How we break
She said, “We need to talk.”
As you probably guessed, we had some unfortunate difficulties with the last Betawriters. This week we are back on track. The article below is just something to kick things off again. This week we give you the topic: Home, Food Home. We hope you have as much fun writing it as we had of coming up with it. Articles have to be within 500 words and have to be submitted to email@example.com. The deadline is the usual: Sunday noon.
By The Gruesome Statistic and The Awful Fact
And there you are, sitting in front of your computer, the curtains thrown across the windows lest sunlight shine in and burn you. The lambent light from the computer screen paints your face a miasmic shade of red, but you can't really see yourself so it doesn't matter that your pimples are in sharp relief. Sporadic bursts of gunshots and glottal grunts emanate from the speakers as you kill a few more Nazis on COD2. It's a classic game and ditching class to finish is your way of paying homage.
It is during this peaceful time in your life that you realise that something's amiss. Quite a lot amiss, in fact. Namely, your stomach seems to have misplaced your stash of carbs. Where'd it go? You've been sitting here all day.
It's almost two hours since your stomach sent its frantic SOS, but you just had to destroy one more bunker, didn't you? Eventually though, you succumb and even the sight of pixelated Nazis running away from you can't help you sate your hunger.
You decide that sustenance is required, and sticking to your decision you venture out of your darkened room. The fluorescent light in the dining room outside threaten to blind you, but you notice something beautiful. A table laid out, plastic cloches covering bowls of food.
Your senses tell you something smells good. You move in closer, drinking in the scene. A table like that promises good food and you almost don't believe it. Good food doesn't happen at home, at least not often. So, apprehension mounting, you pull yourself a chair.
Trembling hands reach out to the biggest of the covered dishes. You know what's underneath, but still, the sight of warm white rice anchors you. There are still three others to uncover. Temptation beckons and you lift another cloche. It's badly made shaak. The green gooey kind. The kind Popeye would balk at. This time, Bluto gets the girl.
But there are still two dishes left. Hope still flourishes. You uncover another and your heart sinks a few notches as you discover the other stalwart: daal. One more left, do you dare to hope still?
You refuse to give in to black corruption and lift the last covering. It's rui maach with lau. Despair, anguish, desolation. Hope crushed.
You almost go Kubrickian on the table's glass in anger and look away. And notice another cloche, hidden behind the other dishes. Small, probably just a saucer underneath. This time you're resigned to the expectation of finding kaacha morich and piaz, the Bangali salad.
It's aloo bhorta. The good kind. The fried kind. The jhaal kind.
Saved. Hope springs eternal.
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