Who's To Blame?

There's a responsibility implicit in every act. By choosing to engage in life, we accept that our choices will have consequences, even when we consciously deny them. We are of the world and we are defined by the actions we take as surely as by those we don't.

This isn't about blame or guilt. Such concepts are constructs of society, attributes of culture. Animals probably don't understand guilt. Plants certainly don't, nor rocks. But they live by the same rules of causation that all of us do.

So yes, Mother, I broke the dish, but is it really my fault?

The Chopping Block

The cabbage on the chopping block was a vivid royal purple. She couldn’t figure out why it was called red cabbage. It certainly looked purple, even after it was cooked. Her sheepsfoot knife was thinly slicing the quartered pieces with almost no effort. Good knives were worth every dollar spent on them, she mused.

She thought ahead: I still need to chop the onions and the Granny Smith apples. I hope I have apple cider vinegar. This dish will go perfectly with roasted pork.

She looked down and noticed blood on the board. Was that the tip of her finger?

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Dinner Time

Sam sat, crossed his hands over his chest, and sighed.

“Baked chicken, boiled potatoes, and string beans. Really, Mom?”

“You know the doctor wants you to eat healthy,” she answered, filling his dish.

Sam swallowed a piece of chicken and it was like a rock had hit his stomach. He missed the crispy taste of fried, juicy white meat.

“String bean pie for dessert,” he chuckled and noticed a hair on his dish.

Sam removed his hat and a clump of his hair fell on the table.

“Does this mean the radiation is working?”

His mother gasped at the sight.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Foot Steps

Becky was halfway across her pottery studio when she heard the deadbolt click. She froze.

She escaped a mugging three months ago, but it cost a prize dish. She broke the pottery piece on his face. Blood gushed everywhere and his screams still haunt her at night. Hours flipping through mug shots at the police station yielded no suspects. That was it. Except she had this eerie feeling she was being followed. A lot. She had been more than careful until now. She didn’t lock the door when she entered the studio. The sound of footsteps came in her direction.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Thankful

I smell the turkey as my father carves each slice delicately. Mymother’s homemade mashed potatoes steaming, the butter melting down ontomy dish, makes my mouth water.

We can’t touch our food until the turkey is on the dish and theThanksgiving prayer has been said.

My younger brother squirms in his seat waiting to shovel stuffing intohis mouth.

“Okay, the turkey is carved,” my father says and clasps his handstogether and begins the prayer.

It’s not the food I realize that makes me happy. It’s the facessurrounding me at this table that I’m thankful for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher