What Is The Moral Lesson Of Wombat Stew?

At Opaline Corp, the lowest-performing employee had to eat a plate of pasta mixed with live worms. This time, Tristan Crocker lost three clients and landed dead last. To keep Tristan from feeling singled out, my wife, Wendy Kline, hit me with a nine-million-dollar performance penalty because I showed up one minute late while sick—even though I'd brought in three million in revenue. Just like that, I became the first employee in company history with negative earnings. Grinning, Tristan shoved the plate toward me. "Wendy updated the company rules last night to keep everyone in line. Anyone who's late gets penalized three times their performance. You always said mistakes deserve punishment. Now that it's your turn, you're not backing out, right?" Every eye in the room locked on me, waiting for me to lose it. Wendy quickly sent me a message: [The nine million is only on paper. It's not a real fine. With your talent, you'll earn it back in three months. Tristan's allergic to worms. If he ends up in the hospital over a punishment, it'll damage the company's reputation. And if people hear we punished an outsider, that'll look even worse.] [You're my husband. You're one of us. I love you, which is why I'm giving you the chance to show some leadership.] [Once this blows over, I'll give you an extra twenty dollars a month, okay?] When I didn't reply, she finally snapped. "Company rules apply to everyone, even the top performer. If you don't like it, you're free to leave." I nodded, unclipped my badge, and set it on the table. "Fine. I quit." I looked at her. "And while we're at it, let's get divorced."

On our wedding anniversary, I ask my husband, Luke Blackburn, to buy me some fish stew. Since I'm in my first trimester, I keep vomiting every now and then due to morning sickness. Right now, I have an intense craving for fish stew. But Luke comes home empty-handed in the middle of the night. He claims that he's completely forgotten about my request. I don't say anything at all. All I notice is a strand of long hair sticking to Luke's collar that doesn't belong to me. Some time later, I see the fish stew I never got to eat in a photo that Luke's colleague, Ruby Pollard, has uploaded to her social media feed. The caption reads, "Luke ordered this dish for me. He knows that I love fish stew from this particular restaurant the most. I'm so touched by his gesture!" In the photo, I see a pair of familiar hands picking out fish bones from the meat tenderly just for Ruby.

Polly is an Aspin who got separated from his mother and brothers when he was very young. He struggled to keep himself alive. He wanted to belong but what he got was rejection after rejection, heartache after heartache - yet he marched on with his leg that could not be bent. This is a story of survival - a story of hope - that even with his leg that could not be bent, love is possible.

Dominic Langdon, a gang boss, is about to host his birthday banquet soon. He specifically tells everyone that he wants bluefin tuna and premium abalone as the grandest dish in his banquet. That seafood comes to a total of 80 thousand dollars. But my uncle, Steve Cutterson, gives me 800 dollars and tells me to carry out the task. I head toward the garbage dump of the farmers' market immediately. Soon, I return with a cartload of canned sardines and crayfish. After calculating the transportation costs, it comes to a total of 800 dollars. When the cheap-looking seafood is served, Dominic is so pissed that he flips the table on the spot. "How dare you pocket my money! You must have a death wish!" Steve quickly makes me the scapegoat. "Mr. Langdon, Caleb is the one who bought the seafood! He must have embezzled your money! Caleb, you'd better grovel to Mr. Langdon and pay him back right now!" I just show everyone the magnified version of the transfer record of 800 dollars with a stony expression. "Take a good look, Uncle Steve. Do you really think you can afford bluefin tuna with just 800 dollars? Did Mr. Langdon give you the money purely out of charity purposes?"

On our seventh wedding anniversary, my husband, Nate Anderson, told me that he had offended a mob boss. On the same night, he sent our daughter, Poppy Anderson, and I to go into hiding in the desert. Halfway through the journey, I recalled that I had forgotten to pack my daughter’s asthma medication. Hence, I quickly went back. However, I saw Nate celebrating with his friends in our mansion. “Nate, aren’t you worried that Lila and Poppy are going to starve in the remote area that you’ve sent them to?” Nate said indifferently, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve repackaged the unsold dog food from Emma’s shop and sent it to them. They won’t starve.” Emma leaned her head against Nate’s chest. “Baby, you’re so smart. Do you think our child will be more like you or me?” Nate looked at her lovingly and kissed her. “Regardless of who our child resembles, I’ll love him or her the most.” His friend could not stand it anymore. “Since you don’t love Lila, why did you marry her and have Poppy with her?” Nate lit a cigarette. He looked a little cross. “I only slept with Lila because I was afraid that Emma would think I was inexperienced, but I didn’t expect her to get pregnant after that one time. “I only married her out of responsibility. I feel bad for Emma. She was with me for so many years, but our relationship had no label. “If Lila finds out that Emma’s pregnant, she’ll definitely make a scene. I have no choice but to simply make up a lie and send her away.” I stood on the other side of the door, feeling chilled to the bone. Three years later, Nate video-called me with a big smile. “Lila, it’s all over. Are you and Poppy doing well? I’ll come get you.” I looked at the man, who was hugging me tightly in his sleep. “We’re doing good! My new husband keeps me very satisfied, and Poppy has started to call him ‘Daddy.’”

On a stormy night during the apocalypse, my own mother threw me out of the house while I was burning with fever, along with my husky, so my little brother would have a better chance of surviving. She shouted through the crack in the door, “Take that useless mutt and go die somewhere. Stop wasting your brother’s food!” I huddled in a pile of trash with my dog in my arms, convinced I was going to die. Then my husky suddenly spoke. “Host’s vital signs critically low. Infinite Supply Search System activated.” “Supermarket warehouse one hundred meters ahead. Three thousand freeze-dried meals detected.” “Pharmacy five hundred meters to the left. Five hundred boxes of antibiotics detected.” Three days later, I’d built a fortress with packs of dogs and mountains of supplies. I sat inside eating steak and watching the show. Outside the barbed wire, my mother and brother were on their knees, fighting each other over half a piece of moldy bread. I smiled. “Mom, even dogs wouldn’t eat that. Better savor it.”