Another Adaptation?

Another short story I wrote. I’m thinking this would have to be animated:

Blood in the Bolognese

Every accomplished cook who knows a damn about Italian cooking has a recipe for Bolognese. The official recipe begins with a mirepoix, a combination of onions, carrots, and celery that forms the basis for a lot of Italian and French cooking.

I had the ingredients out for my Bolognese and was just getting ready to dice up the carrot when it leapt up, snatched my santoku out of my hand, and slashed me across the forearm. It wasn’t a deep cut, a mere scratch, but my blood splattered across the counter backsplash as the celery hurled my teapot directly at my head. I barely managed to duck out of the way as the teapot smashed against the refrigerator, showering me with glass. I grabbed my chef’s knife and parried the onion, which was now armed with a serrated bread knife it snatched off the magnetic rack. I leapt backward out of the kitchen, snapping a kick at the carrot, knocking into the sink. The celery threw the mortar and pestle at my face as I slid across the floor into the living room. I threw up my arm and gasped in pain as the mortar and pestle smashed into my forearm. I reached up on the coffee table for my art history book and flung it at the celery. It tried to jump out of the way, but my throw was too quick. The book snapped the celery in two. The onion screamed and raced at me, bread knife raised. I parried the blow and smashed the onion under my foot. My eyes started to tear from its fumes as I bounded into the kitchen. The carrot was just climbing out of the sink as I got to it. With a flick of my knife I sliced it in two. I turned to see the can of diced tomatoes tightening its grip on a pair of steak knives. I lunged for the can opener…

There’s blood in the Bolognese!


Recently I tried adapting a short story I wrote into a short film. Here’s the story.

            She was in one of her moods again, I could tell the moment I walked in the kitchen door.
“Where on earth have you been?” my mother shrieked at me. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Parents are always so nosy.
“Nowhere,” I replied. My dad, seated at the kitchen table, looked up from his newspaper and took a sip of coffee.
“Welcome back stranger,” he said.
“Nowhere?” my mother continued her rant. “You’ve been gone a fortnight! We called the police!”
“Honestly mother, who says fortnight?” I said, pouring a glass of water from the faucet.
“Don’t you give me attitude, Ed don’t let him give me attitude!”
“Don’t give your mother attitude Sid.” My dad didn’t look up from his paper. My mom stared out the kitchen window.
“I suppose that’s nothing as well?” She snapped. I followed her gaze outside where Bob was picking through the rosemary.
“I guess so,” I mumbled.
“Sid, a flying saucer landed in my herb garden, and you and that thing get out of it and it’s nothing? What is that thing anyway and what’s it doing to my rosemary?” she demanded.
“The flying saucer is actually more of an oval. That’s Bob; he works for the Galactic Council. He’s sort of a sheriff for this sector of space. He collects culinary herbs from different planets as a hobby,” I replied, watching as Bob collected sprigs in his tentacles.
“Oh his name’s Bob is it?”
“Well his actual name is unpronounceable for humans.”
“What in God’s name were you doing with him?”
“It’s no big deal mother.”
“It’s no big…Ed, seriously, help me out here, “ she turned to my father. My father took a sip of coffee.
“Being abducted by aliens is serious Sid, answer your mother,” he said, his eyes scanning the sports section.
“Fine,” I said. “I was just picked at random to defend the merits of humans. Whether we should be allowed to continue inhabiting the Earth or if it should be destroyed by the Galactic Council.” That made her pause for a second.
“And you expect me to believe you’ve been gone for two weeks defending the Earth from total annihilation?” She had her arms folded and was tapping her foot.
“I expect it’s about as believable as an alien lawman picking rosemary in your herb garden, but there ya go,” I replied, gesturing towards Bob as he lurched back aboard his ship. The hatch closed and it lifted off without a sound and zipped off into the atmosphere.
“Oh lord,” my mother sighed. “My basil is ruined.”
“Saved the world, eh?” my dad said, looking up from his paper. “How?”
“Oh, hit ‘em with a couple millennia of art, from Polykleitos to Michaelangelo. Gave ‘em a bit of Shakespeare next with a little Pablo Neruda on the side. Then capped it off with Beethoven’s 5th,” I told him.
“That’s my boy,” he said. “So that did the trick?”
“Nope,” I replied. “Turns out they love reality television and Earth is the only planet that produces it.” My dad shook his head.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” he said, turning to the business section.
“I hope Bob fed you, because I’m not making you breakfast,” my mother said. “And you’re going to school today.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said and stomped to my room to get my backpack. I said goodbye and went out to catch the bus and barely managed to get to school on time. Everyone stared as I walked in the classroom. I sat down at my usual place next to my friend Derek. He leaned over to me.
“Dude, where the hell have you been? “ he whispered. I rolled my eyes and sighed.
“In outer space, defending the Earth from total destruction,” I said. He threw up his hands in mock surrender.
“Whatever man, don’t tell me.”