I thought about doughnuts, cake, pancakes with chocolate chips, bacon, and coffee. I wondered if it was breakfast time, or if I was just realizing how much of a glutton I was. I could feel my stomach and gut contract, expand, then contract again. It was an especially odd feeling in my left side, just by my ribs.

I sighed. My stomach loved to be thought about, more often when actual food was involved.

I missed chocolate mousse suddenly.

Slathered in between chocolate cake and chocolate shaving crushed over top.

"I'm a pig." I sat up and started at my tights. There was a tear along my thigh. My socks were worn through, I'd guess from the stone floors. My skirt was fine. Not even dirty. My entire head felt like it was covered in oil. I took my brown shirt off and wiped my face.

Survival experts say the best way to get to thinking is to feel comfortable, including a clean face.

The empty stomach I tried to overlook.

It was difficult.

It was then I was glad I had kept my hair short. Although it most likely looked horrible, it wasn't in the way.

I suddenly remembered steak and sautéed mushrooms.

I grabbed my shoes, tugged them on, and stepped over to the danger zone in the corner of my cell. I found two books that were perfect. No damaged cover, the pages slightly worn where exposed.

I went to the slight ledge, by where I had set my necklaces. I sat and opened a book with a brown cover. Opening it, I found a foreign language. I tossed it back to the corner and picked up the next one. It looked more like Shakespeare.

So I sat and decided to try and decipher it. It had to be better than thinking about food.

I was half way through when the smell hit me. The meat was served cold and I still could smell it. Instead of eating it all at once, I took the bread and nibbled on it, heading back to read.

I tried to make the food last. I did fine for half an hour or so. Then I tasted the meat and scarfed it down.

Several pages in, I felt like my stomach got hit by a rock or a fist. I gasped at the pain and had to set my book down. The pain faded, or so I thought, when a burning pain hit me. It was far worse, and I held my stomach. Was I going to throw up my lone meal of the day? I waited it out, breathing steady. It was over after some time. With no throw up, thankfully.

Do I thank God still, or Gods?

"Gah…" I laid down on the floor and picked up the book, and prayed it didn't happen again.

I was almost done with the book – some tale about a warrior god trying to win the battle in favor of who prayed to him – when the echo and even sound of boots came down the steps and to my cell. "Is it sad that I miss that sound sometimes? You guys must really like me."

"You have been summoned by the king."

"You don't say."

The screen went down and I held my arms out. The shackles clicked around my ankles and wrists, and then I was pulled into the middle of the circle. We walked up stairs, down hallways, I was pushed down when I tried to look around. Same as last time. However, when they parted to their respected sides this time, I was instead faced with "Odin" sitting on a large throne-type chair.

The old man was up on a higher platform. There was another seat to his right, empty. The guard pushed me and I stumbled just in front of him. "Why Odin, you seem older than the last time I-"

"Insolence!" He hissed the word, it echoed across the dining room. But I noticed a glimmer in the one eye. "Girl, one of my guards tells you know stories. We wish you to speak them for us."

"It's not like I'm a jester. I just recited a poem, I was bored."

"Then you will recite it again!" His tone had a certain finality to it.

I sighed, "Alright," and turned towards the staring men. I was grumpy. I hadn't bathed in some unknown number of days. My wrists and ankles hurt. But I knew how to tell a tale. "Guardsmen, one of you have heard this poem. But do you know of it? It was written over a century ago, by a man of the name William Blake. It is said he died after stumbling upon a faery funeral. Before his death, he wrote, turning questions into poems. Here is one of them." I took a breath and started the poem. I spoke the words carefully, rising and lowering my voice and hands where I thought appropriate. When I was done, they did not speak. They did not clap. They sat and stared.

I sighed again, turning towards the "king." "May I go back now?" But I heard a chair scrap against the ground. I peeked from the corner of my eye. A guard had stood.

"My Lady, may we request another?"

I pouted. "Well if you're going to make a job out of it, the least you could do is get me a better outfit." I turned back to the old man. "Maybe even fashion me some pretty shackles, something gold, maybe with green stones."

His one eye squinted at me, but the twinkle had returned. "We shall see, mortal. Tell us another tale, and perhaps."

I was feeling good now. "Very well!" I turned on my toes, and grinned at the guards. They were back to sitting. "This next is more of riddle with no answer. I learned it from my grandmother, and she has no idea where she heard it from. Mayhap she forgot it." Several of the guards grinned and I winked back at them.

"'Ladies and gentleman, hobos and tramps. Cross eyes mosquitoes and bow legged ants. I come to stand before you, to stand behind you, to tell you a story I know nothing about. This one dark night, the sun shone bright! These two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other. They pulled their swords and shot each other. The deaf, um, guardsmen heard the shots and came and shot those two dead boys. Their eyes turned to lime green, their stomachs turned to whipping cream! And me without a spoon. Now if you don't believe me, just ask the blind man around the corner, he saw it all." Once again they stared.

I heard a single laugh behind me. "You shall tell more tales, girl, but no more on this night. Go back to your cell."

One guard stood and stepped forward. He grabbed my upper arm and pulled me along. "So am I less of a threat, or am I supposed to be charmed."

I heard him murmur "A strange tale, but entertaining," just before he unshackled me and let me walk back into the cell room.

His footsteps went away. I sat, pulling my knees up, hugging them. All I could think about was that pig on the table.

That pain in the gut? REAL. IT WAS HORRIBLE. AND I WAS DRIVING. So I quit the diet. I drank 4 cups of delicious coffee. It was wonderful. So for me and the pain I endured for accuracy, give me reviews. And what you think for her future career.