writing_shadows | A short and silly piece of tat that didn't come from three words.

“Just to shut him up”, Penny muttered to herself as she stared down at the plate in front of her. “It's not as though it's difficult.” The scrambled eggs looked like congealed slime, seeping thin white liquid into blackened toast. Oozing yellow lumps quivered greasily on Penny's fork and in her mouth they disintegrated like jelly. The bread was brittle and tasted of charcoal, bitter and dusty as it snagged in her throat.

Food isn't important. It's fuel, a timewasting practicality that must be ticked off the mental list at least once a day lest body and soul should no longer stay together. It's a low priority, an inconvenience all too easy to forget. Essential but unseemly, despite the fuss everyone seemed to make about it. It seemed a real kick in the teeth, then, that it was all so damned disgusting.

Penny sighed and stood to scrape the plate off into the bin. She'd take the rubbish out before she went back up to the workshop and leave the smeared crockery out on the kitchen counter. In the morning, she could say she'd already eaten and Gehenna would be none the wiser.

A short and silly piece of tat that didn't come from three words.

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