Day 5 of 24/7

Today’s entry is a 453 word silly story called "Stick to Instant".

Stick to Instant

Bloop. Carrie-Ann’s mouth twisted in a moué of distaste at the sound. Splut. She grimaced and picked up the wooden spoon, turning back to the stove. Garry loved oatmeal. He could eat it every day for breakfast, but Carrie-Ann couldn’t bring herself to make it more than once a week. It was Garry’s Saturday treat. She hated the liquid-solid sounds it made and the disgusting way bubbles broke open when they reached the surface. She also hated the way it could grow suddenly if she turned her back on the stove for more than fifteen seconds. From nothing to blorfing all over the stove in fifteen damned seconds! Why couldn’t Garry settle for instant oatmeal, but no, it was too sugary, too salty, too fast, too convenient. She rolled her eyes, and stuck the spoon into the pot.

Burblup. Blubblurp! Carrie-Ann gave the oatmeal a half-hearted stir. She held her coffee cup in her other hand and took a sip. Ahhh. Lovely. Burblurblplublup! Ow! A minuscule dot of oatmeal had spewed itself out of the pot and landed on the back of her right hand. She dropped the spoon and brought her hand to her mouth. Damn! That hurt. She licked the oatmeal droplet off her hand and studied the red mark underneath. Stupid oatmeal.

Movement caught her eye and she focused on the pot in time to see the spoon disappearing as oatmeal rose. Up and up the sides of the pot, heading for the rim. Dammit! She set her coffee cup on the counter and reached for the knob on the back of the stove to turn the heat down before the miserable stuff spilled out and hit the burner. The only thing worse than oatmeal was the stench of burning oatmeal.

As her arm moved over the pot, a pseudopod reached up and fastened onto her bath robe. She yanked her arm, not quite believing what she had seen, and then screamed when the pseudopod clutched her arm. The heat seared through the thin terrycloth. Oatmeal poured out of the pot, growing exponentially. Carrie-Ann had time for one more terrified shriek before she vanished inside the mass of hot cereal.

It pulsed and burbled to itself, bubbles continuing to burst on the surface from time to time.

“Carrie-Ann? Are you okay?” Garry’s voice was thick with sleep. He stumbled down the hallway toward the kitchen, eyes half closed. “Carrie-Ann? Hon?” He was halfway across the kitchen before he saw the toppled pot, the oatmeal spreading across the floor. His left foot was already touching the edge, which felt almost alive, writhing under his toes. He tried to pull back. Blorblup! Garry’s days of eating oatmeal were over.

***

I actually wrote a longer version of this many years ago (I’m thinking about 37 or so, in fact), which had more people succumbing to this unusual version of The Blob. Those of you who have made oatmeal or porridge of any kind from scratch know exactly the sounds and rolling movement involved. I love oatmeal from scratch, but will eat plain instant if I have to. I don’t care for the flavoured ones very much. Mind you, I might be a bit hesitant to make it again any time soon!