Mere plate of rice

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, there was a poor town. Somewhere in the town, there was a posh restaurant. Only the rich could afford to go there for meals. Why it was built there, nobody knows. Most of the people there walked along the street, eyes looking for food. They fought for every grain of rice or every bread crust. They would have robbed the restaurant if not for the guards there. They were heavily armed with guns that could kill easily. It was not an offence to kill someone there.

A crash was heard on the street outside the restaurant. It was a plate of rice. The people outside froze and then they crept towards the restaurant. The guards pulled their pistols out of their sheaths and pointed it at one of the men.

“Stop right there!” hollered one of the guards.

Everyone halted. The guard paid full attention and gave them no chance of closing in the restaurant. The chef threw the plate of rice out the window. Again, everyone froze. One more step and they’d get their meal, but would anyone dare? One starving man could not resist the temptation anymore. He dashed towards the rice, hoping that the guards would have mercy and left him alone. It must be his first time here, for everyone else knew that the guards have no mercy for anything.

Bang! Down he went. The rest of the ravenous men dashed towards the food, their only meal for a few days straight. The guards shot the ones who ran first or the ones who left last. They always did, they always will.

As the crowd began to scramble away, leaving the dead behind. There was no one left to grieve for them, for even their loved ones left them behind. One guard whispered to the other, “The war did it. The war changed everyone in town.”