Ramen.
by Emily Christine Davis
Creative Works… 94
It sat staring at me. The bright yellow noodles sweating and steam pouring off and over every twist and turn. The strong smell of garlic rose triumphantly into the air. Red pepper flakes speckled around the .50 cent aquamarine target bowl. The tinfoil square encompassed a chicken-flavored invulnerable foe. It prepped for battle by moving around and around in the waters; softening the noodles, but increasing their territory. The fluorescent sun scorched the ramen until the cornicen blew loudly three times. The noodles found allies in black pepper, red pepper, garlic, onion, and the unlikely multitudes of corn. The fork sat and slipped slowly farther down into the bowl, each troop shouting celebratorily as they claimed another millimeter of cheap aluminum. The hours of battle continued to pass and the cost of claiming more and more of the utensils was starting to show. The breathy steam which the army expelled had slowed to tiny puffs and the noodles grew stiff and weary. Despite the physical toll that had been endured, its goal had been accomplished. My lungs trembled. The wooden desk morphed into a monument, casting its foreboding shade over my own Port of Rhodes. My lungs tired quickly and stopped expanding. My flaccid diaphragm seized. The aroma of microwaved ramen filled my nostrils and contracted my bronchioles further. Every breath was a fight, a battle for sanity. My eye’s radius condensed from 160 degrees to 20 degrees in a nanosecond. Everything was just gone. dark.
