The Doughnut

June 25, 2008
By
Jonny was standing in the kitchen doorway like he owned the place. He was staring intently at my doughnut, the last one. It was so on.


Jenny dropped her CD player. The CD skipped to "American Idiot" by Green Day. She screamed. She clock struck twelve. I knew it was on.


Everyone scuttled out of the way. Mom hid in the cabinet. Every one else ducked behind the living room sofa.


He cocked his weapon. I do too. I check the clock. Twelve noon.


Hands shaking, we draw. He draws scissors. I draw rock. I win. I snatch up my doughnut.


Just as I prepare to taste the sugary, jelly doughnut it slips thru my clawing fingers and hits the floor with a splat. Our dog Lucy seized it. It's gone in one gulp. "That was a waste," I say.





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