Two stories share the same title, You Aren't Going to Eat That.
Story 1: Stacked (6/50/100)
“You aren’t going to eat that?” (6)
“Why? Do you think it’s poisoned?”
“Because it’s half eaten on a room service tray outside someone else’s room.”
“Not half eaten. Just a bite, and the knife looks clean. I’ll cut that part off.”
“You know what Dr. Ganz said about eating late at night.”
“Let’s live a little.” (50)
“You’ll be up all night.”
“We used to come home from parties at midnight, eat pasta, and have sex until dawn.”
“We were much younger.”
“It’s your favorite … coconut cake. We’ll share it.”
“Don’t let anyone see.”
Fifteen minutes later, he’s feeding her a fork of coconut cake in bed. Both of them are naked. A dirty movie is on TV with the sound off.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
“The things I let you talk me into.”
“You’re the one who ordered the porn,” he smiles, offering her the last bite of cake, as he always does when they share.
Story 2: 100 words
“You aren’t going to eat that.”
“Oh, yes, I am. I love cheese!”
“No. Don’t. I’m telling you—”
WHACK!
“Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, OW! Son of a bitch!” he cries.
He jerked when the platform moved, hold down bar releasing spring-loaded hammer, the force flipping over the trap and him, his one leg now hopelessly pinned.
“Help me!”
She dutifully gnaws through his snared leg to free him.
“Not a word,” he warns as they use the burrowed hole out of the hotel cellar, him leaving a thin trail of blood and her shaking her head. (100)
Story Title: Comfort Food [TW: Gore, Violence, Domestic Abuse]
Story:
Pasta would be her comfort food. (6)
She’d made her decision after the incident where she’d gorged on the flesh of her fiancé. She imagined the tomato sauce plopping on the plate like clotted blood, the meatballs rolling down the mound of spaghetti like eyeballs. His eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes which she’d ripped from the sockets. (50)
“How did it feel when he hit you?”
She blinked and looked up. The counselor sat silently, waiting for her to speak.
“He never hit me,” she said. “I’m the one that hurt him. I beat him, ate his flesh, ripped out his eyes, slashed his ugly face.”
“It was like eating comfort food,” she continued, her eyes dancing. “The more I chewed, the more I felt calm.”
She shook her head. “But not anymore. I know it’s wrong.”
“It is all in your head,” said the counselor. He smiled, leaned over, and whispered in her ear. “I’m still alive.” (100)
She smiled, and didn't that just twist the knife? He'd told himself that he was doing this for her: the date, the park, the ice cream shop. But honestly? He'd been stalling, working up his courage.
"So what did you want to talk about?" (50)
"I think we should break up."
She nodded. "I think so too.”
"You do?"
She licked her ice cream: chocolate, with rainbow sprinkles. "We go to school in different states. And... I met someone."
"Who?"
"Does it matter?"
He wants to say no. His ice cream, melting, reaches his wrist. (100)
Lila was hungry. Not for food per se, especially not ice cream. But she was hungry for life. Check that, she was hungry for money. Sitting outside Mr. Freezie’s she saw her next mark in Ty. Eyeballing her hungrily. Young, dumb and full of Rocky Road. Perfect for the play. (50)
Ty had shown the $100 so she knew he was cash good.
Easy money was not something that found him often, actually ever. He wanted to be sure. “You eat 10 scoops in five minutes for the money.”
Lila nodded confidently.
Before he knew exactly what hit him, Lila produced from the bench beside her, and in short order slurped down, a tiny paper cup’s worth of ten even tinier Dippin’ Dots. She snatched away the greenback and ran as Ty sat slackjawed. They might be the ice cream of the future, but some things are as old as time. (100)
Reap the rewards. The eyes dimmed by age. Sorrows seen as glimpses past and days appeared to last; ; yet fade away in the cataract clouds . I see street signs now after an operation but still need corrective glasses. The sunlight is more intense even wearing shades. Close up my nearsighted eyes see with out any prescription. But suddenly with out notice there is a burning sensation. My I’s are T’s ; my focus more blurry. . Small print I dread the conclusion is harder to see. I type on my phone pad but dread the conclusion that my past experiences have caught up with me. There is a macular degeneration where one line becomes two ore a wave become three. The rewards are being reaped so readily that the days will soon be gone. I will see a different light within and nothing I can do but write a last thought down. Perhaps it is too late to learn Braille. . Is it possible on an I phone? The days appear dark before they begun. My sorrows sweep the eye worms away . My only hope is someone can understand what I write in the beginning of a nightmare yet to come to fruition it is clear.
Two stories share the same title, You Aren't Going to Eat That.
Story 1: Stacked (6/50/100)
“You aren’t going to eat that?” (6)
“Why? Do you think it’s poisoned?”
“Because it’s half eaten on a room service tray outside someone else’s room.”
“Not half eaten. Just a bite, and the knife looks clean. I’ll cut that part off.”
“You know what Dr. Ganz said about eating late at night.”
“Let’s live a little.” (50)
“You’ll be up all night.”
“We used to come home from parties at midnight, eat pasta, and have sex until dawn.”
“We were much younger.”
“It’s your favorite … coconut cake. We’ll share it.”
“Don’t let anyone see.”
Fifteen minutes later, he’s feeding her a fork of coconut cake in bed. Both of them are naked. A dirty movie is on TV with the sound off.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
“The things I let you talk me into.”
“You’re the one who ordered the porn,” he smiles, offering her the last bite of cake, as he always does when they share.
Story 2: 100 words
“You aren’t going to eat that.”
“Oh, yes, I am. I love cheese!”
“No. Don’t. I’m telling you—”
WHACK!
“Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, OW! Son of a bitch!” he cries.
He jerked when the platform moved, hold down bar releasing spring-loaded hammer, the force flipping over the trap and him, his one leg now hopelessly pinned.
“Help me!”
She dutifully gnaws through his snared leg to free him.
“Not a word,” he warns as they use the burrowed hole out of the hotel cellar, him leaving a thin trail of blood and her shaking her head. (100)
Word Length: Stacked Story (6/50/100)
Story Title: Comfort Food [TW: Gore, Violence, Domestic Abuse]
Story:
Pasta would be her comfort food. (6)
She’d made her decision after the incident where she’d gorged on the flesh of her fiancé. She imagined the tomato sauce plopping on the plate like clotted blood, the meatballs rolling down the mound of spaghetti like eyeballs. His eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes which she’d ripped from the sockets. (50)
“How did it feel when he hit you?”
She blinked and looked up. The counselor sat silently, waiting for her to speak.
“He never hit me,” she said. “I’m the one that hurt him. I beat him, ate his flesh, ripped out his eyes, slashed his ugly face.”
“It was like eating comfort food,” she continued, her eyes dancing. “The more I chewed, the more I felt calm.”
She shook her head. “But not anymore. I know it’s wrong.”
“It is all in your head,” said the counselor. He smiled, leaned over, and whispered in her ear. “I’m still alive.” (100)
Word Length: Stacked (6/50/100)
Story Title: The Breakup
"Together or separate?"
"Together," he lied. (6)
She smiled, and didn't that just twist the knife? He'd told himself that he was doing this for her: the date, the park, the ice cream shop. But honestly? He'd been stalling, working up his courage.
"So what did you want to talk about?" (50)
"I think we should break up."
She nodded. "I think so too.”
"You do?"
She licked her ice cream: chocolate, with rainbow sprinkles. "We go to school in different states. And... I met someone."
"Who?"
"Does it matter?"
He wants to say no. His ice cream, melting, reaches his wrist. (100)
Eros
Ice cream dripping on your breasts
Ten Scoops Are Better Than One. (6)
Lila was hungry. Not for food per se, especially not ice cream. But she was hungry for life. Check that, she was hungry for money. Sitting outside Mr. Freezie’s she saw her next mark in Ty. Eyeballing her hungrily. Young, dumb and full of Rocky Road. Perfect for the play. (50)
Ty had shown the $100 so she knew he was cash good.
Easy money was not something that found him often, actually ever. He wanted to be sure. “You eat 10 scoops in five minutes for the money.”
Lila nodded confidently.
Before he knew exactly what hit him, Lila produced from the bench beside her, and in short order slurped down, a tiny paper cup’s worth of ten even tinier Dippin’ Dots. She snatched away the greenback and ran as Ty sat slackjawed. They might be the ice cream of the future, but some things are as old as time. (100)
50 words
THE THING ABOUT PASTRY
If you’re going to the market, bring me a pastry, please.
What kind of pastry?
Just find one that’s labeled, “She should definitely not be eating this one.” That’s the one I want.
But why?
Because sometimes, Ed …. sometimes … you just have to do something bad to know you’re alive.
Title: degeneration.
Reap the rewards. The eyes dimmed by age. Sorrows seen as glimpses past and days appeared to last; ; yet fade away in the cataract clouds . I see street signs now after an operation but still need corrective glasses. The sunlight is more intense even wearing shades. Close up my nearsighted eyes see with out any prescription. But suddenly with out notice there is a burning sensation. My I’s are T’s ; my focus more blurry. . Small print I dread the conclusion is harder to see. I type on my phone pad but dread the conclusion that my past experiences have caught up with me. There is a macular degeneration where one line becomes two ore a wave become three. The rewards are being reaped so readily that the days will soon be gone. I will see a different light within and nothing I can do but write a last thought down. Perhaps it is too late to learn Braille. . Is it possible on an I phone? The days appear dark before they begun. My sorrows sweep the eye worms away . My only hope is someone can understand what I write in the beginning of a nightmare yet to come to fruition it is clear.