Thank you everyone for your kind words. Saying that doesn't do justice to my appreciation as there's just so much to grief that words can't fill, but kindness is a soft light in a dark, lonely room. So thanks for the light.

Here's hoping this can help people get through their social distancing and quarantines in this crazy, crazy reality we're currently living in. Enjoy.

Fiyero stood in line with a tray at the refectory watching as the hands of the clock on the far wall spin round and round. He sure was hungry, but the long line of people in front of him kept him from the piles of crispy potato balls he craved; hell, he couldn't even see past the backs to enjoy the spuds with his eyes.

"I do hope they have soup today."

The voice came from the person just before him in the queue, a small old man with bushy white eyebrows and a matching moustache, the latter of which he was brushing with one finger idly; his gray coat went all the way to the floor but was open so he could see the patterned waistcoat and matching striped pants and necktie, tied tight around a high white collar…

Fiyero considered how itchy the snug collar was of his captain's uniform and tugged at it.

He vaguely wondered where the old man's hat was.

After a wait that felt like a hundred years, Fiyero stood front and center before the gleaming silvery counter, the steam trays within it overflowing. There were his potatoes, Fiyero saw excitedly, and pointed them out enthusiastically to the woman behind the counter.

"Oh no dear. Try the deep-fried Monkey wings instead!"

Knowing deeply he didn't want Monkey wings today, Fiyero frowned up at the food lady just to see thick, cracking makeup, a shrewd, yellowed smile, and a hairnet set far back at the receding hairline of woman with a face like a carp.

"The handsome swain doesn't approve of the choice? Well, look again dear, there's something for everyone!"

Fiyero took in his choices again, but this time the potatoes did not distract him so fully. To their left he saw a container of straw and dirt, to their right one of unhusked raw corn, the scent of it filling his nostrils and giving his stomach a churn of unpleasantness. Those wouldn't do. He looked at the other options but quickly wished he hadn't, for in another tray, simmering quietly up to the brim, was crimson gook that made his made his mouth fill with thick, brassy blood, coating his tongue and filling his throat until he was coughing, gagging, doubled over in line.

"Oh good, they do have soup!" the Wizard said, and craning his neck he peeked up as Morrible dunked her ladle in the blackish green potage, giving it a stir.

"It's Wicked Witch today," the crone crooned, grinning widely. "Melted fresh this morning!"

"Ooh, my favorite."

And up from the depths of the large pot, through a swirl of black, a green hand floated to the top…

Gasping sharply, the crowned prince of the Vinkus started so suddenly he fell halfway out of his chair. Choking on air and still feeling the syrupy blood clogging his throat, he hacked loudly, unaware that he had an entire classroom of peers as an audience until he caught his breath enough to look up.

He felt heated, not from embarrassment but from a lack of oxygen, and grunted an apology that only motivated the teacher and a small handful of students to resume the monotonous review of economical terminology and theories. Hating that certain memories he worked hard to repress, like what a stomach full of blood felt like, would crop up so strongly in his fleeting moments of unconsciousness, he clenched his jaw against the nausea that hit him like a kick to the gut (another memory), and he grabbed his books and staggered out of the classroom. He found a trashcan just outside and hovered over it, waiting for vomit that didn't come.

And to think, just a few minutes ago he was zoning out in class daydreaming about lunch. He couldn't bring himself to eat the rest of the day.