literature

All's fair in pasta and war

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Literature Text

Max was thoroughly obsessed with pasta.

Every day, he ate pasta salad for lunch. He brought it to his day job in a little plastic container, rigatone or perhaps radiatore interspersed with green peas and tomatoes, never overcooked or undercooked. After two years of packing the same thing for lunch, Max had perfected the art of al dente.

Sometimes he made mac and cheese for dinner. Sometimes he ate the leftovers on toast for breakfast. Some nights it was spaghetti, other nights lasagna. He had a very nice mural made entirely of dry pasta, which he had pilfered from the art room at his niece's kindergarten.

No wonder he was still single! But Max didn't mind. He had noodles and a deluxe cable package. It was all good as far as he concerned. Until the day the world ended.

Now, when it seems that the world around you is breaking apart, what do you reach for? Mothers reach for their children. Couples reach for their other half. You reach out for what's important to you.

If you're a relatively well-off twenty-something pasta enthusiast living alone?

You go to the nearest grocery store. You bring the hatchet that you wrestled away from the fireman-turned-zombie that you encountered on the ground floor of your building. You fight your way to the nearest grocery store in search of food, hopefully pasta, but really anything that hasn't already been looted. You have already eaten your mural.

Zombies, Max thought, rolling his eyes and hacking through the lock on the Pic-n-Pac on the corner. You'd think they'd come up with something more original.

The Pic-n-Pac was occupied. Max realised this too late. He was already walking in the door. There were zombies outside, there were zombies inside. The ones inside had come through the back door and were throwing produce at one another.

Max took the chance.

He grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice and ducked into the men's restroom to pour it over his head. Hopefully it would be enough to cover his scent until he could get out of there. Then, as quietly as he could, he stuffed his backpack with cans of tomatoes and beans and whatever else was on the shelves - he didn't really look.

Then he caught sight of a single box of riote sitting on a shelf nearby. The last box. One single box of uncooked pasta, wheel-shaped, golden, and thoroughly enticing. Immediately, he wanted it. It was the organic brand, the best you could find. It was so beautiful and enchanting. He must have it. If he was to die, why not die eating the thing he liked most?

Nevermind that, in order to get it, he must go through the zombies. He would die for pasta. Literally. Other people said that about things all the time, but Max was never kidding.

With a scream, he hurtled into the mist of the mob, spinning and whacking everything he could with the hatchet. The zombies screamed and fought back with all their might. One pinned him down, but Max wrestled it off, barely avoiding its snapping teeth, hurling it into a nearby shelf with all of his strength. For a second he thought about giving up - he was far outnumbered - but the thought of those beautiful golden noodles, his only companions for two years, kept him going. He left carcasses draped across the apples and celery. Max was victorious. He grabbed the pasta and kissed the cardboard box it came in, then ran out the door, slamming it behind him, and retreating into his apartment.

Nothing, not even zombies, could keep them apart.
Prompted by GalaxyPegasus14 on Facebook: Writer's Block challenge (for all the writer's or want to writer's out there):
Write a love story, BUT it CANNOT be a ROMANCE nor can you use the word "love" in your story. Minimum of 150 words. Maximum of 600. K, go!

Pretty sure I stayed under 600. I didn't count though. Cheesy love story between Max and pasta.
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KuroGalaxy14's avatar
-mentally dying of laughter- This.., this is perfect!! I love it! I need to write mine now ehe.