Flash Fiction - Get Out of my Kitchen

What are you doing in my kitchen? It’s too hot for you in here. Get out! There’s the mouldy stench of old cheese. There’s rancid lettuce in the fridge, and on the stove is a saucepan, the contents bubbling away, releasing tainted steam that you could breathe in. Yes, get out. You’re virtuous, pure, and anything as obscene as my kitchen isn’t for the likes of you.

I see past the veneers, those shiny pearly whites that smile, belying what you’re keeping inside. Those teeth, they’re liars—they’d take a bite out of my arse if I’m not careful. You think I don’t see that, but I do. I’ve always seen it, yet I chose not to say.

Your kitchen—now, there’s a thing. It’s cooler than mine, the temperature several degrees lower. It smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and caramalised sugar—mixed spice and all things nice. Your saucepan contains a gentle, simmering, beautiful concoction, and the steam coming from it filters through the air, out of your windows, and shows the world that you’re perfect, just perfect.

I’m standing in your kitchen, and beneath those delicious smells I scent the distinct aroma of bullshit, some years old, some freshly deposited, and you think I can’t smell it, but I do. And your saucepan. It deceives the eye. It is indeed bubbling over—you forgot to place a wooden spoon across the top of it, look—and those bubbles are made of mass deception and rampant infection. The latter causes scabs and sores, which fester over time, creating a buildup that will one day explode. Everything then oozes out, pouring beyond your control, and you rush to stem the flow. But the mop you hold isn’t enough to soak up the spillage; therefore, you must wait until the air flows through and dries it for you.

What, you didn’t think I could see the mess? Smell the stink? See the meaning beneath those exposed teeth of yours? Silly billy. I see more than you’ll ever know.

So, back to my kitchen. If you want to stand in it, despite the things inside, you’re welcome. I’ve exposed the skeletons—the mould on that cheese is my mistakes in life, the errors of my ways, the things I’ll own because I’m happy to admit when I’m wrong. And if you don’t like the mould, why are you still here? If, despite it, you’d like to sit at my table and eat, you’re welcome there too—until you disrespect my kitchen. If you do that, I’ll watch you take your first bite.

Without telling you that the food is poisoned.

Ten Inches Thick

Creepy...

Feet are quite the gross little blighters, aren’t they? Oh, I know people have fetishes about them, so clearly they’re not gross to all, but mine? Dear Lord, I know you granted me with hard skin on my feet for a reason, it’s just that I can’t work out what it is or for what purpose. Still, although you work in mysterious ways, I’m going to mess about with your plan and remove that hard skin that’s plagued me for many years now.

“Damn you, skin,” Em said, giving it evils.

It started with a Ped Egg. You know, one of those little thingies that looks like a cheese grater. You hack away at your feet in the hope that you’ll have gloriously smooth skin afterwards, and I imagine you do if the skin you’re trying to get rid of isn’t ten inches thick. Exaggeration, but you know what I mean. Anyway, after seeing the PE didn’t work as well as I’d thought it would, I bought a hand sander.

“Yes,” I said to myself at the time of spotting it on the shop shelf, “I think you’ll do nicely. And I’ll name you Simon. Simon the Sander.”

I got home, even took a picture of the damn thing Simon and put it on Facebook—such a life milestone that it had to be documented for all to see, like images of my dinner, a delivery or shit like that, you know the drill—then busted open the packet and took myself out into the garden to sand away the nasty and bring on the soft and the beautiful.

It didn’t work.

“You’re a useless piece of shat, Simon! What kind of sander are you if you don’t deliver what your package promises, hmm?”

This little bustard is now in the bin.

So I took the advice of putting Vicks on my feet, then socks, and going to sleep. In the morning, which happens to be today, I soaked my Vicky feet and got quite excited at the fact that yes, today would be the day that my trotters would be pretty. After soaking, I had a think about what I could use to scrape away the rather unsightly “mush” the skin had now become. My mind went to the PE, and, as is the case with word association, I came up with “potato peeler”. Oh yes, I was going to win this battle!

PP in hand—does anyone else find that childishly amusing? Pee pee. Giggle—I put it to work only to find it clearly prefers spud skin to mine. It didn’t do a bloody thing. Instead, I scraped it away, and although I got quite a bit of mush off, there was still a load of hardness beneath. See, I told you it was ten inches thick.

I’ve now come to the decision I need something else—something I used in the past with great results.

“An electric sander, yes, that’s the ticket. A beast of a machine that will give me exactly what I want with minimal effort. Contorting into a pretzel to get at the various areas wasn’t fun earlier.”

Now, if I can persuade Hub to drive me into town so I can purchase one, I may well have pretty feet before this bloody day is out!

Nightmare-inducing mannequin having a bit of a kip.

On a side note, Hub said I didn’t snore at all last night. So yay for Vicky doing a good job there! Hopefully, this will prevent Hub from recording me while I sleep then replaying the snores back to me in the morning. It’s rather disturbing to hear yourself sounding like a walrus with a stubbed toe.

Good day, dear readers, and if you’re lucky enough to have perfect feet, God damn you I’m a jealous daughter of a bitch about it that’s really lovely!

On another note, as promised I have a free book out for you today should you wish to read a bit of saucy humour.

BLURB: After I’d tapped out a response in the comments section of an online newspaper article regarding

slimming pills, I was swept from my life as a lonely wedding planner to be named The Pink Pill Diet Woman. Once the pills had worked their magic, I earned the name of Glamour Girl, and my life became an endless round of TV, radio and newspaper appearances, with stretches of boredom that led to me fantasising about my hunky security guard.

He was sexy as sin and out of my league, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she? And dream I did, any chance I got. I longed for him to slide into bed with me and treat me to a night of passion I’d never forget, but how the devil would I get him there? Management had forbidden us to interact as anything other than what we were—Glamour Girl and her bodyguard. But as well as dreaming, I had a naughty streak. Rules be damned, I was going to break them. He had a pearl necklace I wanted draped around my neck—and I was going to get it.

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