need for order. After all, order allowed him to operate. Planning allowed for him to control chaos.
Her knife sliced into the tomato and carved off three perfect circles. A smile spread across his face at the sight of the flashing blade. Soon all of his planning would be worth it.
Sandwich finished, she cut it diagonally in half and bit in without leaving the counter. He shifted in the air duct and waited. Soon.
Hmmm. I can’t tell if this is mystery, romance, or thriller. Or is it a mystery-romance-thriller? Reminds me of Sleeping With the Enemy.
Melanie ran her fingers along the loaf of rye. Did she have enough ham to make a sandwich? David would be awake soon. She had more questions in her arsenal and food always made her kids talk. How could he not have seen anything? He was the only witness to the murder. She didn’t raise her kids to be liars.
“How long did I sleep?” David padded into the kitchen, rubbing his whiskery chin. It didn’t matter that he was all grown up and serving as one of New York’s finest. There was still a little boy in there, waiting to come clean.
“I’m making you a sandwich … thought you’d like to talk.”
“It’s not like we’re discussing my date for the prom, Mother. This is confidential information.”
“Which is why I picked up your favorite jar of pickles. Now have a seat and spill it.”
Mystery!
Sandwich? What a joke. Sandwich! She wasn’t going to make no stinkin sandwich. The thought alone depressed her. Made her want to lay down and die. Drain the last 1/3 gallon of gas from their car and drink it like syrup from her mother’s chipped tea cup. Her last precious commodity. Sandwich!
She looked around them. Not so much a blade of grass let alone a Walmart.
“Mommy, I’m hungry. Can I have a sandwich?” Her daughter asked again.
She was five. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t get it.
“Sure.” Reaching into her jacket pocket she pulled out a cracker packet and mint. Her last attempt at thievery from Denny’s…or what use to be Denny’s before the drones hit again.
“Here you go. It’s called “Mint delight”.” Her daughter laughed.
“Now some syrup-soda coming up. Be back in a sec.”
Opening the car door, she grabbed the tea cup. Her second to last precious commodity….
Today’s lunch menu surprised no one in the Block 12 Mess hall. Overcooked rice with stewed tomatoes, overripe grapes and canned milk barely cool. Typical for all the kitchens in the internment camp. Only slightly better than canned beef and stale crackers.
Hana longed for just one bite of Mama’s home baked bread and special blackberry jam. Practicing all the recipes her Caucasian neighbors gave her, she honed her baking skills soon after arriving in America. Mama beamed with pride each time she pulled a steaming loaf from the oven.
Of all the smells in the world, Mama’s bread had to be superlative. At this moment, feasting on a sandwich made from that loaf would be like savoring a taste of home—their real home.
This is cracking me up! I was dreaming this morning, and shocker for me I remember all of it. And it happens to coincide with this. Too funny, Karen.
Five loaves of bread cooling on the kitchen counter. Five. Three metal lunchboxes were open on the table and Maria stood there making sandwiches with a sixth loaf, her hair covered with a kerchief and her skirt barely hitting her knees.
Pavel closed his eyes and inhaled the most precious scent in the world. Bread. Amazing how much you appreciated something after practically starving to death while listening to a soundtrack of German bombs.
His sister caught his gaze and smiled. “If you want a whole loaf all to yourself, go right ahead. There’s plenty.”
He limped into the kitchen. Hugged his sister. Took the two slices of bread she offered and made a butter sandwich. Something he’d dreamed about for almost two years.
“John?” Debra saw light at the end of the hall. Creeping forward, she carefully avoided the squeaky spot below Grandpa Jack’s portrait. Sixteen eternities later she reached the kitchen doorway, palms sweating, heart pounding. What she saw inside nearly sent her over the edge. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Sarcasm added bite to John’s words. “I’m making a ham sandwich.”
Debra took two steps toward the granite-topped island. “Would you stop thinking about your stomach for once. We need to get out of here. Now.”
A mosquito buzzed her ear, the whine bringing her hand up to swat it away. Glass behind her shattered. What kind of insect—
“Get down!” John dropped the mayonnaise jar and dove toward her.
They fell in slow motion as shards cascaded around them. Reality dawned. It was too late. They were going to die.
The cranky, bearded, gentleman banged his staff against the wooden table and stared at the granular pile.
“Ow!” a voice emanated from the wooden face atop the pole. “Too rough!”
“Awaken. We have a task before us,” he replied. Flinging his tattered cape back, he fingered the grit. “How do we make it stick?” he mumbled. The owl perched on a roof-rafter turned his head back and forth.
“The fire element? It should suffice.” He held forth his rod.
“Fire of sun, the task begun,” he chanted. “Heat of crag, shape this hag. Sands of earth, command new birth.” Repeated over and over, a flame from his staff formed the crude shape of an short, knobby female. Then flames greedily sucked up the sand. With a thunder’s crack, the fire-magic imploded and the thing formed.
Smoke cleared as the sand-witch turned her head with a grit-grinding sound and cackled.
Ella’s hands shook as she tried to hold the knife steady. The butter wasn’t soft enough and tore the fresh bread.
Why did I offer to make the sandwiches? I won’t be able to eat a bite.
She put the sandwiches in separate bags hoping that she’d remember which one to give him. The one that wasn’t broken.
Broken. I’m not ready for this.
But she knew that the moment Kyle asked her to go for a hike with him, she had to go. His eyes, dark and warm, were inviting her too. Maxine was right. This guy was charming. She just hoped he wasn’t so charming that she’d forget the promise she had made to herself.
Ella startled when she heard the knock at her door. She quickly washed her hands and then deliberately walked as slowly as she could to open it.
(Thanks, Karen, for this fun invite. I love yours since I adore suspense. Blessings ~ Wendy ❀ )
Romance 🙂
(And by the way, I don’t think she’s going to be able to keep her promise to herself. I just have a feeling…)
Theresa, I think you’re right. But I’m sure she’ll drive him and herself crazy for awhile first. I loved your post. It drew me into your world right away. ❀
He looked up, the crumbling bread held aloft in his hands. “Father, I thank you for these gifts.” Silently he lowered his hands and laid the bread on the rock next to the small fishes. He looked at the disciples. “Let the people file by one by one.”
“But Lord…”
“There will be enough.”
And there was. The people were amazed. Some had brought some small snacks and shared with their neighbors. But over and over, his hands laid out a slice of bread with a piece of fish. And at last all had eaten their fill.
Inspirational.
How many times have I heard this story. And yet, when I read your scene, it was like I read it for the first time. Simply beautiful.
He was the last one to eat. One of his friends held out the basket. Around him wafted the harsh aroma of fish. For some it was too strong but in his native village, it had meant life. And here it would too. If they would only listen.
“Master, you must eat. The journey before us is a long one.”
The rough, traveled man looked into the eyes of his basket weilding friend. A sea of troubles they held, but also concern – for him. And true, the journey ahead would be long. And harder than his friends knew. It would require a different kind of bread.
“The crowds are fed. I will take something, Peter.” With his calloused hands the carpenter of Galilee broke open the loaf and placed three small fish within. He closed it and took a bite, again thanking his father above. It tasted divine.
Thanks Karen, this has been a lot of fun.
Angie slid two generous slices of the still warm bread carefully onto the plate. Saliva pooled beneath her tongue, evidence of the unwilling fast. Her eyes flickered quickly toward the woman standing before her, and then back down again, before the desperation in them prompted unneeded pity.
Through clenched teeth and expelled breath, she steeled herself for what lay ahead. Mayo, lettuce, and two thick slices of the most beautiful tomatoes she had ever seen. The kind that mama used to grow in the spaces between the bushes out back. The memory elicits a smile, then the truth of her situation.
A sigh.
With hand shaking, she placed two perfectly cooked pieces of bacon carefully on top, like it was a crown upon the throne of glory, the scent intoxicating. And for a moment, she considered the chances of escape were she to snatch it up and run.
“Do you think she will mind?” Her bright blue eyes peered up at him.
“Sneaking a sandwich? And tea? Never.” But a kiss Grandmother would not be happy about.
She reached for the rose covered teapot smiling at him, sending his heart spinning again. He drew closer to help her with the sandwich, her full skirts keeping him his distance but his heart was not in sandwich making.
“There are peach preserves in the cellar.”
She saved the day or at least the moment. But she was blushing and he smiled as he stepped down into the cellar.
She walked into the kitchen. Reese stood at the counter and made ham and cheese sandwiches. As he placed them in the cooler, Sally said “Have room for a couple of apples?”
“Sure. Toss them in” he said as he place some bottled water in the cooler.
They’d be gone soon. She was glad she had hired this mountain of a man. Sally hoped this unknown safe place he had been describing really was..
“Rhubarb, Gentry says I ain’t got time for chuck tonight. Need a couple e’ sandwiches.” The young cowhand leaned across a bawling calf slung before his saddle.
“Yeah? I need a Kansas City bath house, but I ain’t likely to get it out here, am I?” Even with his retort, the cook pulled a loaf of bread out of the cookie wagon. “Is that tonight’s dinner necklacin’ yer horse?”
“Likely his momma will be. Broke leg bout two miles back. Gentry had ta shoot her.”
“Blamed prairie dogs. They’ll bankrupt us yet.” Rhubarb cut thick slabs of salted meat and cheese. He left the bread dry. Then he pulled off his bandanna and wrapped them.
“I’ll be wanting that back. And I don’t mean no two weeks.”
The cowboy took the knot daintily, eying the grime and sweat. “That’s sure and certain.” He tucked them into his saddle bag.
Very clever, Karen. At first, I was sure you’re scene was romance, but after reading that fantastic last line, I would say thriller.
Here’s my scene. Guess the genre:
Keisha peels off the dishtowel and reveals a steamy, crusted loaf. When was the last time Claire saw anything like it?
“Is that fresh?”
Keisha nods. “What’s with the bandaging?”
“Dug out my chip. I’m off the grid now, like you.” Claire grabs her wrapped wrist. “Are those real eggs, too?”
Keisha shakes her head as she slices the loaf. “You think I’m going to serve you one of those chemically generated plastic sandwiches they sell at the output station? No way. Not in your condition.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” snaps Claire.
Keisha turns back to the counter and mixes chopped hardboiled eggs with mayonnaise from an unlabeled jar.
Claire caresses her distended belly. She might be the only woman in this sector to disregard Allcon’s genetic modification recommendations, but her baby will be normal. She’s the sane one. Everyone else is crazy. Surely, Keisha understands that.
Oh. My. Gosh! These are wonderful! Now let’s see if I get the genre right.
Jenny, contemporary women’s fiction, yes? And I love that last line!
Dan, spec fiction?
Sarah, could be contemporary women’s fiction, or maybe romance–between the woman and her sandwich! (I’m SO down with that!)
Gideon, thriller? And thank you very much, I’ll never look at an air duct the same again.
Joanne, suspense? Love the interaction between the mom and son!
Andrea, contemporary women’s fiction? That chipped cup is the perfect metaphor for her chipped life. Good job.
Jan, historical? Loved the first paragraph description of the food. Gives a clear picture of the state of the interment camp and its inhabitants.
Rachel, TOO funny about the dream! I’m guessing your genre is historical, yes? The sister’s tenderness toward her brother is so sweet!
Diane, adventure/disaster? Loved the way you showed the tension so well.
Brad, fantasy. And sand-witch? You cracked me up! Way to see the assignment from a new angle.
Wendy, romance? Great job of showing her anxiety battling with her anticipation.
Shauna, biblical. And very cool!
Brad, a second offering! Fun! Biblical fiction. Love the dual meaning in “It tasted divine.”
Lisa, there’s a sense of “a bad moon on the rise,” so I’m guessing suspense? And I loved the description of the tomatoes.
Sandy, oooo, tough one. Historical romance, definitely. But I’m thinking subgenre is maybe Elizabethan?
Nora, at first I thought romance, but now I’m thinking suspense. What say you?
Brad, you’re having WAY too much fun! Western! Yee-HAW!
Yes, that was historical. Currently I’m writing science fiction romance, but I had just dreamed a similar scene so it was fresh in my brain.
I used to write historical. These characters walked into a dream this morning. First new historical characters in almost three years.
I was leaning toward that moment when the realization hits that you’re falling in love (with a person). In that moment, Erin just happened to be making a sandwich. Funny how everything is more beautiful (or tasty) when you’re in love. 🙂
Yes, Karen, it’s romance. Thanks for the encouragement. I’ve been working hard on show and NOT tell in my writing. ❀
Theresa nailed it. I was shooting for a cozy mystery. Great exercise, Karen! Thanks for the challenge.
Theresa, thanks so much. And I’m guessing yours is speculative fiction. 🙂
Yep 🙂
Karen/gang, here’s a oldie but goodie.
“What’ll you have sugar?” Her loud lipstick smiled at me. She could’a been ‘Miss Hash House’ of ‘34.
“Couple eggs on toast,” I replied. “Make it a sandwich. To go.”
The waitress turned, shouting, “Adam and Eve between covers. Traveling. Burn ‘em.”
Later she pushes a pot at me. “Another jolt?” I’d been running on hope and coffee for 17 hours.
“Share your name, babe?”
“Sadie,” she confessed, then shot me a glance. I admit she clung to her hourglass, but sands shift.
“Sadie, I bet you know about men,” I said.
“I’ve known a few.”
“Why would a man skip his daughter’s wedding?” She handed me a greasy sandwich bag.
“Men? It’s always money or women.” She sashayed down the counter.
I thought back. How often my past cases had proved to be money or women troubles. Sadie was right. They oughta button my badge on her!
Great Karen…I guess the teapot got you. Actually in my head was the Grandmother had come from England. Not out of my book but the same feel. Can’t get my characters completely out of my head (<; Great fun and I love the learning. Arsenic got us all I am sure.
“No, not that way. Has no one ever taught you to make a sandwich before?” Thomas snapped. He couldn’t wait until his community service was over. Who’d ever heard of cooking class as a way of teaching English to immigrants?
“A witch made out of sand?” The dark-haired girl with chocolate brown skin and eyes looked over at her mother who shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
Thomas rolled his eyes. This was going to be a very long night and his friends were waiting for him at the pool hall down the street—his friends that he wasn’t supposed to see until he’d repaid his debt to society.
Yes Karen…contempory women’s fiction with a dash of Dystopian lit.
Thanks for that fun prompt it made my day!
Great—I was thinking of going to bed. Now all I can think of is a sandwich. Not to write about–to EAT! There were no fried eggs on white bread with a tiny slash of mayo—–Rand is asleep– it’s almost midnight—-arrrrrrgh! !@#$%^! you Karen Ball! 🙂
He stared at the ingredients on the table. The rumbling noises from his stomach were loud enough to wake the children.
“Bread, you got bread and almond butter?” He asked with a look of absolute frustration.
“Yeah what’s wrong with that? It’s the cheapest thing at the market and we only have so much to spend.” She turned and stared out the window trying to contain the smile of satisfaction she felt deep inside.
“You know I can’t eat bread” he yelled! “I’m doing low carb and that almond butter just rips me up inside. And don’t get me started on gluten. If I eat any of this I’m going to be in the crapper all night.”
Maria turned and walked confidently into the living room where her sleeping children began to stir.
“Get up kids” she said in a soft voice, “today we have plenty to eat.”
“Your name’s Emma, right?”
“Yep. I said no pickles.” Emma pressed closer to the glass case and watched the boy remove the final pickle from the top of the Swiss cheese. She grimaced at the remaining smear of green over white. “Olives, and green peppers. No tomatoes.”
“We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either.” The boy’s gloved hand stopped an inch deep in the olive tub. He peered back at her with a lopsided grin.
Emma felt her eyebrows scrunch. “What?”
“The Fault in Our Stars. I saw you reading it today before class started.”
“Oh.” Emma’s eyes narrowed, and then widened. It was him. The boy from the movie. She felt her face turn two shades of red.
A good breakfast? A cup of caffeine-loaded beverage, a fruit and my favorite sandwich. Oh, but the crunchy peanut butter is no more. A good breakfast seemingly unlikely, I scan the kitchen for a peanut butter substitute. Chocolate paste? Chocolate paste! Waffles toasted, I take a generous scope, dump in the center of the first waffle, and slap the second waffle on top of the chocolate mound. He made all edible things for a reason, some taste good and others awful but they all serve a purpose. Chocolate paste He made to make my day. All His wonders I’m yet to know but in small things like chocolate paste sandwich, I thank Him.
What’s up, I check your blogs on a regular basis. Your story-telling style is awesome, keep up the good work!
Spot on with this write-up, I seriously feel this amazing site needs a great deal more attention. I’ll probably
be back again to read through more, thanks for the advice!