Ironically, I wanted to shout “Snap. Crackle. Pop,” but I quickly realised how unwelcome that turn of phrase might prove.

You see, when sausages are freed from the barricade and launched into the pan to endure the intricately delicate art of grilling and charring until their faces are burnt more crudely than any crisp, there really are no words that can plausibly ease this exposure.

Children often wonder whether inanimate objects might nuture secret objectives between griddle and grave, though if they knew the truth, perhaps those callous knives would not bleed so cruelly.

For when passed from pan to plate like so much precious poison, there is no exclamation of ecstasy when friable skin is peeled back from the open flame, for it is simply the next chapter, the punctuation mark dividing the succession of satanic sentences prior to the sequel.

It does not matter how sweetly you butter your oven-baked breads, or sandwich us between each honey scented glaze, for despite each jovial jest, brother sausage crackles

and pops just the same as I when leaving the jaws of burning death, only to enter the salivating human mouth of hell instead.

How I wish I were a Rice Krispie: Snap, Crackle, Crunch!

#writer #author #fiction #competition #food #fantasy

Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk

The detective set his too-large briefcase down on the metal table across from Dylan, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Dylan slid his shoe back and forth through the puddle of grease accumulating on the concrete floor.

"So Mr. Smith," said the detective, pulling a notepad from the giant briefcase, "your official statement—your official legal statement—is that they tried to...fry you."

"Yes," said Dylan. A box fan buzzed somewhere in the bowels of the station, but otherwise, it was silent.

Dylan regarded his elbow, where the pink, raw skin was exposed beneath a giant burnt hole in his sweatshirt.

"You said that, due to an Internet rumor about human temperature converting..." he referenced his notes, pushing his glasses up his nose, "converting flesh into....diamonds? That they tried to fry you? To turn you into...diamond?"

They had, in fact. Grabbed him from the fast-food station, pulled him into the alley, dumped the grease-trap contents over half of his struggling body, and almost got him onto what he'd assumed was an industrial sheet-printer, before he'd kicked his way out and ended up here at the police station, smoking and covered in oil.

"Well," began the officer, removing a large object from the case as Dylan's jaw went slack, "just because it's on the Internet doesn't make it false, does it?" He leveled the flamethrower at Dylan.

My bread comes from hauling a man-sized bag around the city and picking out recyclables from waste bins along the Turkish-Syrian border. Each night I drag it behind me on shopping cart wheels, as to avoid the sun. This is also when most of the competition sleeps. I hope to one day get an electic bike to do this faster. I know some may pity me, but I’m one of the lucky whose family is still together. Mashallah.

Life in my homeland was nice. So they tell me. I often wonder if my family’s old home is still intact. My earliest memories were of panic, my mother worrying about what we’d eat, and so on. This continued as we went from one box to the next. I’m talking about those two-to-three story cement boxes many still call homes in the Middle East.

I’ve been told droughts ruined our soil, if it’s even still ours. Then, insurrection took what was left. Now we live on the scraps of the world, and our welcome in the only land I’ve known, has worn thin. There’s plenty of work if you’re willing to sweat, and not get much in return. I could maybe become a builder in this hell, but I dream of getting that bike to get through trash faster. At least there is wind on a bike.

I was running, running as fast as my little legs could carry me, which actually was not that fast. It was dark. I could not see a single thing in front of me, which is not ideal for a quick getaway. I saw the opportunity to escape my captors and took it. Now, I was stuck in the middle of the forest with no light source and no food or water, while getting chased by three, angry men with guns. Yup life was great. They were getting closer; I could hear their movements getting louder. I couldn’t keep up the pace much longer and so I turned towards a big tree and sat next to it where I would be hidden from view by the bushes that surround it. I quieted my breath. They got closer. My breath quickened. One of them stood 5 feet from where I sat. Very close. Too close. He turned. Scoured the bushed with his beady eyes. I stayed as still as I could, hoping he doesn’t see me. He looked down. I looked down. He smiled and looked right at me. Tears rolled down my face as I glanced at my bright-colored shoelaces sticking out. I was as lucky as a dead fish. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, here I come.

I got the frying pan out so I could cook but, when I stood up I wasn’t in my kitchen. I was in a strange magical land.

“Where am I? What is this place?” I asked out loud as I looked around.

“A new comer has arrived. It has been foretold that you would be here to save us.” A small elven child said as he appeared.

“Who is us?” I asked as I still had a hold of the frying pan.

“Well, there is more of us in the town not far from here.” He said as he bowed.

We walked into his town and something didn’t seem right here. The town seemed like it was empty. A strange black creature appeared in front of us. He ran behind me and into a building.

“Have you come to dessssssssssstroy me, little girl? Are you afraid of failure, little girl? Are afraid of me?” The creature asked in a rough and raspy voice as he slithered around me.

I got angrier and angrier as he spoke. He slithered until he was in front of me again.

"Put that little pan down sssssssssssso we can talk with no dissssssssssturbanccccccce, little girl." He suggested as he slithered the other way around.

“I am no little girl, you cowardly snake!!” I said as I swung the frying pan.

Rather than meeting its new habitat on dry paper towel, the plantain somersaulted off of the spatula hitting the counter and swiveling on the surface in a perfect figure eight before teetering at the edge of the counter to preface a potentially new yet unwelcome residence--the floor. Missing the warmth of the stovetop and the camaraderie of its fellow plantains, it quivered undecidedly in hesitance of what to do next. After a few minutes it looked up as the bottom of an outstretched hand became its ceiling. Aware of being lifted from the countertop by the weightlessness of its surroundings, the horizon of this favored and flavored food's view brightened as it landed on a new surface. Content but still expectant for more adventure, the plantain nosedived from the edge of the plate and found itself amidst shiny utensils. In a reflection from a spoon’s concave surface, it turned from side to side in approval, looking admirably on its new tan. Beautified by its impeccable brown color with dark areas that lined its outer edges and followed by more textured lines that ran done its side and into the middle.

Oh no, oh no, oh no! I watch in horror as the human gets ready to thrust the pan upward. He chuckles to his 3 daughters who are watching me intently. I brace myself.

As if in slow motion, the human throws the pan upward, and I go flying. Well, he put too much thrust into it, and I land with a splat, sticking to the ceiling. The humans look up at me for a second, bemused, then start to laugh. I cry gooey tears, but they don’t notice. My yolk drips downwards, gravity and sadness doing their work.

Eventually, I become too heavy and begin to peel off of the ceiling. Again, the humans don’t notice; they've given up on me and started to fry my buddy, Charles. I send him a silent prayer. I figure I should be praying for my own life right now, but I don’t have time.

All of a sudden, I’m plummeting towards the tile floor, screaming, but nobody can hear me. Except Charles. I catch his horrified eyes as I finish my descent, and explode on the tile.