Tuesday, January 06, 2004
I found it odd that they were so surprised. They should have known it was coming, especially the soup can. The soup sits on the top shelf with an excellent view of the window and the outdoor weather.
They should have all known how cold it was outside.
The soup probably thought I was reaching for the Mac and Cheese again - going for one of my old favorites. I couldn't help but grin when I snatched the can from the shelf, not even bothering to read the lable. I had picked that one weeks ago, on a different shelf. Among hundreds of its peers, it was the one that my pale arm reached. It was the one I purchased.
I poured it's insides into a bowl. The bowl was clear, the pasta and beef guts of the can on blatant display to the rest of the kitchen.
I could hear the rest - all of them - trying to hide. Trying to blend into the counter, the fridge, the shelf. Trying not to be afraid. Trying not to look hearty.
I looked around, tasting them all with my eyes. Mentally mashing them and combining their tastes, their textures, estimating what they would feel like - how full I would be after I was done. I was drinking at the same time; a beverage called Fear.
A white flash! My arm arced out, the room recoiled. I paused. The room relaxed - I had not preyed. The click of a dial; I drank deeply. The Terror Box - some call it an oven - is my favorite tool. For I can cook so many things in it's molten maw.
I took a slow step, feigning a ponder. I needed to not think about the choice, I had thought long enough on the icy trek to my abode. The cold wandering was surest torture, but the rewarming of my extremities was the most blinding of pain. Pain for which their would be payment. I had decided in my frostblinded state that the potatos were the blame, the payment: in souls.
The doors wide, I could see them - taste them. The hole from the previous raid on their family was gaping. A chest wound which oozed not blood, but tuber. My invitation. Four of them didn't have time to scream before they were wrapped in metal and bathed in heat, the rest were silent as the doors closed, entombing them once again.
The cold darkness of the fridge gave way to warm lights. Pale hands. Margarine. I looked at the bread with sadism of such power that the kitchen nearly ruptured.
"It rubs the margarine on its skin", I told the bread. As expected, the bread was too terrified to move an inch, curled as though it were inanimate on the fridge shelf.
Knifework. Microwaves. 350F.
Hearty
They should have all known how cold it was outside.
The soup probably thought I was reaching for the Mac and Cheese again - going for one of my old favorites. I couldn't help but grin when I snatched the can from the shelf, not even bothering to read the lable. I had picked that one weeks ago, on a different shelf. Among hundreds of its peers, it was the one that my pale arm reached. It was the one I purchased.
I poured it's insides into a bowl. The bowl was clear, the pasta and beef guts of the can on blatant display to the rest of the kitchen.
I could hear the rest - all of them - trying to hide. Trying to blend into the counter, the fridge, the shelf. Trying not to be afraid. Trying not to look hearty.
I looked around, tasting them all with my eyes. Mentally mashing them and combining their tastes, their textures, estimating what they would feel like - how full I would be after I was done. I was drinking at the same time; a beverage called Fear.
A white flash! My arm arced out, the room recoiled. I paused. The room relaxed - I had not preyed. The click of a dial; I drank deeply. The Terror Box - some call it an oven - is my favorite tool. For I can cook so many things in it's molten maw.
I took a slow step, feigning a ponder. I needed to not think about the choice, I had thought long enough on the icy trek to my abode. The cold wandering was surest torture, but the rewarming of my extremities was the most blinding of pain. Pain for which their would be payment. I had decided in my frostblinded state that the potatos were the blame, the payment: in souls.
The doors wide, I could see them - taste them. The hole from the previous raid on their family was gaping. A chest wound which oozed not blood, but tuber. My invitation. Four of them didn't have time to scream before they were wrapped in metal and bathed in heat, the rest were silent as the doors closed, entombing them once again.
The cold darkness of the fridge gave way to warm lights. Pale hands. Margarine. I looked at the bread with sadism of such power that the kitchen nearly ruptured.
"It rubs the margarine on its skin", I told the bread. As expected, the bread was too terrified to move an inch, curled as though it were inanimate on the fridge shelf.
Knifework. Microwaves. 350F.
Hearty
