A FEAST FOR THE FAMISHED
Indecision is the worst sort of sustenance.
The surge of creativity, the conception of an idea, the addictive measure of formulation—all of those, I excel in.
It’s the after that burns me.
When I’m required to put those bite-sized pieces into something appetizing.
A recipe that screams: swallow me!
There, I starve.
But the others need to eat.
And I am their provider.
What is it, then, that I do?
How should I plate these portions into a meal for them to consume?
It’s rhetorical, the questions. I know what I need to do, how I need to proceed.
Though I imagine no one will agree.
It’s true I crave inspiration and motivation but there are times in this profession when those are lacking.
But discipline, devotion, and duty—those, Dear Devourer, are in plenty.
Already I feel the hunger.
The rhythm of chopping and slicing, stirring together with the restless growl of an insatiable crowd.
Yes, it’s here.
Because to the starved, even the bitter tastes sweet.
DEAR DEVOURER
I come before you this evening to deliver a portion of terrible news.
The details are bland, like a spice hardened and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, but I assure you, I am doing the utmost to ensure all is restored.
But alas, I cannot keep this from you any longer.
The plate of passing, our source of creation and confection, has been stolen.
Do not be alarmed!
Do not be ravenous!
I will find the one who scurried through a crack in the walls like a cockroach seeking warmth and plenty.
I will skewer them on a rod of revenge.
And then, we feast.
REAP AND PLAY
It’s a delicacy to indulge in the fruits of one’s labor.
To take a seat at the table and dig in.
I have sat among many, many guests and eaten my fill alongside.
But hardly ever have they wondered: what is it that I digest?
Tricky, may I add, the topic of disillusion. Does this dish cost me or they?
For it is not us who hunted.
Not I who tell.
Yet, it is they who reap and enjoy.
I who say, come and play.
GINGER AND BUG
There is a new glutton at the table.
A curious one, I must say.
Skinny and picky, not a chewer of this day.
I watch her.
How she holds the knife at an angle so the blade catches the light.
How she sinks her fork into the feast, then raises it to her lips.
But what angers me, fascinates me, pleases me—is she does not bite.
Yes, this one will do.
This one I want.
She lifts the portion to her button nose.
What does she identify there?
Coriander and cardamon, ginger and bug?
The anticipation, it exterminates me.
SEASON AND SALT
Her name is Katherine, and I invite her over again.
This dinner, however, is not like the others.
I do not prepare a lavish feast of delicacies.
I do not season and salt.
But I serve her, and she delights.
DEVOTION
Are you beginning to understand, Dear Devourer, what sort of consumption I require?
If the flavors have crept around your taste buds, crawled along the grooves of your molars, across the smooth flesh of your tongue—well done.
But if you haven’t tasted the minced millepedes or the crushed crickets, the sauteed scorpions and the juiced june beetles—where’s the fun?
I understand, truly I do, if you wish to flee.
Though might I remind you that now, you’re a devotee to the decadent delicacies of insectees.
About the Author
With a background in human biology and botany, Gabriella Lauren has translated her love for the living, breathing world into her writing through twisty mysteries, unique magic systems, and vibrant, haunting atmospheres.
When she isn’t typing away her next novel, she enjoys hiking, tending her numerous houseplants, and drinking far too much coffee with her husband in Western New York.
Thanks for being here and reading along!
Gabriella Lauren
For rights, new business inquiries, media, events, and speaking engagements, please contact my literary agent, Olivia Emerick, at Metamorphosis Literary Agency at oemerick@metamorphosisliteraryagency.com
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