These stories were written live on stream based on prompts provided by the viewers. They have been edited, with this second more in-depth edit occurring much later, but not meaningfully rewritten or expanded so as to preserve the spirit of the exercise. Sadly, the prompts themselves were not recorded until many stories in.  Sometimes the prompts were silly challenges, or quirky thoughts, or dark ideas, or utter nonsense.  I did my best each time.

If you enjoy this, please check out the other activities from the stream. If you would like something longer and much more thoroughly planned, simply investigate my more traditional work at the top of the page.

A Hardy Cheese Arrives in America

prompt provided by WolfChkin

The package arrived in the Sandwich District of Pastapolis with little fanfare, the bulk of which was three serving trays over, on Reuben Street. A local pride parade was in full swing. Sugar confetti rained down on the tray from apartment windows. Bacon flags in an assortment of colors flew from baguette floats, topped with the local dancing spread.

 Everyone came out to celebrate their bread, lettuce, and cheese together. The LGBLT organization had arranged the whole thing and now flanked the floats, passing out garnishes. A barbecue chicken singer flung melodies and flecks of sauce the crowd’s way, giving shout-outs to all the finger sandwiches, beefcakes on weck, and Italian subs out there.

The package went unopened for several hours, even as its contents called out for help. It was labeled on all sides with stickers that said handle with care, each decorated differently. Sometimes it moved a little, but drew no attention until a dock worker stopped by with a box cutter.

He was a smelly durian, and the other food never wanted him around anyway, so he was off to pick up some extra shifts during the parade, down where the fishy salty stink disguised his own aura. He tapped the cardboard with a rind spine and was surprised to hear nearly twenty taps back. After that the fruit hurried, cutting open the side of the box and releasing its contents.

Out poured many exotic wedges and wheels of cheese, in a host of varieties. Some of them choked on the fresh air and struggled to get their bearings as they spread out. A small wedge, named Marzu, squeezed her way past two aged cheddars to get her first good look at Pastapolis: soaring spiraling fusilli towers in three colors, pie crust stadium lips, and marinara clouds. It was beautiful, everything she had imagined on the long voyage over from Curdistan.

Sadly, Marzu could not feel the joy she had envisioned. That had included her parents, who were gone now. The man back in Curdistan, who owned the box, who had the blank stickers, had promised their family so much: inexpensive travel, immigration documents, and even help getting a job in America.

What he actually offered, once the tape shrieked across the box flaps, was darkness. No room. No ventilation. No protection from melting heat. Many of them were nothing but moldy piles in the back of the box now. Her parents had succumbed to maggots, carried by another one of the cheeses. Eaten inside and out they were, without the proper burial of their people: a napkin over their coffins. It was just Marzu now, alone in the strange new city.

Her father had the American language, Engoulash. Marzu had not a word of it, and understood only what she had been told by that secretly-rotten fellow back in Curdistan. America was a placemat of opportunity, where foods from all cultures came together to improve their lives. She had been shipped across the Melting Pot Bay to get there after all. Marzu heard the commotion from the parade a few trays away. Her father had told her what the stickers on their package said. Handle with care. The Americans would help her. Some food out there had to want her in their family. She went well with so much! That’s what her tater tutor always used to say.

Marzu ran back to the box, tangy spirit full of hope, and peeled one of the stickers off. It was the one she had decorated with her family, with swirls of pink and blue icing. She outran all the other immigrating cheeses, making streaks of their orange rinds and blue patches. Soon she would get to meet them in a nicer setting, now that they weren’t improperly stored together in the cramped dark. As she ran, her corners left tiny oil prints on the street.

At first the parade didn’t notice the little foreign cheese as she ran between members of the band, holding up her sign and hoping someone would read it. She shouted friendly greetings, but nobody could hear over the flaxophones. It was the wrong sort of food that spotted her first.

The American cheese stood in a homogeneous line, silently observing the parade. They weren’t fans of the LGBLT organization running the show, but they certainly had pride in Pastapolis. Most of them were born and cultured there for three generations. Every wilted square wore the same garnish like a badge, having taken it upon themselves to make sure nobody disturbed the peace.

One of them spotted the young curd climbing a root beer float. He broke formation and chased her down, plucking her off the float with two smothering corners. Soon she was surrounded by American cheese skimheads, all yelling and slapping. The parade came to a halt.

“It’s one of those smelly imports,” one slice declared to the curious crowd. “Fouling up our streets. I bet she isn’t even pasteurized! Don’t touch her!” Another slice wasn’t listening. He picked up Marzu, who interpreted the gesture as friendly, and held her up for everybody to see. She, in turn, held out her sign proudly. Handle with care.

The skimhead stunt might’ve worked, but it was immediately thwarted by a simple stumble as the slice holding her lost his balance on one of her oily footprints, the oil from the bottom of the box, formed from the doomed cheeses who had believed in Pastapolis. He flung Marzu away to steady himself.

The young cheese landed in the shade of a brioche bun. Everyone noticed how adorably she tumbled and how amused the brioche burger was. Food clamored for her, all wanting to hold her and be seen. Photographers snapped pictures wildly, vying for the best view of the tiny import and her sign. American slices were compressed by the crowd, squeezed out, grumbling as they slapped their backs to waffled walls and sidled, humiliated into a dark alley where the crusts had been cut off.

Surely Marzu belonged in America, belonged in the parade, belonged nestled in all their finest rye and sourdough. They could all be proud together, proud of Pastapolis and the frothing warmth of Melting Pot Bay. She went well with everything!

The End