He had had enough. Mom was nowhere near getting off the phone with "Aunt" Suzy, and it was time for a snack. The little boy tottered up to the big white doors that blocked him from the land of Oreo's and Pop Tarts. He licked his lips as he thought of all(more) the beautifully colored boxes of junk food that were about to be all his.
There was just a few problems; the door handles were out of his reach, and his mom had anticipated his trail blazing spirit and put two thick purplish colored rubber bands around the two knobs. It was going to be a tough job.
He thought quick and went for his trikey. After retrieving it from across the room, he put it just below the knobs, and began to climb the trike as if he were one of those cool first graders on their jungle-gym.
He was so close, he could taste the cream filled Zingers. He could hear the crinkling of all the plastic wrappers of his favorite foods. He closed his eyes, basking in the glory of his moment.
"Oh, I don't think so little mister."
He opened his eyes as his mom scoped him up off his trike and takes him away from his treasure room. He looked back with a stupefied expression. Mom would pay for this. Soon enough. (less)
“I bet that old mouse, Marcus, got snuffed,” Gregory's friend, Russell, mumbled through a mouthful of acorn. The chipmunk's fat cheeks wobbled as a bit of nut flew from his mouth to land on Mr. Barnaby's arm. “What's he think'n anyway? Everybody knows you can't trust a cat.”
(more) The bartender looked down with disdain and brushed the crumb from his fur. His large pink ears twitched when he spoke and his whiskers even more so. “My dear boy, Marcus and the others were only due back four days ago. Don't go assuming their demise just yet.”
“You mice are too trusting," Russell said, "That cat, Tobias, ate 'em. I know it.” He dug his grubby fingers into the nut bowl, searching for a choice piece while Mr. Barnaby crinkled his nose in disgust.
“But Marcus saved Tobias from the fox trap,” Gregory interjected. “The two have been fast friends ever since. Why would he kill him now?”
“Well, you can't expect the cat to allow his pantry to get raided year after year. It's poor job performance. Besides, Marcus is never late. Something's amiss."
Gregory sipped at his cider, contemplating. It was unlike Marcus to come back late from a raid and not send word. His friend was right, something was amiss. “I suppose we'll have to go find them,” he sighed.
Russell grabbed once more for the bowl, seized an acorn, and stuffed it into his mouth. “If there's anything to find.” More nut sprayed from his mouth, hitting Mr. Barnaby's cheek.
The offended bartender hid the bowl behind the counter and ran a paw over his face, glaring at Russell. "Maybe you should go check out that pantry before the owls wake. I hear cats don't eat fat chipmunks."
"No," Russell agreed. "Just old mice."(less)
Mary rested her hands on her head and looked at the ceiling of her pantry, heaving a loud sigh.
Cooking for cooks was a nightmare for Mary. Mary didn't even like to cook for herself, much less people who didn't like her.
God. They were coming here. People i(more)n her house, her private space, was worse. Clenching her fist, Mary looked around at the empty shelves and knew no matter how long she stood here nothing was going to just appear. Lighting wouldn't strike and bring a delicious meal that everyone would like. The door wouldn't open, her husband hurrying in arms full of dinner and treats to satisfy his demanding family. Nope. He was upstairs, fingers flying across a keyboard as he attempted to finish a program before everyone arrived.
The raspy voice echoed in her too-full head, "we don't have the money to have a party and the house is a mess. I just have too much to do to clean. Can you just do the birthday the girls?It won't big, just make dinner and dessert. Make sure to each one a gift, they don't do shared gifts. There will be ten of us, the grandparents included."
The boys. Mary's sort-of nieces whom she'd met twice. Who didn't like anything she liked, who ate nothing but meat and cheese. Who doesn't eat kale?
Mary's heart hurt. Her in-laws, the whole fucking crew. In her house. Making faces at her books. Drinking from her glasses. Bile rose up, riding the rage that had followed shock two days ago when she got the call.
Mary picked up the phone. "Hello, Papa John's?"
sometimes at night (maybe 2:00 - 3:45 in the dark hours) i get these severe hunger attacks that scare me into believing and imagining that there is some particular resource that my body demands in order to continue functioning, and that resource is currently close to the dreaded 0%(more) mark. little 8-bit meters and gauges appear in the hard to reach hard to see corners of my head and icons pop up with snippets of notifications and shorthanded warnings along with low frequency sirens and a softly rising sense of panic. the hunt for red october kind of shit but less water and less military and more hunger, specifically for red meat and junk foods.
next comes the debate. do i get up from the darkness of my room and my mind and my body in order to close the door to hell that seems to be opening up inside of me? or can i lie here and wait it out and maybe the stasis chamber of sleep will protect me from sinking into my bed and out of existence in the still of the night when all you can hear are bugs youll never see and distant cars and the humming lights of the very important places they need to be.
a rotating pantry of spices and dried herbs all with that obnoxious cadmium red flip top with the tiny little lip thats so hard to push open, varying heights but none sensible, like some stunted community of hill people who stand in a line at the top of their highest hill to watch you approach, as thirsty and lost as you are.
twice i ate every bit of shit in our dorm room, cleaning it entirely out. once i cooked a new york strip at 4 am alone. (less)