When Mary-Ellen heard the prognosis, her first thought was for the strays. Not for the sister she rarely spoke to, the colleagues she spent thirty polite hours with a week, or the medical bills she'd never have time to pay off. Who would feed the strays?

It had started with just one: a battered ginger tom that was too wary to come when called, but hungry enough to take pieces of cooked chicken thrown from her kitchen window. At first, he snatched and ran, but after a few short weeks he would eat from a bowl placed on the ground, wild eyes fixed on her as she stood well back. Before long, she had a small gang of them visiting her, yowling each evening in the alleyway next to her small house. Only a few -- perhaps the ones who had ever been beloved, who had known a home outside the streets -- would ever trust her to pet them, but they visited all the same, relied on her for food if not comfort.

When the girls at worked giggled over tales of a new boyfriend or cooed at pictures of chubby-cheeked toddlers, she didn't have much to contribute; it had been a long time since the romance in her life had come from anywhere but paperbacks. Still, when they chattered about weekend plans or school choices, she didn't feel too alone. The strays needed her, depended on her. To be needed was enough.

In the weeks following her last doctor's appointment, Mary-Ellen set her affairs in order. She made the few necessary phone calls, cancelled any ongoing contracts. Her will was a short one: everything she owned to be divided up amongst several local charities. One worked with at-risk youth, others focused on cleaning up litter or providing help to the unemployed. There was no charity to feed the strays.

She worried about them. They were all so thin, covered in scars and sores, with ribs showing as they slinked across cracked tarmac. None of them lasted that long -- there were always new faces to replace the old, most only visiting for a few months before never appearing again. Without her to provide one solid meal a day, how much leaner would they be? How much shorter their lives?

For the last time, she laid out the evening meal: a dozen mismatched feeding bowls, each filled to overflowing and topped -- a rare luxury -- with thick chunks of oily tuna. Normally, she measured it out carefully, ensuring that each bag of premium cat food lasted as many days as it could, but that didn't matter anymore. For the strays who would let her, she held them as she said her goodbyes, pressed her cheek against soft fur. Apologised over and over for letting them down, for only giving them one more meal.

When the last one had vanished back into the dark, she collected the bowls and washed them carefully, stacking them neatly next to the sink. She went around each room in her little house, checking that the windows were cracked open, that the doors (normally so tightly secured) remained unlocked, unchained, and ajar. She left a letter -- to whom it may concern -- placed prominently on the kitchen table, where anyone looking for her would see it before checking upstairs.

Then Mary-Ellen went to her room, said her nightly prayers for the last time, and prepared one final feast.

I woke up to the enticing aroma of rich cocoa, blended with the sweet scent of fresh fragaria. My eyes opened groggily to witness Katrina holding a succulent strawberry, its ruby-red hue glistening from sunlight shining through the open bedroom window. With a casual wink and smirk, she dipped the fruit into a pool of velvety chocolate sauce.

As the juicy treat inched closer, the fragrant chocolate dripped in slow, mesmerizing rivulets that evoked a primal hunger within me. With open jaws, I licked my lips in anticipation and leaned forward to eat it. I would’ve consumed the tantalizing treat if only my hands weren’t tied to the bedpost.

“I didn’t bind your tentacles,” she chuckled, dangling it just out of range from my tongues. “Freeing yourself should be easy.”

“You wouldn’t be feeding me if I liberated myself and slithered away,” I pouted while extending a tentacle to grab her wrist. “Don’t goad your god—"

Her fingers blurred and flavours exploded in my mouth —an exquisite fusion of tartness from the strawberry bathed in the decadent richness of chocolate swirling along my tongue. I savored the burst of rich juices and the release of saccharine sweetness, spilling from my mouth and dribbling down my throat. Kat dabbed the messy flow of liquid bliss with my handkerchief, which she produced from—

“…Wait, are you wearing my shirt?”

Her hearty laughter echoed in the room. “Yea, because it’s big, comfy, and smells like you. Funny like your sense of humor, and salty as your eldritch seas. I put it on while you were heavily inebriated. Now, do you want another berry?”

“I want to eat them all,” I flashed her a simpering smile.

With a symphony of rhythmic plops, Kat unloaded the strawberries into the bowl of chocolate. I devoured every scrumptious berry and slurped the chocolatey goodness as a starving mutt would lap up every last morsel in its food bowl.

“Elvari, you greedy fuck. I’m all out of berries.”

I bared my teeth in a wide grin. “Why don’t I gobble you whole?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Putting the empty bowl aside, she straddled my lap and ran her fingers through my hair, pushing several stray strands back to curl them behind my ears. She caressed my face, then moved on to massage my shoulders. Her hands wandered down to my bare chest, her soft touch to my pale flesh sending pleasurable waves of euphoria coursing through me.

My tentacles coiled around her waist to reel her in. Her caress sent shivers up my spine and piquant sensations rippling through every appendage. The playful dance of her fingers enthralled me, as did the gentle warmth of her body pressed against mine. The heady rush where our lips embraced. Her taste was honeyed and intoxicating, setting my tastebuds aflame.

It was to my reluctance that she pulled away from me, and my restraints jerked me back when I lurched forward for more.

“This unexpectedly delectable feast must have a price.” I sighed. “You need a favor from me, don’t you?”

“…My parents matched me with a guy,” she crossed her arms and frowned. “They demanded an update.”

“You didn’t tell them about your sexy eldritch boyfriend?” I nibbled on a tentacle and gave her my best smoldering stare. The smoking hot kind that could singe the fur off any werewolf.

“No! My father will never shut up once he learns I’m dating an abomination I should be investigating. But here I am, hand-feeding a half-naked eldritch god in my bedroom. While wearing his shirt.”

“And having fun. I know we both enjoyed this intimate moment here,” I smiled coyly. “What do you wish of me? I’ll do anything for you now that I ate well.”

“Disguise yourself as my matchmade target,” she stated firmly. “I’m asking you because we don’t have to pretend to be in love.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I’d suggest you spill the truth. But not today. So, tell me more about your prospective 'not-boyfriend'.”

“He’s a knight. Has dark, curly hair and green eyes. Shares my love for mystery novels and historical fiction. And he bakes too, would you believe that?”

“He sounds right up your alley,” I remarked wistfully.

“But you’re the one who slithered in and made yourself all snug and comfortable in my heart.”

“Very well,” I finally wriggled out of my bindings to cast the illusion. “One southern gentleman knight in shining armor coming right up.”

Word Count: 745 words

Whew, my first time really going into detail to describe food in multi-sensory detail when I'm not a foodie myself. I hope this is a delectable food porn read.

Still Thinking About A Title

<Urban fiction>

—

Hearing Pushkin, my nine-month-old Bernese, jump and happily yap all over the place spread a smile across my lips.

With my best friend living abroad, we rarely had any visitors. So, whenever Kasper, my boyfriend, showed up, Pushkin would greet him with lots of licks and love.

After giving the yeast, lukewarm milk, and sugar mix one last whisk, I sat the timer on and peered over my shoulder to see what the boys were doing.

The sunlight that sneaked in through the balcony door cast a soft glow on Pushkin’s fur. Waiting for the yeast to activate, I watched Kasper’s grin grow bigger, making the wrinkles surrounding his hazel eyes more visible.

From where I was standing, I could hear him hum along to the Iron Maiden song that was playing. And I couldn’t help but go back in time and recall how things were before I moved here.

Absent-mindedly beating eggs with the yeast mix, I gave in and let the waves of my memories drift me away from here.

Echoes of joyful laughter and the aroma of fresh baked goods and dark chocolate floating in the air as a pair of tattooed arms wrapped around me slowly occupied my mind. Even after spending a year apart, I didn’t forget the tone of his voice or the way he used to call me ‘ma chérie’.

As the strong odor of yeast tickled my nostrils, I sifted the flour, willingly losing control over my thoughts. They evolved around late nights spent baking with him or sitting on the couch under the blanket I made years ago, my head resting against his shoulder.

Both having irregular sleep schedules, we used to stay up late. When not baking, he’d play games online while I’d read.

The feeling of Kasper propping his chin on my shoulder dragged me back to reality.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” he whispered, nuzzling my hair. The feeling of his warm breath fanning against the back of my neck chased away phantoms of my ex’s memories.

“That’s a colossal batch you’re baking.”

“It’s the small portions I’ve a problem with, remember?” I joked, trying to sound natural as I incorporated flour into the liquids.

“I know, I know.” The deep chuckle he released resonated within me as he looped his arms around my figure, pulling me closer. “Don’t forget to add salt, though.”

Realizing I forgot to add it yet again, I bit my lower lip, trying to hold back my laughter.

“I knew it.”

Leaning a bit, he sprinkled some salt before pressing his lips against my temple. We remained like this for a while, with him hugging me.

Gradually adding butter, I continued kneading the sticky dough until it became soft.

The silence filling the air and Kasper’s proximity reminded me of all the times my ex and I clumsily slow danced in the middle of our kitchen while waiting for the dough to proof. Haunted by my ex’s deep voice whispering sweet nothings and teasing me about blushing, I covered the dough and started grabbing the ingredients to make the frosting.

“I’ll always be here to remind you to add salt to your baked goods,” Kasper whispered, leaving a couple of kisses on my shoulder.

He then went back to play with Pushkin, leaving me with conflicted feelings, unbearable guilt, and too many flashbacks to handle.

Even though I hated to admit it to myself, I knew that my heart and soul were still attached to my ex. Kasper was a great guy. I appreciated his kindness and attention. However, I was unable to erase the other one. Details like how his voice became slightly nasal whenever he switched to French or tried to imitate my accent, how he teased me whenever I mispronounced Dutch or German words, and the scent of his cologne were still carved in my memory.

I tried so hard to wash away the traces he left on my soul. To forget the feeling of his large hands against my cheeks.

And I tried to love Kasper—to open up and let him in. I tried to reciprocate his feelings, but the strings tying me to my ex kept holding me back.

“Claudia,” he called out, bringing me back to present time.

Afraid I might alarm him, I hastily wiped away my tears.

“The timer.”

Seeing his genuine smile when I looked his way made me realize how much of a terrible person I was.

—

Word count: 750 words

Thank you for reading my story, crits and feedback are always appreciated.

r/AnEngineThatCanWrite

Comfort Food

“Ever heard that you can get people to like you by feeding them?” Said Kelly, looking up from her laptop.

“What, like a dog or somethin?” Connor replied without turning from wiping the countertop.

“You adopt one husky and everything’s dogs for you now, huh?”

“Actually I got another one yesterday, his name’s Diego.”

“I think you missed San then, you’ve only got Carmen and Diego.”

“Eh, one day I might.” He made his way back behind the counter and began placing little signs announcing sales beside the various baked goods in the display case. “Enough about me, what’s up on your end?”

Kelly stopped her typing–and backspacing, mostly backspacing–to look up at him. Misty forests tinged with concern and curiosity stared back, green and grey and all too kind for whatever was about to slip out of her mouth.

“Oh nothing much, just the usual uni things y’know.” She mumbled with her eyes turned away.

“No I don’t actually, never went remember?”

“Right uh, I’ve been falling a little behind on my thesis but I’m getting back into it at the moment so you don’t need to worry.”

The bastard raised one black eyebrow at her, angling his head up so his stubbly chin jutted towards her in doubt.

“I’m not lying! Look, I can even show you my progress, here.” She turned the laptop his way to find he was already thundering towards her. “Uh, it’s still not refined yet though so just–”

“It’s shit.”

Kelly cringed away from Connor looming over the screen. Her eyes went to the window on her right and then to the wooden floors to get away from him. “Yeesh, no need to be that harsh y’know. I did just say it was a first draft.”

“No no, you’ve written far worse than this, it’s just shit.”

“What do you–?” Her question died as he just stretched and walked over to flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Then he went to the back to fetch something and was gone for a notable time. Instead, Kelly just twiddled her fingers for a bit. Then she clicked about on the laptop and when even that couldn’t cut her nerves, she just leaned back and put her face in her hands.

What did he even mean? He didn’t just up his reading standards without me looking did he? “Written far worse… it’s just shit.” What do you know?

“Oi.”

Kelly almost jumped out of her skin, but that was impossible so she settled for almost falling off the seat. “What do you want?”

“I brought food.”

“Do I need to pay?”

“When have I ever made you pay dumbass?”

“Touché.”

He sat down opposite her, depositing two heaping plates of bread and butter and goodness between them.

“I know you haven’t really been writing for the thesis, last time you were a quarter page ahead of what you showed me just now. What’s happening?” He nudged one plate towards her and then picked out a bit of rich chocolatey babka for himself.

“Just… the usual studying stress.”

“You’ve been able to manage that pretty well the last ten years I’ve known you. And even when you couldn’t you’d come to me, what’s actually happening? Did Trevor do something?”

“Yea we kinda… broke up.”

He slammed the table and got to his feet, tattooed arms flexing with the sudden movement. “What?”

“It was a month back though he’d started losing interest long before, he said I was too absorbed all up in my ‘shit fucking writing’ to ever give him any time and then he said he hoped it didn’t amount to anything when he left.”

“And you didn’t tell me this until now?”

“Well, what were you meant to do?”

“Oh I dunno, be a good friend? Give you some food and a shoulder to cry on perhaps? Beat the shit out of that cunt maybe? Anything other than sitting around wondering what’s up while you went through that on your own?”

“And now it’s a month later, too bad! What do you want from me now?” Kelly got up to match him.

“I want you to sit down, eat some food and remember that whatever he said isn’t true, you’re hands down the best writer I know and I’ve seen how you’ve improved over the years so just think about that for me ok? And if anything happens going forward, call me. Please.”

—-

WC: 748

—-

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

Detective Woodsman paced, his handy axe secured at his hip. The perp sat at the metal table, blanket draped over his shoulders, still playing ‘the victim.’

’How was someone so young capable of such a heinous crime?’ he thought.

Woodsman’s partner sat with the boy’s accomplice collaborating their fanciful tale in the neighboring room.

“Hanzel, you admit you shoved Mrs. Goose into an oven, then locked her inside.”

“Ya, but it was self-defense!” the pre-teen loudly proclaimed.

“Likely story, just tell it to me again, this time for the record,” Woodsman said taking a bite from a danish. Crumbs fell and accumulated in a tuft of exposed chest hair.

“There we were…”

—-

Hanzel and his twin Grettle opened the doors to Mother Goose’s Bakery, pockets merrily jingling from the change they had scrounged. The warm, spicy scent of gingerbread filled the air; causing their mouths to fill with saliva. It had been weeks since the two had eaten anything other than gruel, ever since their parents had abandoned them at the Deep Dark Woods Orphanage.

Eagerly, helplessly the two started stuffing their mouths with the delectable treats on display. Fluffy sticky buns, gooey chocolate chip cookies, armies of gingerbread men, and other sweets fell to the twin’s insatiable appetite.

Soon they found their mouths were filled with honey, their hands sticky with sugar, and their stomachs soured with regret for everything was now gone. The handful of pennies wouldn’t come close to covering the bill.

A smiling old woman peered at them from the doorway behind the counter. Rubbing her wrinkled hands she cackled, “You two must have been famished! But, oh, you two are so thin. I would offer you more but.” She then motioned to the empty shelves with a shrug.

Hanzel turned to run but his sister gripped his hand tightly. “Madam, I am sorry that we ate everything. It was just so delicious and I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer but a few pennies.”

“It’s alright my sweets. I love to see children eat my treats. How about a deal? You get me more ingredients and we will call it even.”

“That is more than fair. We’ll do it.”

Handing them the list the two traveled from one end of the city to the other. The list was very particular about where each item must come from. Milk from the Unicornary, yeast from Little Miss Muffet’s, and so forth.

After almost two hours the twins returned, weighed down by bulging sacks. Stepping through the door they heard the woman call from the room behind the counter.

“Dearies is that you? Can you bring everything to me? I’m firing up the oven and I would love your help.”

They entered a massive kitchen and laid their sacks on a nearby table. Heavy, black cauldrons lined the wall. Knives and mallets were laid out on a long wooden table that stretched the whole breadth of the room. At the far end, the woman sat on a stool scrutinizing the flames in oven. The cast iron door sat open, a blazing heat radiated from within, distorting the air.

“I have one ingredient left that I need before you can go- it’s a little secret that no one can know, it would probably drive away my business,” she cackled and motioned the twins to come close.

Sweat poured from the two as they leaned in to hear the secret.

“Souls that have walked all the corners of the city streets.”

—-

“And that is when we pushed her in,” the boy ended his tale staring off into the distance.

Detective Woodsman shook his head finishing his danish. That is when the door opened and a large anthropomorphic wolf walked in wearing a deputy badge.

“What is it BBW?!? I’m in the middle of an interrogation- I mean interview!”

“Sir, I have new evidence from the scene,” the wolf growled handing the detective a cookbook opened to a page with a hand-drawn picture of a danish.

‘Travelers Danishes: 2 cups blue cow butter, 5 cups mandrake flour, 1/2 cup pixie sugar, 4 tsp tuffet yeast, 2 tsp Dwarven salt, 1.5 cups unicorn milk, 2 golden eggs, 4 soles of shoes that have walked the city streets (the farther the better).’

Detective Woodsman’s stomach suddenly didn’t feel so good. He felt the tips of his fingers stick together. An empty box that once held this morning’s danishes sat on the table, a pink goose on the box winking at him.

The porridge was steaming on the outdoor stove by now. Hatsue gave it one more stir to break up the clumps that still lingered, then ladled it out into the two wooden bowls that she shared with Ken and his elderly parents. She considered herself lucky that they could still digest porridge.

They never left their lodgings now. Not after the cholera outbreak that had taken several of their closest friends and neighbors. All those losses seemed to have broken something in them finally. Even as Hatsue approached them with piping hot porridge in hand, topped with bonito flakes from someone's provision store job, they barely stirred from the floor. She'd pawned the futons earlier this morning.

She set down the bowls beside them. She'd wash them later when they finished their lunch, and then they'd be ready for dinner. She always served herself last. After that she would go to the pawn shop and pawn her underclothes to get the futons back. It was a good system. She only wished she could make it more comfortable for them sometimes.

If only they could pawn Ken's jacket like she used to before. But Ken had been working longer and longer hours at the factory recently, coming home after they were all asleep and leaving before they woke up. Some days she barely saw him at all.

He wouldn't tell her anything about it, but she did piecework from time to time and so she had her own experiences with factories to draw on. Everyone was so easily replaced. Every supervisor demanded so much and yet seemed to think their workers were barely worth anything. It was so easy to slip out of the supervisors' good graces.

No one would ever replace Ken for her. They'd never had a fancy official ceremony or combined their households, but what else were they doing by living together in this four-mat room with his elderly parents? That was why she prepared his lunches for him every day no matter what other jobs she had to do.

A bottle of sake saved from better times. Fish and rice, burnt carrot slices and pickled radish purchased cheaply from the military academy across the river. There weren’t as many leftover rice shops as there used to be and every little bit counted, especially when you had a man and his elderly parents to support. The kitchen staff looked down on her, she knew, for buying scraps and leftovers fit only for manure. Well, let them scoff. They still took her money. That said more than any tutting or disapproving looks ever would.

Everyone did what they could here. It was a skill to be able to do much with little. Even if their long working hours kept them apart, her meals would speak for her. In their own small way, they would show Ken that he was loved.

It's simple: learn and replace.

Chef knew his shit, for sure. Spices and salts and honeys and extracts, they made it all SO GOOD.

But I could make it good, too. I learned it in the dark underbelly, the places ain't nobody go if they's smart. And soon, all them bitches'd be knocking down MY door.

But Chef. Chef wanted them bitches. Chef wanted them high dollas. Chef wanted the cream.

So I got a plan, a plan to get out from under. A plan that oughta work. A plan to make ME the new Chef.

I hid in plain sight, made sure Chef never knew what hit, made sure Chef became nothing more'n mid in people's minds.

I did it by getting somebody else's face up in front of Chef. That bumbling fool woulda never done it by hisself. He was a sweet boy, with a sweetness on a girl I could take advantage of. She was the thirst trap to his aimless ass.

So I showed him how it could be -- a partnership. One I directed. He'd get his bitch, and I'd get the glory, and we'd be the ones that made Chef shiver in the dark of his nightmares.

But a name. A name that would make us famed. A name that people knew. A name that would put the fear into every other wannabe in the world. That was the trick.

Ratatouille.

<Realistic Fiction>

Best On The Block

Fabio turned the page of his favorite novel, the smell of croissants filling the air. His bakery was almost ready to open, he just needed another couple of hours for the pastries to finish.

He ran a thumbnail along the thin stubble on his strong jaw then turned the page. Nodding his head at the actions of the heroine in his novella caused a long, curled lock of black hair to come loose and fall over his eye. He tucked it back up under his hairnet to resume reading.

Someone knocked at the door. Fabio looked out past the counter, eyebrow cocked. The darkness outside was deepened by the lights in the bakery; he couldn't see who knocked, but the knock came again.

"We're closed," he said loudly, looking back down at his book. At the third knock he closed it and got up, taking the novel with him to unlock and pull open the door.

A woman stood outside, looking up at him with a thin coat against the mild chill of the summer morning.

"Excuse me," she said, "I am not intruding, I hope?" Her accent was exotic; Fabio couldn't place it.

Fabio glanced at the 'CLOSED' sign by his shoulder and pointed at it with his thumb.

"Of course not," he said, lacing his drawl with sarcasm. "This is French for 'Open'."

The woman opened her mouth, closed it, and her face flushed. She fiddled with a piece of paper in her hand and asked, "But is this 1701 L street?"

"Ah." Fabio understood. "This is 1701b." He stepped halfway out the door and pointed down the building's facade a ways to a rotating door. "That's probably where you want. Offices and such."

"Oh, much thanks," she said with a bow of her head.

"No problem, ma'am." Fabio nodded. "Happens all the time. But, uh, I don't think anyone's there either. No one really starts showing up until about six or seven. Except maybe the cleaners."

"But I was told to come at this time." She looked at her phone and Fabio noticed that it said 08:55. But it was only 3:55.

"You're not from here are ya?" he asked.

"Um, no. I am here for a job interview."

"Right, it looks like your phone's in the wrong timezone. It's almost four in the morning, you've got like five hours to kill."

"Oh...I see..." She looked back down at her phone, face going red. He couldn't tell if she was angry or embaressed, but he felt a little guilty about being a jerk earlier, so he stepped inside and held the door open.

"You can wait here if you want," he offered, "Plenty of empty booths."

She seemed hesitant at first but, after looking at the dark office building his bakery was adjoined to, nodded and went in. Fabio turned on the lights and gestured to one of the empty tables for her to make herself comfortable as he went back behind the counter.

"So what brings you to Atlanta, miss...?"

"Marionne," she answered. "I am here for software designer position at the company next door."

"That a fact?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"Fabio Sinclair." He put down a tray of croissants he pulled out of the oven. "Best baker on the block."

"I did not notice many." Marionne smirked and Fabio chuckled.

"Probably because I put them out of business. Yes, that's it. Certainly not because it's mostly office spaces around here and this was the only lot on the street zoned for a kitchen."

"I am suspecting...sarcasm?"

"You're catching on," Fabio chuckled. "Here, on the house." He carried one of the croissants over and set it on the table she sat at. She took a bite and nodded.

"Very good. If I am hired I may have to be coming here more."

"More than welcome. Always happy to add another regular to the breakfast rush."

"Often busy at breakfast then?"

"Only bakery on the block, remember? Perty much every suit on their way to work stops in here for something."

"I see." She took another bite. "So, are you open always this early?"

"Someone's gotta make the bread before business kicks in. Why?" Fabio glanced her way. "Plan on waking up early every day?"

"While jetlag is lasting, maybe?" Marionne finished the pastry. "Unless there is better bakery nearby you recommend?"

"Ha! I'm guessing...sarcasm?"

"I was trying for 'playful threat'."

"Whelp, can't be losin' a regular, can I? Doors open at four now."

----------------
WC: 750/600
All crit/feedback welcome!
r/TomesOfTheLitchKing

Notes:

• Fabio is based off of Locky's List of Ichi's Desires :P

[Ineligible for voting]

—-

The alarm sounded at seven-thirty. I sat up as Woody licked me. His mouth reeked of cat-food.

“Jake, Woody’s been in the Friskies again!” I laughed, wrinkling my nose. “Jake? Can you believe this crazy dog? Jake . . .?”

I turned to face him. He was on his side. His gorgeous, tanned skin shone greyish in the morning light. His blue eyes were unfocused. His mouth hung open awkwardly.

“Jake!” I shouted, passing a shaking hand beneath his nostrils.

Still breathing. Good. Now what? 911. . . What do I say?! Just dial!

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“My boyfriend doesn’t look right! Skin’s grey. Mouth’s weird. Barely breathing!” I blurted, hyperventilating.

“Okay. Stay calm. Keep him still. Could be a stroke. We’ll send an ambulance straightaway from Mercy General. Can you confirm your address is 123 Maple Street?”

“Yes. Hurry!”

I paced frantically. My mind swirled in a haze of thoughts and anxious impotence.

Mercy?! Did it have to be a hospital in downtown Springfield? Couldn’t it be a county one? They’re so much better. Safer . . . Richer. Do you hear yourself? A couple more comments and you’re going to sound like your racist uncle! . . . But dammit, it’s Jake.

Twenty minutes later, the siren whirred as I met the EMTs in the driveway.

Ten minutes and they’d stabilized Jake enough to go in the ambulance.

Random words echoed in my ears.

Stroke. Serious. In time. Maybe. Damage.

Sights flashed, too. Tubes. Monitors bleeping and glowing red.

I shook as we drove to Mercy. More words. Awkward looks. My tears washed both away.

We stopped in front of the ER. Staff flooded out. An army of white-clad ants were in motion around Jake. Moving. Talking. Nothing made sense, yet I flowed with them until my journey stopped.

“Wait here,” a nurse motioned.

I sat in a blue-plastic chair between a woman with a crying baby and a man with a possibly broken arm. Looking around the room, all I could see were similarly miserable faces.

At least Jake was being seen versus waiting. That was something. But Hope’s ER in the county wouldn’t have been this crowded.

Five hours later, they brought me back into Jake’s room. He was naked from the waist up. His scalp and chest were shaved bare. EKG wires spidered from his heart. A similar array ran from his scalp. Various IVs and monitors surrounded him.

A stranger’s haggard eyes looked back at me.

I flinched.

Where was my hot man-candy that all of the guys at the gym teased me about?

Seeking calm, I surveyed my surroundings. While I recognized some of the equipment, I noticed an odd tube protruding from a plastic triangle on his abdomen. It was clipped off with another piece of plastic and didn’t seem to go anywhere, unlike the myriad other wires connected to his body.

A nurse looked up from his clipboard. “It’s a PEG.”

“A what?”

“The triangle thing. Everyone asks. It’s a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy or PEG. That’s how you’re going to feed him for at least a couple months.”

“Months?” I gasped.

“Yea. Jake’s lucky. He had an ischemic stroke. Dysphagia’s a common side effect given the event’s primary motor cortex location.”

I stared blankly.

“Jake can’t swallow because of his stroke. So once he leaves the hospital, you’ll need to mix this formula powder with water and syringe it in like this.” He mimed doing so. Any questions so far?”

I shook my head numbly.

“And then flush the tube with water between the six daily, thirty-minute feedings. Keep things sterile, or Jake could risk serious infection and have to come back.”

“I-I’m not a doctor. How. . .?” My voice trembled.

“You’ll get used to it. Honest.” He smiled boyishly. “Besides, you can be a cool smoothie chef! If you can blend it, you can tube it! Creamy, rich Greek yogurt. Firm, golden bananas. Silky, green avocado. Sexy details may sound silly, but after a few weeks, you’re both going to be bored as heck. Gotta make the best of things, right?”

Dammit. I didn’t sign up for this! I’m young! Why couldn’t I take home a whole cute guy like him instead? Stop it! You LOVE Jake. . . Don’t you?

I grabbed Jake’s hand. Looking deep into his eyes, I saw their familiar twinkle. There, but broken.

It wasn’t enough.

—-

WC: 733

—-

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

Staffing Issues, Part 2.

(Lizard & Wizard ep5)

^{Urban Fantasy}

Chapter ^^Index

“Now, what you say you want help with?” Poppa asked. The big man was surprisingly polite for someone who looked like a meaner version of 50 Cent.

George peeked over the shoulder of his new… friend. The police officer was still glued to the screen of his phone. Looked like he was engrossed in a K-drama or something.

“I need to get past that cop over there. That place he’s guarding is a crime scene.” George frowned. “Even though there’s no more useful evidence left there. Strange... Anyway, there’s some stuff in there I need to get, and pretty fast.”

It is getting urgent, George. Another demon has been tracking you since you left your Nan’s place. Barry, his tiny draconic familiar, projected the words directly into George’s mind.

“Why are you only telling me now!?” George almost twisted his neck as he glared at the lizard coiled in his sweatshirt hood.

The detection bell-charm we rigged up to your bike has been pinging for a while. Didn’t you notice?

George sighed and rubbed his forehead.

Noticing the exchange between them, Poppa interjected. “Wait. You’re, like, El’s apprentice? Hell. You don’t look the magic type, dawg.”

“Oh? And what type is that?” George bit back his irritation.

“Y’know. Wrinkles an’ a beard and shit.”

Fair enough, George supposed.

“Not some fat, pimple-faced zoomer kid.”

“Forget it, I’ll work it out myself.” George snapped. He turned and started to climb onto his e-bike.

“Nah, dawg. Don’t be salty. I‘m messing with you.”

Calm down, George. Poppa isn’t a bad guy … as far as violent criminals go. And you need his help.

The beefy gangsta made a convincingly contrite expression. “Come on man. We good, yeah? Seems like we can help each other out, y’know.”

“Uh, what could you possibly want from me?”

Poppa looked at his feet, snatching little peeks at George and Barry. He twitched a hand at the paper bag on the bench beside him. “El used to hook me up with these donuts man. I been hoping to sneak in there and find the recipe. I know the book it’s in an’ shit. So, like, we both need to get in there, for real.” He gave George an imploring look.

“You want donuts? And you call me fat?” George was genuinely surprised.

Even more so when Big Poppa was instantly in his face, lifting him by his hoodie. “I’m big-boned, motherfucker!” His teeth seemed to grow sharper and his eyes turned tawny yellow.

He growled, deep and fierce, then let go suddenly. “Ah, sorry bud. Thing is, the Wiz mixed some shit in the recipe that calms my temper. Stops me from, y’know, changing - when I get mad.” He grabbed a chocolate donut and crammed it in his mouth. “Mmph, these are all I got, mmmfl, left.” He wiped his mouth and gave George an apologetic shrug. “I kinda been relying on ‘em.”

You really are a stupid goose, aren’t you? Barry’s thoughts are dripping with sour humour. He’s a gangster and a werewolf - and you call him fat…

Oh, it’s all right for him though, is it? George snapped back.

Just… at least keep your mouth under control until I teach you some defensive spells.

George caught an appealing whiff from the open bag. “Those do smell good. But … wouldn’t they be weeks old?”

“That’s why we called him the Wiz, man. These donuts always look, taste and smell so damn fresh, no matter how long they in the cupboard! Fuckin’ magic!” Poppa shook his head sadly. “I need that recipe. Those things keep me stable, y’know - they stop the curse. Wanna get outta the hood, man. I could get a regular job. Make a proper life for my girl an’ our kid, ya dig?”

Fuck. Now I feel like I have to help him, Barry.

You can’t let him have the spellbook.

George looked meaningfully at Barry and nodded slowly.

“Alright, listen Poppa. If you get me in there, I’ll get the recipe. You’re not a wizard, so it wouldn’t work for you anyway. But I swear I will help you out."

“Hell yeah! I knew you was alright when I saw you… What you say your name was again?”

“It’s George.” Big Poppa had a knack for deflating him immediately after pumping him up, it seemed.

“Well, George. Just so happens I got a plan, little dude. Big Poppa always has a plan!”

^WC-742

Notes:

The Fun Trope for this week is Through the Stomach! and the genre is Urban (handy, as this series is urban fantasy). The optional skill is to describe the food in multisensory detail (which Poppa does) and the bonus constraint is the special recipe - which Poppa wants to acquire. George is still trying to recover his wizard's accoutrements, and manages to strike a deal with Big Poppa to receive his assistance!

It looks like this has stretched to a three part escapade - a veritable serial within a serial!

Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story! All crit/feedback welcome!

r/WizardRites

Good Cookin

“Please join me in welcoming our guest. Lenore, come on out!”

Claps and applause. They don’t know this woman. She could be anyone, go by any name, it’s her story that matters. She’s the heroine. For now.

She sits under the bright lights in the chair closest to the host’s.

“Mr. Popovich, I know, know for certain, that my man is stepping out on me!”

The host didn’t respond directly, merely raising and eyebrow and glancing at the crowd incredulously before returning his gaze to Lenore.

She took the unspoken signal to continue. She didn’t need to be told this was her fifteen minutes of “fame.” “He comes home every damn night claiming he was down drinking at the bar!”

“And what about that makes you think Roy is a cheater, dear? Many men try to find solace and comfort at the bottom of the bottle.” Popovich shook his head softly. “Not that that would be much better but it wouldn’t rise to infidelity. Now why again do you think he is a cheater?”

“You think I dunno what stale beer smells like? He met me when I was bartending! I ain’t stupid, Marty. He smells like a damn deep fryer every time. Barely touches his dinner, or me, and then waddles his chubby BLEEP up to bed. She’s seducing him with her food!”

“Who is?”

“My best friend, Marty!” A picture of another woman appears on the screen. The crowd responds booing. They know what team they are on. “Yea, that’s Star alright. Been friends since freshman year of high school. That BLEEP be cooking for MY man. All started at the damn dinner party she hosted. Roy making eyes at her the whole time, and the way she acted! Goddamn her chicken tetrazzini slapped though.”

Appearing smiling after a commercial break, Marty announces, “time to welcome our next guest for today’s show.” He waits just the right amount of time for suspense. “Roy!”

Cue the boos again from the crowd. A rotund man of about forty steps out from behind the stage. He waves his arms and shouts “shut up” loudly at the audience which only intensifies their vicarious rage. Eventually Marty ushers him to his seat. Lenore visibly leans away from him.

Before Marty says anything he blurts, “I ain’t done nothing. She’s just jealous that her friend cooks better than her! But that’s all it is. Cooking. Nothing more than that. I swear it.”

“So you admit lying about the bar but not cheating?” Marty’s eyebrow raises again.

“That’s right. She’s been all over my BLEEP accusing me of cheating on her with Star even before the chicken night.” He looks over to Lenore, “baby I wouldn’t do that to you. I love you.”

She didn’t buy it.

Keeping the action going, Marty quickly announces. “There’s one final guest we need to speak to to get to the bottom of this. Star! Come on out.” A portly woman steps forward and sits without a word. Roy sits between Lenore and Star uncomfortably.

“Star,” Marty begins, “you’ve heard what your friend is saying. Are you really cooking for him behind her back?”

“What you don’t know Marty is how bad Lenore’s cooking is.” The crowd breaks into laughter. “I mean seriously, you’d think she’s trying to kill Roy. I’ve known him as long as he’s been with Lenore. I just couldn’t stand to see him suffering anymore. And after that dinner party, she wouldn’t come over anymore. So yes, I started sneaking him meals, but it’s not anything more than that.”

“You’ve always had eyes for him!” Lenore interjects.

Star sighs. “I’ve known him for fifteen years, Lenny. Roy and I are friends too. When you’re friends with someone, you don’t let them starve.”

“BLEEP, my cooking’s not that bad, BLEEP. BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Friends also don’t try to take their friend’s man.”

“Lenore, come on. You’d ruin our marriage and your friendship for what? Him?”

“Would you like to know the truth Lenore?” Marty who was happily allowing the scene to unfold to this point finally moved the show to its climax.

“YES,” Lenore declared.

“The lie detector determined your husband is lying.”

Roy shrugs with a sheepish smile on his face and addresses the audience, “you’d have done the same after tasting her food.”

Marty stands in front of the unfolding chaos with a smile. “Well, folks. You know what they say. Cheaters never prosper, but they can eat well.”

--

WC: 744. All feedback and crit is welcomed and appreciated. Thank you for reading.

Last supper

Behind Tristan, in the communal area of the Lynwood Projects, the plucking sound of a vihuela filled the night air. The remnant smells of chicken and steak were slowly giving way to the cloying cinnamon-y sweetness of churros. String lights ran from post to post ensured all shadows pointed in front of him. Only the best for abuela’s birthday.

The street in front of him was dimly lit by the moon above. There were street lights, but they hadn’t worked for longer than he’d been alive. More’s the better, he thought, as he adjusted the pistol in his waistband. No one should have to see what goes on there during the day, let alone at night. He scanned the darkness again.

In an alleyway, he saw a swaying dark shape slowly getting larger. Pistol out of his waistband, he yelled into the night, “Wrong place to be tonight. Keep moving.” The shape kept approaching. Tristan flicked the safety. “Are you deaf or something? I said keep moving.”

“Chill bro. I just want to see abuela,” the shape responded. A few more steps and the shape became Victor. Hands raised, he said, “Is that too much to ask?”

Tristan took aim. “You dipped the fuck out to start your own thing. You have been giving us hell for months now. There are at least six people back there working on gunshot wounds because of you. And you just want to see abuela.” He readjusted his grip, “Yeah, it’s getting there.”

Victor shrugged. If he wasn’t abuela’s favorite, Tristan thought, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Instead, he asked, “What’s in the box?”

“A snow globe for abuela. That and the knife in my pocket is all I’ve got tonight. Pat me down. Do whatever. Just let me in.”

An accordion joined the vihuela in the background. Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw another lookout had moved closer. “Leon,” he called out. “Watch my back while I pat this traitor down.”

Safety back on, pistol back in his waistband, Tristan approached. “You better not try something.”

True to Victor’s word the only items Tristan found were the box and the knife. Moonlight glinted off the blade, just bright enough to read the engraving, PUTA. Victor winked, “I know you have to keep it. Don’t worry. It suits you.” Tristan used the knife to cut the seal on the box. And, sure enough, inside was a snow globe.

Tristan straightened up and pocketed the knife. Squaring his shoulders, he sized up Victor and said, “One last thing” and punched him in the gut. Victor fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air. “Alright. Everything looks good. Follow me and don’t try anything. Leon, keep an eye out.”

From the ground, Victor flipped him off and shakily got back to his feet. Tristan let him collect the box, and they both set off to the communal area. The string lights were blinding at first glance; they were the first light he’d looked at since the sun went down hours ago. As the pair made their way through the party, rustling and murmurs spread out around them. Shirt hems were adjusted to reveal pistols. In the center of it all sat abuela in front of a slightly melted ice cream cake.

Victor placed the box on the table and raised his voice a bit for abuela to hear, “Happy birthday abuela. I have a gift for you.” Abuela took out the snow globe. In the additional light, Tristan saw a plaque he had missed before, IZAMAL.

Abuela cried out laughing, “What is my town doing in this slow globe! They’d think the sky is falling if it actually snowed there.”

She caressed Victor’s cheek, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you niño.” Tears now filled her eyes. “You’ve grown so thin.” She grabbed the closest food. “Quick eat this churro.” She shoved one in his hand. “You too Tristan, I see you hanging around back there. And, for the rest of you stop staring at me. I’ll be fine.”

Conversation picked back up, and the music Tristan hadn’t noticed stop resumed. He felt the grainy texture of the churro in his hand and took a bite. The sweetness of the dessert he hadn’t expected to eat tonight filled his mouth. In between bites, he looked back at Victor and abuela. At least, for tonight, it looked like things were going to be alright.

Word count: 745

Thank you for reading my work. Crits and feedback are always welcome.

A Cake Unto Thee

Travelling down the road, warrior Mun and kid immortal Kenzie come to the town of Deomanta, a haven of marble houses with red roofs; an entrepôt made rich by its place on the main trade route from Tetheram. People stop in the streets to stare at Mun’s titanian armour and Kenzie worn, futuristic clothes, their eyes wide and full of curiosity, or trepidation. Mun does not wish to find out which it is.

“They’re staring,” Kenzie whispers.

“I know. Just keep walking, wave, smile, act normal. They’ll ignore us soon enough.”

Once he can no longer bear the looks, Mun chooses a side street to travel down, where the cobbles are less crowded. Only the occasional wanderer notices their presence. Mun relaxes.

And then, he hears singing. Awful, pitchy male singing, from an alleyway. A strange sense of concern comes over him, and so he walks towards it, Kenzie in tow. Between the buildings, a man and a woman stand together, the man wobbling back and forth strangely. As if dancing around her. She, for her part, appears distraught.

“We should do something,” Kenzie says.

Mun nods, approaching the pair. Only now can he discern the lyrics:

“Oh my sweetest of sweets,

Wilst thou not partake of my cake.

I baked it for you,

My love ingrained in each, every step!”

Mun’s ears ache in complaint of the warbling noise. He only now notices the small sponge cake in the man’s hand, its surface brown and unappetising, looking almost like a lump of wax.

“I poured my soul out with the sugar,

Beat my heart into the mix.

Whisked the whites with all my vigour,

Cooked it through with my warmest smile!”

The young woman looks to Mun for help. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

Pivoting on his strangely long shoes, the man stares up into Mun’s widening eyes. His face is like a crescent, concaved unnaturally, his nose almost non-existent. A trickster, not a man, Mun realises. “What you want?” the creature grunts.

“What the fuck are you?!” Kenzie exclaims.

“Excuse me!” the trickster’s eyes narrow dramatically, the skin wrinkling at the edges.

Mun steps closer to him. “Leave this poor woman alone, monster. Else I’ll have to deal with you.”

“Ah, a slayer of beasts!” the trickster hisses. “But I’m no up to nothing so bad, sir knight! I merely wish for her to sample one of my delicious cakes!”

Reaching for his sword, Mun remembers he has long been without one. “I know your tricks, trickster. Bet that thing is laced with magic; a teleportation spell, I reckon.”

The shock on the creature’s face is exaggerated, drawn large, his mouth hanging bizarrely low. “Oh, but you are mistaken! I am a humble baker of baked goods, I’d do no such things!” He flourishes and bows. “On my parents’ lives—”

“Your kind don’t have parents, you just exist. Hand over the cake. Now.” He looms large over the trickster, ensuring his shadow falls over him. “Go!” he says to the woman, who runs away instantly.

A grin grows large over the trickster’s face. “You scared off my prey, Mun.”

“How do you know my name?!” The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“All us so-called monsters know of your name; we’d recognise you even without your signature golden armour.”

Kenzie crosses his arms. “So you know he can kill you, if he has to?”

“I know he could try. Who’s this Mun, your son?”

“My squire,” Mun lies.

“He’ll make a fine knight someday, I’m sure. Or, perhaps, he shall become a trickster like me?”

“He—what?”

Mun does not see it coming. The trickster’s arm swings about, his hand going high, and with great force he shoves the cake into Mun’s mouth. Coughing, the knight tries to spit it out, but crumbs slip into his oesophagus, down to his stomach. He feels energy buzzing inside him, travelling all through his torso, into his limbs. The air shimmers before his eyes. Then, all goes blank.

Darkness surrounds Mun, but he can hear water dripping down, feel solid ground beneath his feet. Reaching out, he touches a hard, wet surface that squeaks under his hand. Something drips down the back of his neck, causing him to shake and shiver. He still tastes the rancid cake on his tongue, a flavour akin to the scent rotten eggs and lavender. It takes all his resolve to ignore it as he slowly searches the wall for a door.

WC: 750

Crit and feedback are welcome.

This is Chapter 14 of my serial "Mun". Chapter Index

NOTHING LIKE A HOME COOKED MEAL

Terry sliced bacon and collard greens. He chopped onions.

Missy stepped into her boss's office, her face red. She forced herself to look into her boss's eyes. "You called?" She asked rhetorically.

"Close the door." Missy's boss's voice was much sterner than usual. She glared at Missy.

As soon as Missy had closed the door, her boss started shouting.

"How could you have fucked up that badly? You are responsible for what goes on in that lab! You should have made sure you had the right reagent! Months of work flushed down the drain because of your negligence!"

Her rant went on for an hour. She threatened to demote Missy, to suspend her, to fire her. She mentioned reputation, management, stocks.

Terry fried ground beef, mixed with onions, breadcrumbs, and spices.

Wind whistled through the towering buildings, making Sophia shiver. "Yo. Hold up." She says to Noah, getting off her bike and putting on her hoodie.

A boy whistled, leaning against one of the buildings, staring at Sophia. "Yo, Noah!" The boy calls out. "Who is that? Your girlfriend?"

"Yo! What's your problem?" Sophia strode toward the boy. "What's up?"

"Come on." Noah grabbed Sophia's arm. "Calm down. He was just playing. He didn't mean anything."

"Whatever." Sophia shook off Noah's hand. "Let's go."

"We'll hang later?" The boy asked.

"Um, ya." Noah agreed. "I'm riding home with my friend, but she also has to get home. Maybe give me like an hour, and I'll be down." Sophia glared at him. "Wait. We're supposed to work on biology together."

"So?" Noah shrugged. "We'll work on it tomorrow."

"Come on." Sophia argued. "You've been bailing on me a lot lately. And you promised we'll do it today."

"Oh? Like you're not the one who's always busy?" Noah raised his voice. His cheeks were flushed. "But don't you have one of your mystery puzzles to solve? Maybe go do that! It's not like I don't have any other friends I hang out with!"

"Ok! Fine!" Sophia got back on her bike and rode away as fast as she could.

Terry coated chicken wings in flour, then eggs, then breadcrumbs.

"Hey, nice backpack, princess!" Max turned around to see a group of snickering white seventh graders looking at him. "Thanks." He responds. "It's a princess backpack. A lot nicer than yours. Your backpack looks like it came from the clearance rack of a thrift store. Can't your mama get you something that wasn't dredged from a swamp? Cause that's what it smells like. No, wait. That's you. You stink! Pe-ew!"

The older kids walk toward Max, menace in their swagger. He turned to run, but it was too late. He heard pounding footsteps, then he was jerked back by his backpack's loss of inertia. He struggled. "Get off me, assface!"

"What did you say to me, (f-slur)?" His backpack was torn from his back. The guy who grabbed it passed it to the leader of their group.

"If you want a princess backpack so bad, then get your own!" Max protested.

"Let's see what you have." The leader announced. He opened it, and dumped the contents on the mud. "Look." He lifts up a tutu. "He really does dress like a girl!" He announced to his friends. "And look at those!" He points to the Polly Pocket compacts and barbies. "He plays with dolls too, just like a little girl. A little baby girl. Are you a little baby girl?"

"You look really interested in my Polly Pockets." Max still struggles against the hands pinning his arms. "Didn't you get to play when you were my age? Maybe your daddy didn't let you?"

"Nope." The teenager said. "You need to grow up. Let me help you."

Terry poured macaroni from the strainer to a pan.

Max walked inside, sniffing. He cradled his muddy backpack, filled with broken toys. Terry looked up from the potato masher. "Hey." He said gently. "What happened?

Max also looked up, his eyes soaking wet. Before he could say anything, Sophia stormed in and ran upstairs, slamming her door.

The family sat around the table. "What holiday is it?" Max asked.

"That is a lot of food." Missy pointed out. "Are we expecting any guests?"

"No." Terry smiled, watching his wife and step-children start to smile as well, while devouring the meat. "I just had the feeling we'd need an extra special dinner this evening. (word count: 744)