Death Sentence
The carrot did not come out of the ground easily. It was a gnarled, baby hand digging through the dirt no worry of insects or lockjaw.
I pulled out two more carrots, both long and slender, covered in dirt and fuzzy roots. After bringing them inside, I rinsed the mud from their orange skin, scraped off their blemishes.
The twisted carrot was the most difficult to clean. It held dirt in tangled fingers that I was unable clear out with water alone.
Holding onto their leafy green heads, I severed them from the carrot itself.
My paring knife pierced each crevice of the warped carrot to divide it into small sections that I could cut into even smaller pieces.
The other two carrots were split down their center, then I sliced those halves again into a new set of quarters.
I aligned the ends of each long stick up against the knife and proceeded to chop them into small uniform wedges.
I rinsed the dirt smears from the cutting board and went to the fridge for celery.
The three outside stalks were peeled off and I rinsed them (like the carrots) in the sink.
I carried them to the cutting board and turned them one at a time to create miniature bridges over their white (and orange stained) deathbed.
My knife severed each stalk,
cracking them
like a set of ribs splitting at the sternum.
Mini boomerangs chaotically cluttered the cutting board.
I returned to the fridge in search of a third vegetable I could sacrifice
for that night’s dinner of vegetarian soup.
Samantha Brooks-Smith