Kate decided to give Sarah a writing prompt for a short story: start your story with the whistle of a kettle. Sarah liked this and bashed out the following story in just under an hour. Enjoy!
The Monster in the House
The kettle was whistling furiously on the stove. Moira rushed into the kitchen, moved it off the heat and turned the gas off. She steadied herself on the stove and tried to breathe slowly. Ok, it hadn’t gone the way she’d planned. She tried to be reasonable with him. She tried to convince him to leave of his own accord. He resisted her at every turn. What other choice had he left her with? Of course she felt awful, but it had to be done. He couldn’t be allowed to stay. She had no choice.
She caught sight of herself in the polished surface of the toaster. She was pale, her face tight with tension. Her hair was wild and she tried to smooth it down with shaking hands. ‘Come on’ she said to herself, ‘what’s done is done, no going back now’. She steeled herself and walked into the living room. He was still there. Lifeless. His limbs crumpled beneath him. She approached the body with a mixture of horror and fear. How ugly he was, even in death. She shuddered and a strangled sob escaped her mouth. She looked at the glass discarded on the ground. Her peace offering. Her attempt to placate him and bring this to an end without violence. But he didn’t want that did he? He ran at her, kept coming, even when she backed away. When she changed direction, so did he. The moment she felt her back hit the wall she knew she had to strike or he’d be on her. So she did. She struck. He didn’t stand a chance really.
She thought about that for a moment. Really, he didn’t stand a chance. She was bigger and far more powerful than he. A thought occurred to her. Maybe he ran because he was afraid. She knew in her moments of panic that she just ran blindly, not thinking of where she was going. Maybe as she was towering over him, looming with the glass, he had panicked and run for his life. And she had ended it. She collapsed before his body, repentant and wracked with guilt. She had built him up in her head to be a monster but was he really? Her prejudices about his kind were nothing to do with him really, they were all her own. Her life experiences had led her to demonise those like him, but what harm did they do anyway? None really. Did she even know anything about him? Maybe he was a father. Maybe he had children at home waiting for him. Relying on him to provide for them and keep them safe. What would happen to them now? In killing him, she may have doomed any number of others. The thought horrified her. She saw who the true monster was in that room today. She carried his remains into the bathroom and, flushing the toilet, whispered her regret: ‘sorry, spider’.