Ambassador Wellington's Dinner Party

Let's be honest. The dinner had gone to hell. Anyone walking in would have seen the long, luxurious, empty table lined with a half-eaten meal of the best meats and fresh produce. They would have also heard a constant squeaking like mice in pain.

In the kitchen, Danita frantically scavenged. There were mounds of torn open boxes, wrappers and bags cascading from the countertops to the floors. All of the cupboards were open, and any food in them contributed to the waterfall. Water was collecting at the foot of the open fridge. Danita threw another box to the floor in frustration and leaned back against the counter scanning the kitchen. Her eyes went wide as they caught on the trashcan by the back door. She rushed to it and poured its contents over a free section of the floor.

She added some stains to her once beautiful dress as she knelt down to sift through the garbage. She grabbed a plastic bag and wiped coffee grounds away from the label with the side of her hand. Running her fingernail line by line, she scanned the ingredients and then tossed the bag down with a frown.

“Oh oh!” She exclaimed, “Maybe the Garam Masala for the chicken?”

Back in the dining room, Mr. Miller was ready to try to climb down from his chair. Mrs. Miller was screaming from her chair begging him not to do it. Given their new size, her screams blended in with the high pitched screaming and crying of the other guests. Yes, he had seen Senator Fraiz fall to his death attempting the same thing. He could still see the tiny motionless corpse with his head and limbs cocked at unnatural angles, but, my gods, something had to be done. He worked his way to the edge of the curving fabric at the front of the chair. If he could grip the material, he could probably make it to a chair leg. Back in the kitchen, Danita heard the mouse-like screaming perfectly clear.

“Oh dear. Oh dear” she whispered in a panic.

“One second! One second!” she yelled toward the dining room. She kept re-reading the ingredients on the side of the small box she was holding hoping they would magically change before finally tossing it down and scanning the trash again.

“Oh! That can’t be it!” she exclaimed in frustration.

Upstairs her son was lacing up his new boots. He did it slowly, precisely, like a robot. They were so shiny he could see his warped reflection in the toe. He carefully knotted the lace making sure each side was equal and then stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. His uniform was spotless, and his eyes welled with tears.

“This is me” he whispered to his reflection. He stomped the floor twice with his left foot and then twice with his right. The dull spikes left deep, sharp dents in the wood floor. It was time to get started.