On the Table

Jared dropped keys and sunglasses on the table as he raced toward the bathroom. That Chinese food from the food truck did something horrible to him. He puked up his guts, then laid on the floor moaning. Something was taped to the underside of the toilet tank. He slid closer to peer at it. A fat envelope. It looked like it held a big wad of cash.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “on the table.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “On the Table”

  1. Clint found the envelope on the table when he returned from the bar late that night. The stunning contents made him sober up quickly and he sat on one of the dining room chairs. Her last words resonated in his brain as he held the letter: By the time you read this, I’ll be very far away. Good riddance, bastard! He clasped his head with his hands and started to cry…

  2. She worked at a huge well-known insurance company for the Director of the Sales Dept. Each year the salesmen from the field would fly in to the city and be put up at an old mansion the company owned for pep talks, teaching programs, and lots of partying. Her boss, who had already tried to “hit on her” several times since she started working for him, told her that he wanted her and the other women on his team to be there at the final night’s dinner. There would be a live band and dancing. He said he expected them to be there. It was a must. He said he had been thinking of a healthy raise for her in the future. The offer was on the table. She would be there and be nice to the men or the offer would be taken off the table. He also told her to leave her car in the corporate parking lot and drive with him in his car to the event. The thought of being alone in his car with him made her want to vomit. The thought of having to make small talk and dance with the salesmen wasn’t any better.

  3. She flew in and took a sharp breath .

    On the table , lay a plate of cold food , covered . She gingerly peeked inside . Puris and curry , some sweet meats . Neeta winced. Must be the neighbour. Looks like some prasad.

    She shrugged and went in to the washroom . On the way out she rolled one puri and took a bite. “Hmm, not bad”. Then it dawned on her , that this was the first food item that she had eaten in 24 hours , and that she was ravenous. Before she knew , she had wolfed down the puris , rolled the sweetmeats into a paper napkin , and was attempting to lock the door . Her hands were full, and the saree pallu kept slipping . “Must remember to thank the Mehras.” She told herself.

    Suddenly , she froze . A familiar after shave wafted in the air . Someone placed a hand on her silky shoulders and breathed , in that all too familiar baritone “neetu”..

    The jam pot from Japan,
    a banana dish made in 1899
    a basket of red-handled flatware and cloth napkins
    salt and pepper shakers, shaped like little ducks
    a checkered pottery tray with two small syrup dispensers,
    one for honey, one for maple syrup,
    and a green glass vase of daffodils
    you picked them for me yesterday
    when you thought the cold would kill them.
    You brought them in,
    cradled in your rough bricklayer’s hands,
    chose the pretty vase,
    put them on the table,
    and turned to watch
    the pleasure light my eyes.

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