1. In the dark there is ice cream. The devil loves ice cream. Shadows play upon the wall, wishing for sleep and finding fear. There is hunger in the dark, but it is not yours. It is the hand under the bed, the bogeyman in the closet, and the man who offers ice cream. Vanilla ice cream cone. I am no longer hungry. I close my eyes tight, hoping it will go away. Let the ice cream melt.   

2. His voice, barely above a whisper, asks for a piece of bread. The small hands cup in anticipation of a handout, but it not forthcoming. The answer to every question has always been no. And it will remain so. Another boy looks in the cupboards and everything is on the highest shelf and the refrigerator has a lock. He might complain but no one hears him. Their voices are small and unimportant while their stomachs are emptied. No. 

3. His stomach does not rumble. He has plenty yet never satisfied. Opening his fridge, he notices the finest lobster staring back, and fancy Kobe beef from last night, and the most delicious cake of chocolate. The lobster’s eyes, glassier than the mans, but the lobster cannot judge him. He scoffs at stale cake and bottled champagne and becomes aware of this feeling…there is nothing he needs. 

4. Her bones protrude, yet she is fat in her estimation. She has weighed and measured…ever conscious of the ounce. Seventy- eight-pound women have those thoughts, for she has that disease. The thoughts make her sad. And thoughts turn to the cupboards and fridge, but she will not eat everything this time—a nibble here and another there—she knows when to stop. Only she does not… what goes down will surely come up. And she swears this will be the last time. The guilt will come later, but now this is a giggling gorge fest for one. She picks up the bologna, ham, chocolate syrup, and what the hell, ice cream. Happy for a godly moment. Because having is great until the empty moment when we she realizes what has just happened. Let us all live for now. Later is when it will really hurt. 

5. She eats when she is happy, sad, or angry. Any occasion is fine. Gluttonous woman can barely move. A glazed jelly roll is placed in her gullet going past her lips and grating teeth while barely grazing her esophagus before gravity has taken its toll and her engorged intestines partake of another great meal in a cavernous gut. She has never known hunger in her living room where she has become a piece of the furniture. Couch-bound and ever so hungry, this creature must be a monster. All that slack skin has a purpose. It is all grizzle. 

In every story there is conflict. Problems need to be solved, clarity obtained, or riddle solved. Not always are these conflicts solved by the end of the story. The seriousness of the conflict creates an interest for the reader. There are varying levels of conflict:  class conflicts, romantic problems, moral dilemmas, or physical challenges for the characters to overcome. 

Moral dilemmas are fascinating because we find ourselves considering the problems of the main character through our own eyes. How would we solve the problem that the hero/antagonist faces? Are the decisions realistic or the results obtainable for the ordinary person? A girl with an eating disorder is prone to depression and guilt in a never-ending destructive cycle that will destroy her self-esteem and body.  

Physical challenges can be appealing given the right details. The finesse of being able to make a setting come to life by putting the hero into a dangerous environment takes immense talent. Brilliant storytellers have a way of making you feel a part of the action.  

Hunger is an example of a conflict which everyone can relate to because we are born with this instinct. As babies we cry, and it progresses into this struggle between being satisfied physically and mentally from food. Mentally being satisfied is for people who have enough. We crave food whether we are well-fed or starving. 

In college, I had to read this short story about a grandfather who could not eat white bread. A reasonable person could say it was an emotional struggle between his family and the grandfather. Not me! A normal person would eat wheat or any other type of bread, but no this grandpa was a pain in the ass because of the type of bread. It sounds like a first world problem. Conflicts should hold your attention. The stakes were low in that story thus irritating the hell out of me. Eat the damn bread!  

I am one of those people dealing with hunger. My refrigerator had a lock; food was a source of control, and my father acted like he was a hero when we had food. Being hungry scars a person. I will never forget it. It is always there in the back of my mind.  Lately, the politically correct word is food insecurity— nice little word a bureaucrat (far removed from being hungry) made up–inadequately describing the conflict of hunger. There are starving people all over the world whose dying words would never be, “Darn, I am feeling insecure about having food.” 

As a teenager, I had eating disorders. Dysmorphic disorder is common in teens when our own image does not match up to reality. The teenage years are filled with insecurities and false personal narratives, so I ate little or not at all. I wanted strangers to believe I was not so damn poor, so I did not use the free lunch tickets and spent days without eating because of not having an appetite which I felt was completely fine. No one was looking out for my well-being and even if they were, I would have denied the hunger. My mother would trade food stamps for money at a lower return rate to buy drugs or alcohol. It is reality for people. Occasionally my sister used to steal chicken wings at a grocery store. I remember those wings as still having feathers on them. You could never remove them all and I choose not eat chicken wings anymore. I am always aware of food. 

My mother said, “there are starving people in the world, so eat up.”  My mother made Polish Sausage and sauerkraut. I just could not eat it and would vomit. My mother would put the plate in the fridge for the next night’s dinner. I would try, but it would not go down, so I ended up hungry those nights. The food got grosser as days went on and was never able to eat it even with full glasses of water. Usually after the third day, my mother gave up. I am conscious of previous bouts of hunger and the plight of those children, so I eat what is on my plate whether hungry or not which is gluttonous like the “lady of the furniture.” But like the rich man, I can choose now what I eat. 

I have conflict in my life and hunger was one of them. Writing is easier if you have experience and feel suffering of others as your own. I can write funny stuff without provocation, but there is another side that sees the gap between rich and poor growing wider and people losing hope. Will it ever get better for the hungry and poor of the world? For all those people who make a mockery of social consciousness by not having an ounce of empathy, please stop writing social commentary without having knowledge of your subject matter.