Yes, how exactly do you warn people for this sort of thing? Bringing you a prologue fill on a good Sunday morning. I hope you all like it. -Orphant
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Toast, pasta and potatoes.
People liked to think that they were the reason for his thinness, the reason why he looked frail enough to snap if the wind to blow too hard. That his unstable meagre income from being a man with a van did not allow him a proper meal at the table each morning, noon, and night. It was something that the students he lived with were painfully aware of, when they dined on a slapdash meal of noodles in broth, or rice with various frozen vegetables and pieces of meat. On a particularly good day, there may be soup on the stove, stewed meat and roots of sorts, and an easy make dessert to finish it off, and they would watch Martin walk into the kitchen to retrieve a slice or two of white bread, the cheapest sort at the supermarket, and nibble on them as he made his way back to his attic, leaving them to their meal in a strangely uncomfortable atmosphere.
Sometimes, the students invited him down for a meal together, or left food out for him. Fried rice, open-faced sandwiches, potato salads, or perhaps someone's experimental meal of something pickled with sesame and croutons. He would always accept, taking the food back up to the attic with him, returning later with a clean plate or bowl to the shy and pleased smiles of the students, glad that their pilot had accepted their offerings. Fruit salad, ham and curried egg sandwiches, rice with miso soup and a poached egg. He ate them all, and thanked them afterwards. If asked if there was any food in particular that he craved, he would give them a sheepish smile, and duck his head. I don't want to trouble you, he would say. I'm not picky. There would be reassurances that it was all fine, and no trouble at all. He was aware of the game they played to find out his favorite food and their combinations. Could it be a fruit, a root vegetable? Pickles? Eggs, The simplest and most versatile of foods? Those ghastly potatoes that he lived off of? A sort of jam? The list went on, with all sorts of food scrawled on and crossed off, and he would smile, amused, each time a new entry was added to it and an old one taken off. No harm in letting them guess, he figures.
Fill ( Warning: People dying of natural or maybe unnatural causes. Horror supernatural stuff maybe )
Bringing you a prologue fill on a good Sunday morning.
I hope you all like it.
-Orphant
---
Toast, pasta and potatoes.
People liked to think that they were the reason for his thinness, the reason why he looked frail enough to snap if the wind to blow too hard. That his unstable meagre income from being a man with a van did not allow him a proper meal at the table each morning, noon, and night. It was something that the students he lived with were painfully aware of, when they dined on a slapdash meal of noodles in broth, or rice with various frozen vegetables and pieces of meat. On a particularly good day, there may be soup on the stove, stewed meat and roots of sorts, and an easy make dessert to finish it off, and they would watch Martin walk into the kitchen to retrieve a slice or two of white bread, the cheapest sort at the supermarket, and nibble on them as he made his way back to his attic, leaving them to their meal in a strangely uncomfortable atmosphere.
Sometimes, the students invited him down for a meal together, or left food out for him. Fried rice, open-faced sandwiches, potato salads, or perhaps someone's experimental meal of something pickled with sesame and croutons. He would always accept, taking the food back up to the attic with him, returning later with a clean plate or bowl to the shy and pleased smiles of the students, glad that their pilot had accepted their offerings. Fruit salad, ham and curried egg sandwiches, rice with miso soup and a poached egg. He ate them all, and thanked them afterwards. If asked if there was any food in particular that he craved, he would give them a sheepish smile, and duck his head. I don't want to trouble you, he would say. I'm not picky. There would be reassurances that it was all fine, and no trouble at all. He was aware of the game they played to find out his favorite food and their combinations. Could it be a fruit, a root vegetable? Pickles? Eggs, The simplest and most versatile of foods? Those ghastly potatoes that he lived off of? A sort of jam? The list went on, with all sorts of food scrawled on and crossed off, and he would smile, amused, each time a new entry was added to it and an old one taken off. No harm in letting them guess, he figures.
It was nothing that they could give him.
In him, the hunger stirs with its sharp claws.