Red

My hands worked quickly. My left hand sliding and slipping on the form it held,  the knife I held in my right hand sliced down and red seeped from the cut it made.  The knife went deeper, still the red oozed and spread slowly across the table, forming little pools, so red.

Half an hour I had been here, my knife working continuously.  I sometimes had to pause while cramp took hold.  I shook my hand, working the fingers slowly.  The cramp passed, it had to, there was no time to have cramp, my task was too urgent.  My hands were stained red.  The colour soaked into the pores of my fingers, it would be the devil to scrub them clean afterwards but I continued nonetheless.

The knife, ever hungry, crying tears of red.  I tried to clean up as I worked but to no avail.  Sweat started to drip from my hair into my eyes, the stinging sensation forcing me to blink and stop cutting.  I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

Finally my work here was done.

Only a salad chef can appreciate the finer points of dicing a fresh beetroot.

Reviews

[Marie]

Excellent. This starts out seeming to be one kind of story, then slips into quite another. I have never sliced beetroot, but then I am no chef.