Paragraphs Trump Pizza
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Much low humor, namely farce, slapstick, and the like, is employed to engine the protagonist from one end of this story to the other. See, it begins with someones head being lopped off.
Thats why you didnt make stew? Im famished! My MMA workouts squeeze the calories out of me.
I made a pot of rice, yesterday. Besides, in this tale, marriages are consummated, babies are born, and an individual, who is eyebrow high in racketeering, joins a witness protection program.
Seriously? Sounds like junk. You shoulda made the stew.
Says you and which agents? Mine already emailed me that he's looking forward to this manuscript. After all, the heroine faces down an unwitting heiress who bumps up against a peanut butter and jelly sushi chef, an horse whisperer intent upon reducing a python to passivity, and a literally glass-eyed oncologist with a penchant for chemistry-based mischief. As well, that main character meets up with a gal who paints New England landscapes on leather purses, a road tripping news crew, and a band of Junior Leaguers bent on killing highway meridian wildflowers.
I bet those Junior Leaguers remembered to cook their kids some stew.
They had hired help. As for the leading lady, she stood to lose the one million dollars that she accidentally won at a Fur Meet if she didnt shed ten kilo by the end of the year. Im guessing she nay-sayed cooking.
Her husband let?
He was an Italian tailor who spent his free time dabbling in herbal medicine, childbirth education, and actual basket weaving.
I get it; not a macho man... more metrosexual.
Kidding me? It takes a strong stomach to assist in childbirth.
It takes an empty stomach to miss dinner. Youre joking, right? Its really already in a pot in the fridge.
Sorry. No. But you can have some of this.
Dandelion leaves. I picked them while I was working on the books final chapter. I prewrite in my mind.
I salivate in my mouth. Bits of green stuff isnt going to help, Mom.
Sweetie, I give conference papers. I teach service courses. I sit on sleep-inducing committees. Come sabbatical, I try to answer my needs.
I want food. Im hungry.
Get a job. Work in a burger joint. Chow on leftovers or on rejects.
Im your kid. Youre supposed to feed me.
Youre more than twice that.
Dont you care if Im hungry? Im your forever child.
I was always hungry after belly dancing classes. Tofu worked as did quinoa.
Any tuna left?
Nope. I didnt shop this week; Ive been too busy with this manuscript.
Although the protagonist remains pudgy and must, in the final chapter, find a means to repay the hundreds of thousands of dollars she spent during her championship season, my book ends on a happy note.
Your interaction with your child does not. Im going out for pizza.
Ill be at my keyboard.
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