The following are the results of a short writing contest between me and my nephew Dexter. The rules were that it had to use the words Pie, Hatchet, and Dog.
I was to write after he started and stop when he did. Hope you enjoy!
Dexter’s Entry –
One nice pie was living in ancient Egypt. He had a pet dog named Hatchet. Unluckily, his dog loved to eat pie so he had to put him in his in his boat where the food storage was. One day he went fishing millions of miles away in the ocean carrying his boat the whole way. As every one knows pies have super strength and super speed. It only took him about 3 minutes. When he got there he saw a seal and said “OK.” Then got on his boat and saw his friend Roger and caught him with a fishing rod. “f*****uck” Rodger said as he was pulling the fishing hook out of himself. “Whoa man watch you language” Pie said. Suddenly Pie felt hungrier than ever before he felt an urge for cake the he reached down under his tarp. Suddenly Hatchet said “the cake is a lie” then Pie screamed and jumped into the ocean and that was the life of Pie.
Luke’s Entry –
I remember looking at the dog as I picked up the hatchet. The savory scent of fresh baking wafted out of the house and on down to the woodshed. He looked back at me opened his mouth in a lolling doggy grin. Our breath steamed in the winter air.
The sun was low on the horizon and the trees in their skeletal winter form make the cabin seem warmer and more inviting by comparison. I put the hatchet back in its sheath on my belt and headed toward the house, warming my hands with my breath as I did so, before grabbing an armload of wood.
Snow crunched underfoot as I approached the house and the way I stamped my feet must have gotten her attention, because when I looked up, I saw Elsa there, framed in the doorway like a backlit angel.
She smiled to see me and I suddenly forgot the cold. Okay, it was mostly the smile, but knowing that after dinner we would be having a freshly baked apple pie might have had some effect.
“God kväll Elsa,” I said. Most of my ability to speak Swedish was limited to greetings, asking about the weather and giving basic directions. Fortunately, she spoke English at least as well as most people I grew up with in these parts.
“God kväll Lucas,” She pronounced it ‘Luu-kass’ and it was one of the few traces that remained of her accent when she spoke English. Elsa kindly held the door for me and I entered, trying my best to kick off my shoes so that there would be minimal water in the rest of the house as I carried the wood into the living room.
The fire was already burning. It had been since the power had gone out two days before. I didn’t mind. It just made the whole place more cozy. There was camping gear lined around the living room and over the fire, there was a dutch oven, in which baked an apple pie.
“You know, I think we live better when the power is out, than when it’s on.” I said, “I certainly feel better at the end of the day.”
“That’s because you’re getting exercise for a change,” she said playfully. “Your mood is always better after you’ve worked up a sweat.”
“And an appetite!” I agreed. “I think I’m happier because being trapped here with the roads closed means there’s enough time for us to cook real food. Eating out is never as good as the food you make at home.” Elsa smiled awkwardly. It was true, she was an excellent cook, but neither her Swedish heritage, nor my Midwestern upbringing would allow either of us to accept compliments well.
“It’s just a good thing we got all those barrels and that salt pork.” She said. “Oh and that your brother-in-law thought that I’d want 4 kilos of pickled herring.” I liked that she used the metric system even after ten years living in the United States. It made me do some mental arithmetic whenever it came up, but I liked it all the same.
“That’s just Andy being Swedish.”
She wrinkled her nose. “No Swedish eats that much pickled herring, except at christmas maybe.”
“Maybe not, but you’ve got it lucky. You grew up there and so you get to be Swedish without doing anything. Poor Andy has to do Swedish things to ‘connect to his past’ otherwise, he risks losing his heritage.”
“Well, his weird American version of being Swedish might save our lives. He bought what must be twenty cases of Julmust at the ikea down in Minneapolis. Between that, and that outhouse you put on the lake, we might have enough food to last until the snow melts and we can head down to somewhere less remote.”
“It’s an ice fishing shack,” I corrected her. “it makes it less miserable to get us some fish.”
“Not so much less miserable. I tried it last year.” She crossed her arms and pretended to be mad.
“Well, we should have enough fuel for the next eight hours or so. Then I’ll bring another load of wood.”
“Tack så mycket” she said with a polite nod. “I’m afraid it won’t be very exciting, since we’re running low on real food and only have the pickled things, soda, alcohol, and whatever is in those military food things your brother left.”
“Well, we have a full spice kit and you’re a great cook, so I’m sure we’ll be fine.” It was true that I was a bit concerned. The last week or so had been terrible. It snowed at least eight inches every night. And the 20.3-ish it was in centimeters didn’t make it sound any easier.
The reality was that as kind as we were trying to be to each other, we needed food, heat, and electricity- and soon. Right now, we were doing our best to keep fed and warm as the cold and hunger threatened outside the small protections we had- a cabin and a fire. The depth of the snow made it just possible that we could live in a snow fort for awhile, okay… but really? There just wasn’t a good solution.
We were about a mile out from the nearest road, and homes or cabins were fairly uncommon. twenty miles from the nearest town or person likely to be in a position to help us made leaving more dangerous than staying.
No matter how you sliced it. We were in trouble, or we would be soon.
Bonus – Shortest stories using the required words.
Sale: Dog, Pie, and hatchet- used.
Sale: Dog Pie, and used hatchet.
Sale: Dog, pie and hatchet used.
