Your Breakfast, Mr. Peavish
A Peculiar Piece of Flash Fiction
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Philip grabbed the black pot from its familiar position on the pantry shelf and walked back into the cavernous kitchen of his employer — Mr. Duncan Peavish. His feet made quick short steps to the sink. Icy water rained down from the cold metal faucet splashing into the hollow pot. Philip measured the trickling sound with his ears while his free hand perched impatiently atop the handle, ready to stop the flow.
Over on the stove, the igniter clicked a monotonous countdown as Philip’s adept fingers twisted the worn knob. A reluctant flame leapt up under the heavy pot.
“Oatmeal again,” Philip muttered to himself.
With hurried steps, he paced back to the pantry and snatched the canister of dry oats from the shelf next to the void left by the pot. Philip mused.
It would certainly be faster today to grab the pot, oats and wooden spoon all at once. But, time passes so slowly in this ghost house. It’s better for me to keep these tired feet moving with a purpose. If I get too efficient, what’ll I do then? Idle hands you know.
His mouth formed a sly smirk for only a second before he gathered himself, picked the wooden spoon from its bin, and plodded back to the stove where the water was now nearly boiling. He laid the old spoon down on the counter near the rumbling pot. Then, he placed his left hand on the canister of oats and grasped it tightly. With his right hand, he twisted and pulled against the stubborn lid until it suddenly popped free. Philip cupped his right hand and metered out a proportional mound of flatly rolled oat grain.
He peered over into the pot to see small bubbles breaking free from the bottom, rising triumphantly to the top, and escaping into the open air. He plopped the cereal into the boiling water. Then, he twisted around and plucked the salt shaker from the island in the middle of the kitchen. With six sharp thrusts he salted the eruption that was now rising in the pot. He plopped the salt shaker down, grabbed the spoon and stirred the concoction with vigor.
Philip glanced at the green digits on the face of the microwave above the stove. The diminutive colon between the towering numbers flashed in sync with the now looming countdown.
6:53. Not much time.
A strange wave of giddiness flushed through his gut. He paced back to the pantry once more, grabbing two small bowls and a single silver spoon before plunging back into the dimly lit kitchen where the pot of oatmeal gurgled like a black cauldron over the fiendish flame.
6:55. Almost ready.
Philip meticulously arranged the two bowls — one a deep red, the other a perfect green— in a line next to the stove. He placed the silver spoon perpendicular between the bowls.
6:58. Done.
He grabbed the pot by its thick sturdy handle, titled it over, grabbed the wooden spoon from the counter, and raked the steaming mix into equal portions for each bowl. He ceremoniously ushered the hot empty pot to the sink and baptized it under a rush of fresh cold water. Then, he marched back to the counter and stood facing the two bowls.
He stared like a inmate awaiting reprieve, but the unrelenting faucet dripped into the muddled abyss in the center of the deep pot. The impatient drip, drip drop now faster — louder somehow.
7:00. Get on with it old man. Remember Karen? Those swollen red eyes and that cold morning last November. But, what would she have me do now? Isn’t she in a better place?
Philip extended a trembling hand toward the sweet green bowl — hesitating, then suddenly pushing it back. He grabbed the dark red bowl and the silver spoon, and turned back to the island countertop behind him.
The first bite scorched his tongue. He made harried steps to the refrigerator, pulled out the milk, and splashed it sloppily into the sweltering stew. He churned it with disgust, and then began to lop mounded spoonfuls into his mouth. As much as possible, he tried to bypass all taste and heat receptors in his mouth. He shoveled down bite after bite until he wanted to burst.
7:05. The bowl is empty.
Philip hunched over the counter, fighting back the premature urge to purge his bloated stomach of its vile contents. He closed his eyes. He bullied back his gag reflex, willing his gut to work.
7:06. He hurt her so badly. No turning back.
The hastily ingested sludge mingled with anger and bitter acid in the dark confines of his digestive track. The swelling grains absorbed the caustic amalgamation. Each grain expanded and pressed outward, demanding an imminent release. Philip held it in for as long as he could bear. Agonizing seconds ticked into the eternal past. Finally, he groped around for the empty red bowl and lurched toward the sink, his abdomen suddenly convulsing.
7:07. The bowl is full again.
Philip stood up with his head high over the sink peering down into the red bowl. He lifted a towel from a rack over the sink with a clammy hand and wiped the corners of his quivering mouth. He felt empty — but in the most cleansing sense of the word. Lifting the bowl from the sink and placing it on the countertop next the green bowl, he stood back once more and glared.
7:08. It’s uncanny how oatmeal looks the same whether you’ve eaten it or not.
The difference between the two bowls was almost imperceptible to the inexperienced eye. Philip leaned closer and his nostrils winced at the putrid odor floating up from the red bowl. He scampered over to the pantry and retrieved a small shaker of ground cinnamon. He sprinkled it over the top of the red bowl — partly to mask the rancid scent and partly to conceal the disgust he felt lurking beneath the slimy grains.
One final time to the pantry, Philip emerged with a silver tray. He placed the dark red bowl of what once was oatmeal in the center. Then, from the refrigerator he pulled a chilled glass of murky orange juice he had specially prepared in his room earlier that morning. He lifted the glass to his nose. It had the sharp stinging smells of asparagus and ammonia thanks to a late sinister addendum to the previous evening’s meal.
He lifted the tray with his right hand and let it rest lightly upon his shoulder just as he had done almost every morning of every year since that cold January night when Duncan had lifted him from the pub floor and offered him a position at his estate.
“Your breakfast, Mr. Peavish,” Philip announced as he entered Duncan’s bedroom.
Enjoy.
Philip drew a crumpled and folded sheet of stained paper from his back pocket, tucking it under the silver tray as he set it down on the table across from Duncan’s bed.
He turned from the bedroom and walked methodically down the long corridor towards the front door. But, as he heard the squeaking of Duncan’s bed frame and his slippers sliding over the floor, he quickened his pace. Just as Philip’s hand touched the cool doorknob of the tall narrow front door, he could hear the faint tinkling of the silver spoon against the side of the dark red bowl.
Philip swung open the heavy door. The morning sun bathed him in warmth and hopeful light. Through the glare, as his eyes adjusted, he saw Karen’s car. She was standing by the passenger’s side with her shoulders pushed back at attention, holding the door open.
“Your car, Mr. Philip.”
They exchanged knowing smiles, and then burst into inconsolable laughter.
Thank you for taking a few minutes to read this flash fiction experiment. I am just getting my feet wet in the world of fiction, so I sincerely appreciate your indulgence. If you enjoyed it, give me a clap. If you’re so inclined, leave me some feedback in the response section below. Typically, I write things like this…
