Write Something Fantastical

“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t eat robots for dinner?”

“I don’t understand you – you’ll eat anything, but you won’t eat robots. In all my life… and in this economy, too. Robots are lean, they don’t cost much, and they’re very nutritious.”

“I don’t like eating the eyes.”

“What do you mean you don’t like eating the eyes? Just last Tuesday you inhaled two dragon eyeballs, and you didn’t even so much as ask for a second helping of fairy wings for dessert.”

“I don’t like the way they crunch.”

“Which?”

“Which what?”

“The robot eyes, or the fairy wings?”

“Well I ate the fairy wings, didn’t I?”

“Well it’s robots for dinner or nothing.”

“Aye.”

Thus ran a typical evening in the household of the world’s only remaining wizard in the year 2409. His wife, Anna, had learned the hard way not to tell him to conjure his own meals, not because he had done anything bad, but because he was a bad cook. She decided that she would rather enjoy her own cooking, and she couldn’t understand how anyone could not like robots. She had been raised on robots; she suspected it was a matter of pride that he so refused them, as her mother-in-law had confided in her that he loved robots as a child, but developed a distaste for them the more he learned to conjure fire out of the air. It makes sense – you can’t cook a robot with fire; it’s a matter of patience.