(Challenge:
Write a story about what you’d cook for an enemy.)
The meal would be pleasantly deceiving. It would,
most likely, be a simple rounded bowl of noodles. The long strips of yellow
will be soft, almost mushy. They will gather along the piping soup’s surface,
as if ready to stretch out its measly length to wrap itself slowly and
slithering around the diner’s ugly neck. They will be ordinary looking, curling
in on itself as most noodles do, creating endless loops as trapped air bubbles
try to escape to the fresh, crisp open surface. However, it will be too late.
The noodles will block them with their physical forms, the entangling, soggy
lines blocking the air bubbles from any light, depriving brethren from their
estranged pocket of air. The noodles will draw the soup’s entirety with the
clock as their witness, expanding and snickering with glee, cutting off the
weak light and the cool air from reaching the bottomless depths of scalding
darkness. The blindness of the sea of hotness will set fiery flames alight,
shrouding the crystal clear of the soup. All that is left will be the shredded
pieces of noodles laying on the surface, tattered and defeated by mere layers
of choking, splattered oil. The soup will drown all in it, slaughtering and
laughing with the bowl fully upright to its lovely shape.
And how will the diner die from the meal? The diner
will die from the pinprick of poison planted delicately on the fork itself, of
course.
