Saturday's Storyteller: Beloved Chopstick
by Belinda Roddie
Excuse me, but have you seen my beloved chopstick? I believe I left it in that Uber driver's cab after he took us from the festival. It's slender and refined and only has eyes for me. How will I ever eat my potstickers, sushi, fettucine, steak, and salad now?
I asked your sister, but she was too busy playing clarinet. That damned sap had been estranged from the woodwind for so long that she now had to spend time with it, rekindling every note. I asked your brother, but he was riding his bicycle to his former high school, watching as the soccer field morphed into a performing arts center and football fields melted in the heat of incandescent bulbs.
I thought my chopstick would go listen to folk music at the local bar, sitting where people could still have conversations without being drowned out. But I could not find him there. I thought my chopstick would hitch a ride across the bridge, American Idiot grunting in the ears of the driver. But I could not find him there. I thought my chopstick would take a swim in the bay, dipping imaginary toes into imaginary currents, watching paddle boats glide by. But alas, I could not find him there, either. I could not find him anywhere.
Is my beloved chopstick lonely? Does he seek out his partner lost in my purse? And why, oh why, does no one have the phone number of the Uber driver so I can get him back?
This week's prompt was provided by Emily Ludlow.
Excuse me, but have you seen my beloved chopstick? I believe I left it in that Uber driver's cab after he took us from the festival. It's slender and refined and only has eyes for me. How will I ever eat my potstickers, sushi, fettucine, steak, and salad now?
I asked your sister, but she was too busy playing clarinet. That damned sap had been estranged from the woodwind for so long that she now had to spend time with it, rekindling every note. I asked your brother, but he was riding his bicycle to his former high school, watching as the soccer field morphed into a performing arts center and football fields melted in the heat of incandescent bulbs.
I thought my chopstick would go listen to folk music at the local bar, sitting where people could still have conversations without being drowned out. But I could not find him there. I thought my chopstick would hitch a ride across the bridge, American Idiot grunting in the ears of the driver. But I could not find him there. I thought my chopstick would take a swim in the bay, dipping imaginary toes into imaginary currents, watching paddle boats glide by. But alas, I could not find him there, either. I could not find him anywhere.
Is my beloved chopstick lonely? Does he seek out his partner lost in my purse? And why, oh why, does no one have the phone number of the Uber driver so I can get him back?
This week's prompt was provided by Emily Ludlow.
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