IF YOU HAVE NO VOICE,
 666 WORDS @Dela@"Cillian duCrosse" Chordettes - Mr. Sandman If you have no legs, run. If you have no hope, invent. - Alegria | She was training all day for this moment, and by training, she meant starving. Her expectations of the eating contest whimsically painted the dreamlike mental image picture of a large picnic table, seating faceless individuals that spoke helium-infused gibberish and looked about as generic as the next competitor. Not even the most gluttonous contestants there could eat their way out of the first round of frosted sugary sweets, juicy assorted meats, and freshly prepared salads. The only challenger there that could go the distance had a face, an overly defined face that looked nothing like the real Vera Jayne but was, nevertheless, Vera Jayne. This doll-esque persona, this touched up version of herself was the prophesied winner and receiver of all edible things. Then came a change, a much needed reality check; the eating contest was still the primary highlight of her evening and, in general, the festivities. The difference was that in real time, the great picnic table of everything delicious was empty and barren, for now, with a sign next to it that only signified the starting time. A shame as she was aching for real food and wanting something other than her usual diet, which consisted of a scorching hot, easy-to-make ramen in a bowl; but the upcoming challenge was worth working up a great appetite for because of the endless food supply she was going to receive just for participation alone. Amidst the crowd stood the true to life Vera, commonly dressed in a white collared shirt and jet black slacks; slightly above the expertly established red bow tie, a disturbingly narrow face appeared, with beady blue eyes of death and a sunken pair of cheeks. She was the soul-crushing vision of world hunger in a surprisingly springy human body, as her stomach grumbled and her head throbbed painfully into the early signs of night. Nearby food stands she saw, but gave into temptation not, so staunchly was her attention glued to a cooking and baking match within a few paces of her view— this treat, this dream come true, was her future buffet. Some would bring the food they made from home, and some would cook it live and at the very last minute before the judging began. “Oh, eugh, spare me! There isn’t any food. There is just a bunch of ingredients to make food.” Salivated the slurring Vera, thinking, she sounded passably human just because she actually tried to seem it. While the suddenly brainless idiot uttered these words with unsightly levels of desperation, she moved closer to where the cooks were taking a moment longer than they needed to, in her eyes, to prepare, and like a good zombie she deeply considered feasting on their brains. But then, as if someone heard her plea, food started appearing before her very eyes. Perhaps someone very loud did. “That fish you cooked last year was so raw, it was still looking for his son! Do you really want to try that again? What a disgrace! My churrasco steak with chimichurri sauce will put your seafood to shame!” came the blonde-haired chef’s taunt, which might not have been aimed at the incredibly shook purple-haired scrub, but the ferocity of his tone made her jump straight out of her skin and reconsider the possibility of reincarnation. He was taking it out on the helpless old man, before them were the dishes of their choosing, and not too far from the bickering two was the nosy snoop. It’s noisy enough, she thought. When they weren’t looking, she slithered a little closer to the haughty chef’s steak, as she peeled back the foil and mercilessly drenched it in a special sauce she found sitting rather innocuously by their divine creations. Too much of a good thing could ruin anyone’s chances of winning, and that is especially true when it comes to the potency of hot sauce. Vera quickly, silently sealed the soiled delicacy and casually walked away to continue her browsing. Food, glorious food! |
SCREAM.
