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An Omelette

It is 2 am. Emerging-writer-Robert lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He knows it’s pointless to lie there tossing and turning. He’s been prompted by Facilitating-Matt and now it’s time to walk in the garden of his own mind in search of ideas. He doesn’t know where he will find them; all he knows is that they are out there and will turn up in unexpected places.

He treasures new ideas. Like free-range eggs, ideas are slightly asymmetrical and unique.

Some are brown and some are white.

Some are heavy and some are light.

Some are large, some small and spotted.

Each a delight, as 'rare as hen’s teeth' potted.

In the darkened corners of the garden, Robert begins searching in places that lie beyond the well-trodden path of his daily routine. Where do you come from? he asks himself as he picks up a couple of fresh ideas that he has stumbled upon. As he places them in his mental basket, he takes time to examine each one carefully and commit it to memory, in case he forgets it and it’s lost forever. As he retraces his steps, he finds the sleep that has eluded him.

The next morning, Robert awakes to the thought that perfect as these ideas are, alone they will not be enough to satisfy Editor-in-Chief-Christine’s spectacles.

He gets up and walks into the kitchen where he cracks open the ideas on the edge of a mixing bowl and scrambles them until they are inseparable.

Christine is on deadline, as always.

‘You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs,’ she says as she hangs her coat on the back of a chair and sits at the subs’ table. ‘Where’s the omelette? It should only take ten minutes to prepare.’

Robert places a warm plate in front of her and dishes up a story entitled The Omelette.

‘I’m unsure if you’ll like it but it smells delicious and I am sure you’ll tell me if it’s overcooked,’ Robert simpers, then whimpers as she taste-tests with a frown.

Robert Carrick

You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs

(Now for a disgusting take on an innocent-enough writing prompt about cooking ...?)

Sadie weaved, ducked, and as she felt the slight brush of air over her head, fluttering her hair, shot up to crack the Egg Man an almighty hook to his chin.

She couldn’t help but smile at the satisfying crunch her fist made. Not the bones of her hand breaking, but the delicate shell of Egg Man’s face caving. He stumbled back, a dull grunt escaping him.

Sadie advanced a few steps then stopped, her gaze tracing the line of sticky goo between her balled fist and the Egg Man’s face, a long string drooping under its own weight. 'Give it up!' Sadie called. 'You’re done.'

To her surprise, the Egg Man let out a loud HA! even with both hands clutching his shattered chin, trying to hold it all together. 'You think you’ve got me?' He stopped in place, a snarl curling his lips. 'Well, you can have all the yolk you want.' And his hand pushed inward, into his own face, as Sadie stepped forward with a gasp. 'But you’ll never have an omelette!' he cried.

And he pulled his own head apart, spilling the contents, shell and all, down his front.

Matt Jackson

(Editor's note: Apologies to vegan readers and the RSPCA.)

Copyright: text to the writers listed above; photos Wix.

The Sydney School of Arts (SSOA) blog is based on a weekly writing prompt published to showcase the work of emerging Australian writers.


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