The smoke was so thick that I couldn’t breathe. Pieces of metal were everywhere. The room was covered in red liquid. I looked at my hands and screamed with terror. My whole body was aching. I had never experienced anything like this.
I will never make toast with ketchup again.
Sara wrote this story.
Editor’s Note: I really wanted to title this “Catoastrophe”, but that would have spoiled the reveal!
He brought her two slices of blackened toast, apricot preserves slathered on like burn salve.
“I made breakfast. Sorry about last night.”
“It smells terrible.”
“And sorry I can’t cook,” he said, perched on the edge of the bed like an uncertain sparrow.
They went out for pancakes.
Amy Locke received her BA in English from the University of Iowa. Her fiction has been published by monkeybicycle.net, bewilderingstories.com, and crackthespine.com. She currently lives in Iowa with her husband, daughter, and two silly dogs.
“Honeybuns, could I have that stapler? Thanks!”
“Honeybuns, could you grab me a pen? Thank you!”
“Honeybuns, could you stand up so I can scrape some honey off your bum onto my toast? Much appreciated!”
Ever since an ironic factory accident, Mr. Honeybuns had become much more popular at office.
She ate toast obsessively. Her friends called “Toasty McToaststerstonst,” even though she told them it was completely ridiculous to have that many esses and tees in one word.
For Halloween she dressed up as a piece of bread and some drunk guys stuffed her in a toaster. She got burned.
The clock ticked and tocked.
“We must come to a decision quickly!” the professor implored them.
“A vote!” cried Vincent.
Six ayes; three nays.
“The ayes have it,” said the professor. “We shall spread our toast with strawberry preserves. Vincent, make the preparations.”
But fate dictated other arrangements: peanut butter.