small fish in a big pond {noodles}
Oct 7, 2016 14:53:20 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Oct 7, 2016 14:53:20 GMT -5
[googlefont="Lovers Quarrel:400"]
Joselle Brookwater
I think I expected everything in the Capitol to be superficially flawless. There were grand skyscrapers and sleek designs and more variety of food than I had ever seen in my life, with avoxes to serve our every whim for the week before the arena. It would be heaven if we weren't constantly reminded that most of us had about a week to live.
I reach across the table, picking up a few of the brightly-colored pastries, a bowl of noodles, and a plate of what looked like some variety of fillet. You can never go wrong ordering fish, my father used to say. But that was back in District Four. I expected their fish to be perfectly-cooked, like the desserts, but it's a mouthful of bland disappointment that only makes me feel homesick. My family died a long time ago, but I can still remember Father's fish soup, with mouth-numbing spices from our backyard and the trims the Capitol deemed unacceptable for us to export. "The cheeks are the best part," he told me, pushing the pot closer.
I turn to the girl sitting next to me - District Nine, was it? - and gesture at my plate. "We cut off the heads of the fish, before shipping them to the Capitol," I say. "I've always been told that our customers don't want to see the eyes. It creeps them out, apparently." I give a bitter snort at the irony. The same people who watch kids fight to the death for entertainment, are creeped out by dead fish.
I reach across the table, picking up a few of the brightly-colored pastries, a bowl of noodles, and a plate of what looked like some variety of fillet. You can never go wrong ordering fish, my father used to say. But that was back in District Four. I expected their fish to be perfectly-cooked, like the desserts, but it's a mouthful of bland disappointment that only makes me feel homesick. My family died a long time ago, but I can still remember Father's fish soup, with mouth-numbing spices from our backyard and the trims the Capitol deemed unacceptable for us to export. "The cheeks are the best part," he told me, pushing the pot closer.
I turn to the girl sitting next to me - District Nine, was it? - and gesture at my plate. "We cut off the heads of the fish, before shipping them to the Capitol," I say. "I've always been told that our customers don't want to see the eyes. It creeps them out, apparently." I give a bitter snort at the irony. The same people who watch kids fight to the death for entertainment, are creeped out by dead fish.
