Slap. Scrape. Slap. Scrape. I look at the card I drew, and then I looked at the spoons situated mid-table. I rearrange my cards to make the new card untraceable and then passed it along to the person on my left. I drew a new card from the deck. The tension was so thick; I could have cut it with a knife. There was dead silence, except for the slap of people passing on their discards and the scrape of their neighbors picking them up.
I drew another card, matched it with another, and passed on an unwanted card. I surveyed the other seven players, watching their faces for any sign of them completing their set of four. I picked up another card, shuffled it around and passed another card. Three-of-a-kind, I thought, I’m getting close. I drew my final card. I stretched my arm out a little longer than normal as I passed my card. On the way back, I soundlessly snagged a spoon and deposited it in my lap.
Suddenly, the others noticed the missing spoon. Half a dozen hands reached for spoons. The rush was on and the war had started. One of the older boys (whose name was Rick) reached for a spoon at the same time as my older brother, Drew. It slipped from both their hands and flew through the air. They both dived for it. Drew got to it first, but he accidentally hit it and it flipped from his hands. Rick grabbed it and held it up triumphantly, eliminating Drew.
Thus the War of Spoons ended.
