Sharing A Meal

I have a great book club I attend, where instead of all reading the same book, we share what we've read and make recommendations to each other.  We end up passing things around, and I know I read a wider variety of genres because of things other people bring to book club.

Recently, someone brought HOW TO READ LITERATURE LIKE A PROFESSOR by Thomas C. Foster.  Something she talked about was the discussion of symbolism involved with characters share a meal together.  Characters sharing a meal together is based on a certain amount of trust, so when two characters share a meal, and the one betrays the other, it makes the betrayal more poignant.

The part of this that stands out to me right now is how a relationship of trust can be established through the sharing of food.  The prompt for this week:  use the setting of mealtime to demonstrate the relationship between two characters.

Enjoy!

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My response:

Gregor brought a burlap bag full of rolls over to the row of prisoners.  I hated to think how old and hard they would be, if they were going to feed them to us, but the idea of having anything to chew set my mouth to watering.  I hoped they wouldn't be too small.

We sat in our usual line, wrists and feet shackled, linked by one long chain that ran through loops on each of our right ankle irons.  The irons were heavy, but resting your wrists on the ground bent your back something awful. We learned to prop our hands up on our knees, to keep our backs straight.

Gregor started at one end of the line, to my right.  I'd managed to tie on in the middle of the chain that morning.  That way, when we laid down to rest, I'd have more warm bodies around to help keep warm.  I swallowed and glanced at the girl next to me.  Was that all she was worth to me anymore?  Just another warm body to help protect myself from the cold?  The first few days we'd exchanged names, asked questions, and shared stories.  Two weeks in, we'd grown silent.

Gregor was almost to me.  I lifted my hands, watching the rolls drop into waiting palms.  Then, just as I was about to get my dinner, Gregor flew forward.  He dropped the bag, rolls spilling out.  The girl next to me scrambled, my ankle moving with the chain as she moved.  She scooped up the rolls and the bag, presenting them with a downturned face to Gregor. 

Gregor looked her up and down suspiciously.  He snatched the bag back and stuffed the extra rolls inside.  "Sit down, girl!" he snapped, and she dropped back down, next to me.  Gregor frowned at her, then dropped my roll into my waiting fingers.

I clutched my roll to my chest, waiting until Gregor was gone before biting into it.  Then I felt a tug at my elbow.  The girl next to me leaned in close.  She held something in her hands.  Jerky.  Beef, from the smell of it, thick with spices.  I saw the pouch between her knees.  She must have lifted it off Gregor's belt when he tripped. 

"Quick, take some and hand it down!" 

I glanced up at the men around the fire.  She was right.  There was no time to consider.  If she got caught holding it out to me, she'd be whipped.  If I took too long passing it, I'd be the one in trouble.  Even worse, if I didn't do something now, she might reach past me, and I wouldn't get any at all. 

I tucked my roll into my lap and snatched the jerky out of her hands.  I took a big bite and tore it from the rest of the stick, then held the handful out to the girl on the other side as I worked my lips around the dried meat.  "Take one, quick!  Pass it down!"

As soon as the jerky was in the next girl's hands, I turned.  Another batch of jerky worked its way down the other half of the line.  The girl who'd taken it offered a smile, one with bits of dark jerky stuck in her teeth.  I smiled. 

Something was different in camp that night.  We'd gone through the initial stages of denial and defiance, and spent some time drowning in hopelessness.  Now, by virtue of a satchel of jerky, about one bite a piece, we'd found our spirit again.  We would wait.  We would watch.  And we would be ready.

Fire Prompt

I went to Google Images to find a picture of fire for the prompt today, and I found way too many ideas!

The first one that caught my eye had this yin/yang thing going on, all abstract and pretty.

 

 

The next one that stood out to me was similar in the two opposing colors, but entirely different, with the two fists.

 

 

 

Then there was this one, with the hand.  The immediate feeling I get from this one is desperation.

 

This one would make a fabulous cover for a contemporary love story.

 

Or this one for an Asian themed action story.

 

For our fire prompt this week, choose whichever one appeals to you, and use it as your prompt.

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

(I'm going with the one with the hand.)

 

I yanked my mask down and slammed my hand into the swinging door of the surgical suite.  One more patient gone, and I wasn't any closer to finding out why this was happening, or what we could do to stop it.  A trail of blood stained the door, and I felt a twinge of guilt that someone would have to clean it up, but I was too tired to worry about it.  The order came down from the hospital director that we weren't to lose one more patient, pull all the stops, use whatever measures we needed, we had to save one of them, and soon. 

 

I peeled off both layers of gloves and tossed them into a hazardous waste container.  My surgical gown and mask followed, my body moving with muscle memory as my mind churned.  There had to be something we could do.

 

Across the hall, the surgeon's lounge was empty.  Someone had left the TV on, and news coverage of the epidemic flashed across the screen.  Protesters filled the courtyard in front of the hospital and crowded the streets.  They wore masks and carried signs that read, "Down with BioWarfare!"  "Doctors should HEAL, not KILL!"  and "The end of the world is upon us, and it is our own doing!"

 

As I watched, the crowd parted.  Two people supported a third between them.  They made their way slowly to the front door.  The police barricade parted to let them through. 

 

I wondered how long it would be before he ended up dead on my surgical table.  And it would be me, because I was the only one left.  The doctors who designed the virus had gone in the first wave of casualties.  Next were the general practitioners who saw the first cases.  Then the surgeons started dropping.  For the last forty-eight hours, I'd been alone in the battle.

 

They'd said they were going to send in more doctors, but who would agree to come?  The nurses were disappearing just as fast, some simply refusing to show up for their shifts.  I couldn't blame them.  They have families and lives, too.

 

Had it really been forty-eight hours since they rolled Maya away, limp on the gurney?  I did a quick self-assessment.  Heart rate: seventy-two.  Not bad.  A little high, but I was under a lot of stress.  Blood pressure: 112/65.  Again, not as good as normal, but still well within normal ranges.  Temperature: 98.3.  It was a bit chilly in here.  I stood in front of the mirror and peered at my eyes.  They were a little bloodshot, but that too was expected.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept.  Maybe it was for an hour or two before the last patient. 

 

What had we decided the incubation period was?  Twenty-four hours?  Not more than Forty-eight. 

 

Too many questions.  Not enough answers.  The cot in the corner never looked so inviting.  I dropped down onto it, letting oblivion sweep over me.



Back in Time

If you're an 80s kid, like me, just reading the title of this week's prompt will start a soundtrack playing in your mind.  (Thank you, Huey Lewis and Michael J. Fox!)

The prompt for this week: Assume you've gone back in time to save the world, and along the way, you run into yourself.  Go! 

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My response:

I check my watch.  Two fifteen on a Thursday, November 1997.  My old self has got to be in the dance room in the gym.  If I can just find the Doctor without going in there, I should be fine.  Not that I know it will ruin my timeline if I run into myself.  I just don't want to risk it. 

I sneak around the corner of the hallway, watching for the tell-tale cloak of the Doctor.  For a split second, I think I've spotted it, but it turns out to be a long, dark trench coat that the guys thought were so cool back then.  I hear the squeak of shoes on the tile behind me and spin around.  There he is.  The Doctor.  And the look on his face takes my breath away; he's smirking like he knows something I don't.

"You're not going to find it in time, my Friend."  He takes out a handkerchief and pats his greasy forehead.  "No, I'm afraid I've outwitted you this time.  A shame, I may come to miss our little games."

I whip out my sensor and aim it at him.  It would have been better to keep this new technology secret, but I'm running out of time.  Unfortunately, he's not lying.  He's not carrying the crystal.  Who knows where he's hidden it, and the range on my sensor is only about ten feet - not nearly large enough to scan the whole school.

"Goodbye now!"  The Doctor turns and dashes out towards the parking lot.

"This isn't over!" I call after him, clenching my fists.  At least he gave me one clue.  He thinks he's hidden it where I will never find it.  Where would be the last place I would look?  Then it hits me.  I know exactly where the crystal is.

I flash my badge at the dance teacher, invent some line about homeland security, try not to stare across the room at myself, and then go out to the foyer to wait.  It doesn't take long, and there I am.  Well, not me, but me, my younger self.  I pause.  I haven't disappeared, yet, so I figure I may be okay.

Younger me looks up, squinting at me.  I wonder what she sees.  I've lost forty pounds.  I curl my hair now, so that's different, but since the 80s have come back in the future, my make-up routine is nearly the same.  I'm twenty years older.  A shiver of pride runs down my back.  The teenager I'm staring at has no idea she's going to become a top-secret, time traveling spy. 

"Mrs. Bixbee said you needed to talk to me?"  She pins me with a suspicious glare.  I never was stupid.  "Something about homeland security?"

Now it gets tricky.  If this is the younger me, and the Doctor really gave her the crystal, shouldn't I be able to remember it?  Shouldn't I know what I did with it?

Like dews distilling from heaven, the answers to my questions appear in my mind.  Ha!  He thought he'd outsmarted me, but in the end, he outsmarted himself. 

"I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding.  No.  No, I don't need to talk to you."  I smile nicely and point back towards the gym.  "Go on back to class."

Young me shrugs and rolls her eyes at me, but turns and walks away.  I dart into the locker room.  Good thing I always had a head for numbers.  I find my old locker, pop open the combination lock, and reach to the back of the top section, behind my purse.  My fingers close around a heavy chain and a cold, hard rock.  I found it.

And I seem to have managed it without tearing the time continuum to shreds, too!