Prompt: Create a story, poem or any other piece based on this metaphor: a plate of fear
She swallowed, feeling the bareness of her throat, the vulnerability, above the dress’ open neckline. She stiffened, feeling the presence of the servants around her, fluttering by like ghostly shadows. When she saw them their faces were silent, stoic. Their eyes were glazed and glassy – they seemed to look right past her to the platters and goblets and silver. They did not make a noise, floating about the room.
She looked down at the immaculate lace tablecloth in front of her, trying to avoid looking at the man seated at the other end of the long, rectangular table. He was distant – obscured by glasses and elaborately decorative dishes – but she thought that he must be watching her.
She jumped as a servant’s sleeve touched her. She looked up; the man’s face was a blank white mask. He did not show that he had noticed her at all – it was as if he was setting an empty table. Embarrassed, she looked down to the dish he had placed before her. Her skin prickled as she looked at the wide, shallow bowl. It contained a heavy, red soup; it reminded her of blood, a thought that made her sick. It was a plate full of fear.