You may remember a while ago I mentioned joining @thewritersblock. It is a Discord server for writers, full of wonderfully creative fiction and non-fiction writers and editors. You are able to submit the story/post/poem/article you are working on, and a whole team of fantastic editors and writers will give your post a readthrough, and provide good feedback, edits and critiques. I submitted a short story I had written a while ago, but never had the confidence to share. The team over at @thewritersblock helped me get the story into what I would consider ship-shape condition. I am very thankful to @rhondak, @gmuxx, @anikekirsten, @bex-dk, @caleblailmusik and the others who critiqued my story.

So, without further ado, may I present my first short story I have ever written. Please let me know your thoughts - I'd love feedback, even if negative! 💜

---

Today’s Special

“You will witness the unusual.” read the note in my fortune cookie.

What a load of crap. I threw the piece of paper in the bin. Of course I knew the fortunes had no actual means of ever coming true, made up by a bored Chinese chap in a factory somewhere in Hong Kong.

It was summer in Cape Town, and a blistering heat beat down. My friend, Samantha, and I had decided to gorge ourselves at a local sushi bar. The food was cheap and they had one of those all-you-can-eat conveyor belts.

We finished our meal and sat in contented silence. Side by side we watched the other guests and sipped our drinks.

My attention drifted to a rather large woman on the other side of the conveyor belt. She was very short, and quite round too. She had unkempt and spiky, rust coloured hair. Enormous cheeks dwarfed her small weasley eyes. I gawked as she polished off multiple salmon roses in a row. She ate steadily, seated alone, with only a bottle of cheap rosé for company.

She licked her lips, deciding which dish to wolf down next. Beside her sat a pile of empty plates, at least fifteen. I watched her inspect each plate of sushi as it approached her on the conveyor belt. She was almost quivering with anticipation as she helped herself to a plate heaped with tempura prawns.

Crrrrunch, crunch, crrruuu-uunch. They were gone in a matter of seconds.

Cruuu-uunch, the woman chomped loudly, smacking her lips with relish. It was unbelievable how much she had eaten. Enough to feed a small army, I’d say.

As we gathered our things to leave, I saw the large lady call over the waiter and, red-faced, huffed something in his ear. He stifled a snigger, as he called over a fellow waiter.

The woman appeared to be stuck in her chair.

The two wait staff tugged on her portly arms, but she was firmly wedged into the high wooden chair. Quite a scene unspooled around the voracious sushi lover.

Three small Malawian waiters wedged their arms between the woman and the chair, while a minuscule Chinese woman pulled as hard as she could on the puffing woman’s wrist.

No luck.

They lifted her, in the chair, and carried her to the courtyard outside of the restaurant, all four of them out of breath and looking quite humiliated.

I gawked at the commotion. What on earth were they going to do with her?

A wizened old Chinese man came out from the back of the restaurant with a grim look on his face.

He barked something in Mandarin as the poor wait staff carried her into what I guessed to be the kitchen. By now she was wailing loudly, tears streaming down her pink, sweaty face.

I reflected on what they were going to do with her, as the heavy swinging kitchen doors slammed shut.

“Come, let’s go! Stop staring, man.” said Samantha in a loud whisper, jabbing my ribs and motioning towards the door. She was clearly as mortified as I was, yet deliciously fascinated. Drama!

I played the scene over and over in my mind as we drove home in her small blue Mazda. “Heeellloooo???” Sam waved her hand in front of my face, breaking me out of my daze.

“Sorry!” I said, putting the porcine woman out of my mind. We chatted about the upcoming week, and I told Sam about Steemit. We reached my apartment and the drama was soon forgotten.

The next day, Sam and I bicycled past the restaurant with its large sign advertising their daily specials. We looked at each other in horror, an uneasy feeling of nausea washing over me as I recalled the sushi guzzling woman.

“All You Can Eat Sushi.”

Another sign screamed at me in neon red lights, “Deep fried, rare African delicacy – this week only – NEVER TO BE SEEN AGAIN !”

please consider voting for @adsactly-witness