True by Gloria McBreen

Robin was fun at parties, until the night he did this!
We made some sandwiches but it wasn’t enough for Robert. He took my untouched pavlova out of my fridge and dug it from the bowl into his big mouth with my wooden spoon.
He wasn’t too happy when others decided they wanted some too.
To avoid sharing it, he went to the kitchen and returned with an onion; peeled, chopped, and sprinkled over my demolished pavlova.
Not only did he eat our Sunday dessert, but also the golden onion that was meant for the stew!
I barred Robin!

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Would I Cry by Bill Engleson

Would I cry in the morning,
when we chopped golden onions, love?
Would I cry in the evening,
when soup was on the fire?
Would I cry when auburn carrots
were sliced in the bye and bye?

Oh my lord, my pot is boiling,
with your love and with your tears
Oh my lord, I am toiling,
My love is in arrears.

Would I cry in the morning,
when we chopped golden onions, love?
Would I cry in the evening,
when soup was on the fire?
Would I cry when auburn carrots
were sliced in the bye and bye?

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The Job Interview by Joanne Fisher

“And what else makes you ideal for this position?”

“Well, I won the Golden Onion Award.”

“Golden Onion Award?”

“Yes, it’s an award for the most daring use of onions in contemporary cuisine.”

“Is that really a thing?”

“Of course! The award is given out by the Golden Onion Institute.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh I thought everyone knew about it who works in this business.”

“I guess I’ll have to look that one up. Is there anything else you think we should know?”

“I like to cook in the nude, is that going to be a problem?”

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Golden Onion by Duane L Herrmann

The golden onion was so amazing, so special, so precious that the priest wanted to preserve it. He didn’t know how to replicate it, but he trusted the workmen in the town. They were skilled, more skilled than all others around. If they could do this, the priest knew, their fame would be renowned, and so would his. He prayed for their efforts. His prayers were answered and that answer has resounded through ages that followed. Rising above white towers the onion sits gracefully. Everyone knows the distinctive beauty and grace of golden onion domed spires of the churches.

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The Onion Domes of St Basil’s by Anne Goodwin

His name was one of the most common in the Russian language, yet it stoked fear in Tatars and Cossacks alike. Did Ivan want to go down in history as Terrible or as the czar who commissioned a beautiful church? True, the domes of St Basil’s commemorate a bloody battle and he had the architect blinded on completion so he’d never create again. But God would have looked down on his cathedral and seen the shape of a star. The domes on the red-brick towers shone like candles, like golden onions. Onions – so versatile, so welcome in frozen lands.

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The Golden Onion by Christy

I once knew a girl with skin that glowed like the gold of a sunset. When she walked past you, she gave off an air of self-confidence that made every fiber of your being want to be like her.

But what you saw wasn’t who she was. She was beautiful to behold but bitter to bite into. If you stopped to really look you’d notice her beauty was a facade.

The girl had layers of darkness that she was so ashamed of that she hid them away where you’d never look unless peeled back the layers of her life.

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Tricked by Charli Mills

I fell for the golden apples ploy. You perched on a wooden ladder more relic than feature in the orchard where gnarled varietals rooted beneath Hwy 2. Had I known you’d fallen from your ladder before, I would not have stopped. Instead, I rescued you. Checked for broken bones. Wiped dirt from your cheek. Cradled your head while you cried, sobbing over your daughter’s bee-sting. I never escaped your woes. You needed me, needed me, needed me. My eyes to adore you. My ears to hear you. My tongue to wash your dirty dishes. Golden apples turned to onions.

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Syllabic Poetry Taco Dip by Colleen M. Chesebro

Through the years, I’ve found the art of crafting syllabic poetry is akin to making a layered taco dip.

You start with a syllabic form, which is like the first layer of refried beans—the base that holds the dip together.

Next comes the seasoned meat, turkey, or beef, which is like choosing a theme for your poem.

Tomatoes, black olives, chopped lettuce, cheddar cheese, and onions come next. Don’t forget the bell pepper, salsa, and sour cream. These are the details of your poem you can’t live without.

heavy spring snowfall
each layer signifies growth
a golden onion

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Classic Cures by Kate Spencer

Martha peeled the golden sheath off the onion and began dicing it.

“Mom, what are you doing?” Ellie asked, walking into the kitchen.

“Making a poultice for Jake. I heard him coughing all night.”

“Seriously? You know the drugstores are full of meds for this.”

“I know that. But there’s nothing better than an old-fashioned compress smacked onto the chest. Gets that mucous loosened up real quick.”

“Ack!” Ellie threw her arms into the air and ran to warn her husband.

Martha chuckled and continued making Jake his chicken noodle soup. She loved getting her daughter all riled up.

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No Trust by Norah Colvin

Jamie was an explorer. He had to find out for himself. ‘No’ was an answer he couldn’t trust. Did it mean, ‘You really shouldn’t” or ‘Of course, go ahead’?

Sometimes he discovered forbidden delights. Like the tiny brown squares Mum hid, saying, ‘No, Jamie. You won’t like it.’

He found he really did. A lot!

Sometimes he discovered the hard way. Like when Dad was cooking and said, ‘Don’t touch. It’s hot.” He found that hot hurts.

When Mum peeled a golden shell off a white ball, she said, ‘No. You won’t like it.’ Should he trust her?

No!

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A Chopping Aide by Ruchira Khanna

“I just can’t cook.” Sarah lamented.

“Why so?” inquired Leone, who was as earnest in her query as a nurse, would be to her patient.

“Gravy is the key ingredient to get texture in any dish. Alas! I can’t chop onions. They bring tears to my eyes.” With that, she breathed a deep sigh that was as cold as if she had just landed in the Frigid zone.

Leone quickly handed a shield to her friend, “Wear this armor before you chop onions; it will protect you from the sooty vapors that they emit, that’ll prevent tears from coming.”

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The Day the Monster Truck Mama Was Born by Pete Fanning

Steve sat doubled over in the sweltering porta potty, still wearing his helmet, cursing as a country song blared over the speakers. Outside, nearly ten thousand people grumbled impatiently for the main event.

Golden Onion he thought. What kind of fool eats an entire deep fried onion before the biggest performance of his career? Scratch that, two golden onions. Now, as his monster truck idled in the dirt, the crowd began chanting his name.

Steve’s mother tapped on the door. “Steve?”

“Go away.”

“Okay, but sweetie? These people want a show.”

“Argh…”

“So… I’m going to need your helmet.”

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Knowing One’s Onions by Geoff Le Pard

The Little Tittweaking’s Fruit and Veg show often produced surprises. Bea Troot won the Wanda Lust Memorial Tooting Rooting category for her Requiem radishes, named when impresario Di O’Reah used these volcanic veg to fuel her Bach From The Arse soirées. Ro Maine protested Chico Rees entry for the Ms Limp Leaves garland arguing they were a trans-salad and not a lettuce from seed. When Pearl Onions displayed her magnificent golden glowing orbs, the press went wild with the headline.

Once again Pearl Onions has proved to one and all the sun really does shine out of her alliums

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Golden Onions by Charli Mills

Lula tethered three golden onions by their dry stalks, hanging them from her saddle horn. Pickers had missed globes in the field, rushed no doubt by the urgency to get crops to the train station. Onion harvest marked the end of migrant work. Lula had dry pintos and a hanky full of tortillas stashed in her saddle bags. Juan Batista said he’d bring a cauldron and two fishing poles. Everyone would be in town celebrating. Drinking. The line cabin empty. The onions were so he’d not get any fine ideas of kissing her by the campfire. Best intentions unraveled.

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Onions by C. E. Ayr

She always smiles when the Frenchman appears.
He’s almost a caricature, with a beret, droopy moustache, ramshackle old bike and onions around his neck.
He speaks English with a heavy Breton accent, but the ancient eyes are kindly.
The road is narrow, he says, indicating the toys on the lawn, we must be careful for the children.
She buys, of course, more than she needs, still smiling as he says au revoir.
Later, speeding through country lanes, she sees onions scattered on a dangerous bend, and brakes to see the wrecked bicycle and broken body abandoned in the ditch.

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Michael Plays the Age Card (Part I) by Sue Spitulnik

Wearing Army t-shirt and shorts, Michael sat in a wheelchair on stage, his leg stumps showing so all entering the Walter Reed activity room could see. He spoke. “We soldiers share the experience of missing skin and bones. At twice your age I lived the hopelessness and depression you may be feeling.” He turned sideways in the chair, swung himself to the floor, and put on the prosthetic legs lying there. Then using the chair for support, he stood up and walked around. “I’m proof you can heal and become friends with whatever prosthetic you need. You’ve got this.”

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Michael Plays the Age Card (Part II) by Sue Spitulnik

Michael continued walking and making eye contact with the soldiers that would look at him. “I came to think of myself as a pungent onion, and life as flat broth. What could I do to insert myself into something that could use a shot of flavor, that would enhance the broth?” He picked up his guitar. “This is my friend. It helps me turn into an onion.” He strummed a few chords. “I went home to revive my church’s youth choir. Those kids think I’m a super hero. I make a difference in their lives, as coming here enhances mine.”

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Chopped Onions by Sadje

Their style of cooking always included fried onions as the base of almost every dish. And she never liked chopping those red onions which were more pungent than any other variety.

After doing some research, she found the golden onions which were less pungent, more flavorful, and required less cooking time. Still while chopping onions, her eyes would invariably tear up and she found it cathartic to shed a few more tears, thinking of wrongs done to her in the past and people who had left her.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, she always felt better after chopping golden onions.

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A Friendly Chat About Two Attractive Alliums by JulesPaige

Lena knows about some alliums. There’s a difference in how long onions last by type. Golden hard skinned yellow pungent onions have the longest life up to two to three months in a cool dry place or in your fridge for the same time. – However, in the cooler they might turn mushy, the fridge will wick their moisture. Onions are low in calories, high in vitamins and minerals. You can use their skins to dye material. Keep them out of plastic bags and away from potatoes.

soups, stews flavor them
with depth; using onions and
all forms of garlic

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Adventures of a Golden Onion by Ann Edall-Robson

The day I was tossed into the dark trench, I was told to drink as much water as possible, the warm sun would do the rest. I had no clue what was expected of me. Yet, as time passed, somewhere on the other side of the darkness a gentle voice could be heard, giving encouragement.

Then one day, the musical voice said, “It’s time, my lovelies.”
​
Tugging on our tops, a hand lifted us into the fall sun. My how we had grown! Dressed in our golden topcoats I wondered what adventure will be in store for us next?

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The Perks of Being a Delegate by Nicole Horlings

Arlo Proudfoot was pleased. Since he was busy being a delegate attending this multi-race debate, he wasn’t having dinner with his in-laws. His mother-in-law was embarrassingly proud of what was actually a bland soup, and always made a pot for company.

Instead, he was about to enjoy a feast celebrating the successful conclusion of the debate. Each of the races had contributed an ingredient for the main course: the dwarves – fresh salmon; the elves – fragrant herbs; the hobbits – golden onions; the humans – lemon zest, traded from the south. The smell alone from the resulting meal had his mouth watering.

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She Cried by sweeterthannothing

Marie stood at her kitchen counter and cried, fat tears seared pathways down pale cheeks.
She hated crying, thankfully no one was around to see her.
What would her mother make of her now? What would she say seeing where Marie’s life had taken her? Her mother and warned her against marrying Keith, she knew it was a mistake a mile off but had Marie listened?

Marie sniffed and looked down at the knife glinting in her hands. Bad choice after bad choice had led her here, “why does he have to eat so many bloody onions?” She cried.

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Appearances (Part I) by D. Avery

My sister and I were getting some candy when we recognized the witch in front of us. The clerk told the witch he’d got all her items in one bag but that it was very heavy. My sister jabbed me when I said, Let’s put some in another bag, I’ll carry it for you. The witch said if my sister was coming too, she’d buy a bag of golden onions as well for her to carry. So that’s how we got into the witch’s house, following her down the street carrying her groceries.
She didn’t smile like a witch.

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Appearances (Part II) by D. Avery

We followed the witch inside and set down our loads. A black cat, curled on a chair, stretched, revealing its white belly and toes. What appeared at first to be a crystal ball on a small table was only a large golden onion. My sister had been wrong. This was no witch.

But then, cradling the onion in her palms, the woman declared Not all lies are stories and that Stories are not all lies. She said I was a literary artist and gave me the pen and writing pad I hadn’t even known were in the grocery bag.

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Follow 20 by Liz Husebye Hartmann

Jill slipped the brass thimble over her thumb and grabbed Jack’s hand, pulling him toward the tower, and the mortar and pestle parked against its side. In their dirndl and lederhosen, shirts the purest white, hair gleaming blond-gold, their bare feet crossed the expanse of deepening snow.

Babes, just outside the Wood.

Peeking over the edge of the mortar, Jill spied a dashboard, a thimble-sized, bone-white button on one side.

She slipped the acorn thimble over the button, tight as the skin on a golden onion, and pressed down.

The mortar immediately rumbled to life. Shaking and groaning, it lifted.

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Follow 21 by Liz Husebye Hartmann

“Get in!” screamed Jill. She hopped in to the mortar and Jack came tumbling after.

“How do we steer this thing?” He screamed back, grabbing the pestle like a sailboat tiller, as it began to roll around the inside of the mortar.

“Dunno! You’re the sailor!”

“Right,” muttered Jack. He rolled the pestle right, then left. The mortar rose higher and higher through the blinding snow, noisily bumping against the side of the dark tower.

Halfway up, Jack got a better feel for steering. Breaking through the snowstorm, they saw the cupola at the tower’s top, a gleaming golden onion.

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The Field by Hugh W. Roberts

Laying in a dark field, the skin of a giant golden onion shimmered in the moonlight, hoping to tempt passersby to touch it.

Townsfolk spoke of a curse cast by a vengeful, vindictive spirit on the onion. They avoided the field, warning their children never to venture in.

Travellers thought the shimmer was gold. Some failed in their temptation to go into the field. Those that touched the onion disappeared without a trace.

Some nights, the air was filled with the scent of onion, reminding the townsfolk that the cursed golden onion was waiting to claim its next victim.

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An Innocent Soul by Miss Judy

She was a young child, innocent, too young to be deprived of life, the ability to grow, learn, love, live. She was as a tender bulb sprouting for the earth needing to be nurtured, a tender sole needing to grow layer upon layer of knowledge, experience, happiness and sadness – to live and love life.
She grew no layers to be peeled back to remember a life well lived. She was merely an innocent sole whose smile would melt his heart, whose tiny fingers would grip her father’s hand. She was an innocent child deprived of life, gone too young.

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From Aerial Ta Allium by D. Avery

“Git on down from yer Poet Tree, Kid. Quit doin the alley-oop on thet danged trapeze an git ta the allium.”
“Thinkin on stayin up here, Pal. Don’t find too much appealin bout this golden onion prompt.”
“Stay put then. Ain’t no skin off my bulb if ya don’t write fer the prompt. Shorty’ll be fine without ya, I’m sure.”
“Wait Pal, I’m comin down. There. Feet on the ground.”
“Like a onion.”
“Yep. Or a carrot.”
“Ready ta write, Kid?”
“Yep. Here goes:

*peelin off
protective layers
paper thin

revealin goodness
satisfyin soup*

“Tanka, Kid?”
“Yer welcome, Pal.”

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