Sunday Sandwich by Jake P.

Every Sunday Grandpa made David a sandwich for lunch, and last week’s had been terrible. Between two slices of bread were smelly sardines, with the eyes still in them. The scales were on top and fish bones lying next to each other like they were under a doona. Cornflakes were next, crunchy, yellow and finally a whole onion with its brown skin still on it.

David said, “Thanks Grandpa,” with a big smile on his face. He put the revolting thing into his mouth. Slowly he broke down the bones from the sardines. He swallowed it and said, “That was delicious,” with a sarcastic tone.

The week before that, Grandpa had made the world’s best-ever sandwich! Between the two slices of bread was a fresh beef patty and when you bit into it, it melted in your mouth. Beautiful golden stringy cheese, and last but not least, fresh tomato sauce that looked like blood. “Oh thank you Grandpa,” David cried. He picked up the sandwich and scoffed it down in three bites.

Most recently, Grandpa placed David’s Sunday sandwich before him. It was a pale ordinary Peanut Butter Sandwich. “Sorry about the sandwich,” grandpa said, “I’ve been busy working on a 69 Plymouth Cuda Trans Am.”

“A 69 Plymouth Cuda Trans Am! I’ve got to see this,” David said excitedly. He rocketed through the old, timber garage doors and as soon as he saw it he was in love. Orange flames covered the side like out the back of a jet car. A chrome V8 Supercharger stuck out the hood catching his attention, and a steering wheel made from pure chain with rustic wood plates in the inside. David was in heaven.

Jake P.