Sunday Sandwich by Henry D.

Every Sunday Tom makes Georgia a sandwich for lunch, and last week’s sandwich was terrible. Between two slices of bread where a long slimy ox tongue cut up into hundreds of pieces, a whole chilli flaming hot and soy sauce with extra salt to and a another level of tang. Georgia liked Tom but this sandwich looked disgusting. On the other hand, she didn’t want to hurt Tom’s feelings so she picked it up and hid a gag reflex.

She stuffed the whole thing in her mouth just to vomit it all back onto the plate. The week before, Tom had made the world’s best-ever sandwich. Between two slices of bread where a Mars bar with the caramel oozing onto the plate, vanilla ice-cream as soft as snow and a slice of apple pie cooked to perfection. As Georgia picked up the gob-smacking sandwich she thanked Tom and shoved it down her throat at the speed of light. Delicious!

Tom placed Georgia’s sandwich before her. It was a pale, ordinary, peanut butter sandwich. “Sorry about the sandwich, I’m building a helicopter,” explained Tom.                        

“A helicopter? You have to show me right now!” Georgia yelled excitedly.

 It was down in the basement. With blades as sharp as knives, its control panel was so full it looked like stars in a night sky. The vehicle was a vibrant, fluoro green with a large engine ready to urge it through the atmosphere. Georgia was awe struck.

Henry D.