Back To Story List

Celery

By Arik Cohen

He had chicken wings for lunch an hour ago, but he was still chewing on a piece of celery. Its fibrous appendages were holding on with a will to live.

It's incredible what one can get used to, and by hour two he didn't even notice that every few seconds his back molars would do a fruitless chew, an automated need to cut through the green tendons mashed into the back of his jaw.

On his commute home the partially chewed, unswallowed celery was as vigilant as ever. It pushed back against its homeowner's jaw clenching with renewed rush hour rage and vigor.

He got home. The celery remained unfazed.

He hugged his daughter. The celery didn't leave him.

He ate an entirely new meal, the celery refused to join the gobs of soft meatloaf that effortlessly slid down the back of his throat.

The fibrous strands hung on behind his left molars as he made love to his wife. She didn’t have an orgasm.

It was a full eleven hours from the moment it entered his mouth that it was finally expunged. The man gave up the war and spit out the mostly-but-not-quite-entirely chewed celery along with the paper dixie cup he had used for a mouthwash swish.

It took three days for the celery mash to be exposed to daylight from the top layer of a massive trash mountain. It had won. It was free. It had an orgasm.

Back To Story List

About the Author

Illustrations by Scott Thiede