Plop went the food into the bowl.
It wasn’t food that would be easily recognisable to you and me.
Mush, gruel, a tastless concoction dished out with contempt,with complete disregard to the recipient.
They never wanted to be here.
This wasn’t the life they’d chosen.
But, in this world, where your birth, your class is the be all and end all, there was nothing that could change the course of their downward spiral.
Plop. And with a snarl, a looking down your nose stare, the bowl is filled.
Plop. Be grateful for this meal. Be thankful for the charity.
As the bowl hits the floor, swiftly followed by its holder, whose fall is seen as just one less mouth to feed.
Plop went the food into the bowl…