Ramen … Emily Christine Davis

by Emily Christine Davis 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.

dark. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. My vision closed and my memories ran. Every action that created this monster replayed. The microwavable ramen dish. The filtered water from my fridge. I was very careful to fill it up to the line perfectly before placing the dried noodles in the square container and placing it on the spinning plate. My own creation was undoing me. The knot in my throat built up, becoming weightier and impeding, like it was physically stopping me from breathing. From eating. It’s just in my mind. It’s just anxiety. Nothing is happening. The noodles prepared well for this battle and I was an unwitting opponent. With a flurry of hands and emotions, I burrow through the chair next to me. Inside was my white flag. I struggled through my panic to pop open the metallic packaging and plop the medicine into the palm of my hand. Shoving it into my mouth and trying to swallow. The incident had depleted my reserves and it lingered waiting for the Harmattan to blow overhead. Pouring water from the same pitcher I used to boil the ramen, I drank. I swallowed. I laid down in defeat on my bed, crawling under the blankets and letting my panic die down until the antihistamine carried me away into sleep.

Later that day, when I mustered the courage, I threw out the corpses of the noodles and its allies. A week after that, the bowl and fork are entombed as well