Meal

(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.