The dripping slowly entered his waking conscience, insisting that its presence take top priority.
“Oh, no,” thought Alan, “they’ve gone and done it again. Idiots!”
He dragged himself into the kitchen, which was situated next to his bedroom in this early-seventies shared student house. The debris no longer disgusted him; several months of living with his flat-mates had anaesthetized him to their excesses. He took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it. He reached the sink, and switched off the dripping tap. Silence.
“Hello!” he called. No reply. Alone, Alan began the process of breaking himself slowly into another dreary day. He knew his odd, shift-work hours were unlikely to mesh with the lifestyle of the students with whom he shared, but accommodation was hard to come by; well, cheap accommodation, anyway.
The blackened, greasy frying pan repelled thoughts of a cooked breakfast. Maybe later. What he really needed was a drink. Tea, that would do it. A good, reviving cuppa. Alan’s search for a mug eventually proved fruitful. He knew his flat-mates were coffee drinkers (instant, of course) so the teapot had remained relatively untouched by the unhealthy lifestyles of his companions. But was there any tea? Gingerly scrabbling around the deeper, darker recesses of the cupboards, he eventually found an old tin that looked like it might hold something brewable. Cautiously opening the lid, Alan discovered the tin to be a quarter-full with finely chopped, dried leaves. The contents smelt slightly fusty, but not unpleasant.
As the water came to the boil, he spooned leaves into the teapot (two spoons for himself, and one for the pot). As it brewed, Alan searched for milk, but couldn’t steel himself sufficiently to open the fridge door. He’d have to drink it black.
He sat down at the only corner of the kitchen table currently uncluttered by scabby plates, mold-encrusted mugs, antique pizza, crumpled magazines, roll-your-own butt ends, un-darned socks, unpaid bills, and the general detritus of people sharing a flat but not standards. Alan shuddered. He sipped his drink as he contemplated what he should eat.
Marmalade, I like marmalade, he thought. To his surprise, the loaf of bread had survived relatively intact and, after having cut two thick slices, he placed them on the eye-level grill (removing yesterday’s kipper beforehand). Butter should help, but that would mean he’d definitely have to open the fridge door. He took another sip from his mug, and walked to the fridge. He opened it slightly, and took a swift sniff. Wow, he thought, that’s amazing. Strawberry turpentine! He flung the door open wide. The fridge light was dazzling, flooding the interior with yellow light, which then subtly morphed into orange. Cool, he thought, then started giggling at the idea of describing the fridge as cool. Cool, cool, cool. He liked that. Marmalade, I like marmalade. Butter. No, cheese. Yes, cheese. Cheese and marmalade. On toast. That’s it. He took another sip of his drink.
Placing the cheese and marmalade on the kitchen table, Alan returned to the eye-level grill. He stood motionless, fascinated by the gentle browning effect of the heat on bread. Wow, I’m watching the actual birth – no, the creation of toast. Righteous.
Turning over the bread to toast the other side did not occur to Alan. He simply transferred the half-browned bread to his plate, added the butter and cheese, and then spread the whole ensemble liberally with marmalade. He took another sip of the brew.
After having taken two bites of his breakfast creation, Alan became bored, and switched his attention to cereal. He found a half-consumed box of Ricicles. He tried conversing with the three pixies on the box but they must have been hung-over because they wouldn’t talk with him. He stared long and hard at their images before adding a generous portion of cereal to a semi-clean, non-stick pan. Milk, I need milk, he thought.
The trip to the fridge was well worth the effort. Flinging open the door, the light once more entered the kitchen, casting kaleidoscopic patterns over everything. Alan chuckled to himself as he realized the air was being tie-dyed. Swaying slightly on unsteady feet, he stared intently for minutes, until he grew bored with the entertainment. He then took a bottle to the table and poured milk over the cereal. He sipped his drink once more.
Snap, Crackle, Pop. Wow, those advertisements weren’t wrong. But it’s too loud. Oh, no, thought Alan, my breakfast cereal is trying to deafen me. Snap, Crackle, Pop are no longer my friends, but marmalade, I like marmalade. And toast, that’s it, more toast.
Alan staggered to the fridge once more and opened the door with dramatic relish. He saw other munchables, and, by the light of the fridge, began to prepare a larger breakfast.
Sometime later, as charred bread under the eye-level grill spontaneously combusted, two of Alan’s flat-mates returned home, saw the smoke, and reacted quickly. Entering the kitchen, they immediately doused the fire, turned, and were met with the following scene.
Beneath smoke now blackening the ceiling, Alan was sitting peacefully, chatting once more with his three new best friends, Snap, Crackle, and Pop, each smiling inanely from the side of the cereal box. The frying pan, containing six unbroken eggs and several rashers of bacon, still in the butcher’s paper, rested precariously on the, thankfully, unlit stove. Around his neck, Alan wore raw linked sausages like a scarf. Most bewildering, though, was the proliferation of uneaten toast, cheese, and marmalade littering every surface.
“Alan, what’s goin’ on, man?”
“Marmalade, I like marmalade,” was the only response.
“Hey, man, where’s my stash? I keep it here in this tin.”
“Oops! It’s in the tea-pot. Haha, get it, eh?! Tea. Pot.”
First published in Fevers of the Mind on 5 December 2024.
In the past year, Michael Smith’s fiction has appeared in Fabula Argentea, Witcraft, Literally Stories, Microromance, Heimat Review, The Hooghly Review, Little Old Lady Comedy, and many other online literary journals. To date, he has self-published a historical fantasy called Dinner Time, two volumes in the Gruseltal series, and three collections of short stories, Fonts, Songs, and L < M, all available from online bookstores.
Website: https://frucht-schleifen.weebly.com/
Featured photo by Leeloo The First (Pexels)
