I’m trying really hard to get back into the swing of blogging regularly. It’s not been easy. But yesterday I was spontaneously prompted into writing a story in the comments section of a Facebook post, so I thought I would share that here in the hopes that people won’t forget about me and stop visiting my blog. 😛
Context: A friend posted a picture on Facebook of a sandwich that had onions on it. I said it was too much onion, he responded with a hilarious article about why people who hate onions are stupid, to which my defense was: “Heeeeeey I like onions. Just not that much. I had a traumatic experience… an onion bit me when I was a kid.” Another friend then responded with “Waiting patiently for onion bit me story”. I decided to be a smart ass and actually post a story about how an onion bit me. My original intent was just a short stupid blurb, but it got away from me and 20 minutes later this is what I ended up responding with:
The Day An Onion Bit Me
When I was a child, I was a humble kitchen slave. The head of the kitchen, known only as “Big Momma”, was my master. She was a short, stout woman and altogether vicious. She had salt and pepper hair, skin as white as milk usually flushed red with anger, and slits for eyes. Her big chunky arms nearly always had fists at the end of them, either dug into her sides, stirring a giant soup pot over a fire, or flying at your face with astonishing, well-honed speed.
I myself was scrawny, but scrappy. All knees and elbows, one would think I’d be clumsy, but Big Momma’s thrashings quickly fixed that. I spent much time out in the gardens gathering provisions for Big Momma, and my blonde hair was nearly white from all the sun. My skin would be tan too, if it weren’t black and blue. I’d have been a pretty little girl if only all my teeth hadn’t been knocked out. I’d carefully put each tooth in a little pouch that I wore around waist, in hopes that someday I would meet a magical creature that could put them all back for me.
I’m still not really sure how it happened, but one day I accidentally knocked over a pot of tomato sauce. I barely had time to panic before my world went dark. And then I had the most glorious dream. In this dream, I had parents who loved me, and we all lived in a well-to-do chateau in a wonderful little provincial town. I was free to be a child, run and play, make friends with animals, climb the vines, read books and learn. I had no bruises, and all my teeth were in place. Yet, there was still a pouch around my waist.
When I opened the pouch, I found it full of the most beautiful pearls in all the world. They gleamed in the sunlight and were so smooth. Suddenly I knew what I had to do: I had to plant these pearls, and they would grow the most magnificent pearl trees anyone had ever seen. They would make the whole province twinkle in the sun from afar. I set to work, and sure enough, overnight the pearl trees had sprouted. Pearls as big as onions hung from the trees. So soft and smooth, they felt like peaches. Their beauty brought happiness to all in the province.
Suddenly I woke up. I was back in the dusty kitchen, on the grimy floor. A searing pain ran across the side of my head. I struggled to my feet as quickly as I could. Big Momma was busy stirring her pot, and didn’t notice me come to. But the bread boy saw me. He quickly rushed me outside, whispering the tale of the impressive way Big Momma had laid me out flat. Once outside, he handed me a loaf of half-baked bread and a tin of water and told me I’d been out for 3 days. “One more thing…” he hesitated. “Big Momma threw your pouch o’ teeth out the window.” I looked down, and sure enough the pouch was gone. I was crestfallen.
Once Big Momma realized I was up and around again, she put me right back to work in the gardens. Every day, I looked for my teeth, and never found any of them. Weeks went by, and still I searched for them. The hope of finding them was the only hope I really had. The hope began to fade.
Then one day, as I was harvesting onions, one screamed when I pulled on it’s scapes. A real, human scream. I jumped back, startled. I stood for a moment, and decided I must have imagined it. I yanked the onion all the way out, and it screamed again. I could hardly believe my eyes. There I was, holding this onion in the air – and it had a full set of teeth. My teeth. And it was screaming. It was a very angry onion. I was completely bewildered.
Big Momma looked out her window and screamed at me to stop dawdling around and get back to work or I’d miss supper again. I quickly stashed the angry onion in my harvesting basket, which was hanging on my arm by the handle. Now, as the basket was quite full at this point, the angry onion was laid atop the pile, very near my arm. In my haste, I failed to notice this, and before I knew it I felt another searing pain. This time it was on my arm. The little bastard had bit me. And it hurt!
I did my best to ignore the pain, something I was quite used to doing by now anyway, and continued on with my work harvesting the rest of the onions. The angry onion remained firmly clamped onto my arm, but at least it wasn’t screaming anymore. As I brought the day’s harvest into the kitchen, Big Momma yanked the basket out of my arms and then began to scream at me for trying to steal one of the onions. She demanded I give it back or else.
I squeezed the onion at the sides of it’s mouth, and it let go. Then I hurled it in the deep crevice of her overly large bosom. I lost sight of it as it worked it’s way down her blouse, and she began screaming in pain and terror. While she was distracted with an onion biting her boobs, I yelled for the rest of the kitchen slaves to follow me to freedom. And there we went, the whole lot of us, streaming out the door of the kitchen, across the garden, and deep into the forest to live the rest of our lives in freedom and peace. We built tree houses that large, fat women couldn’t reach, just to be sure.
I never did get my teeth back, though.