Kitchen

A short challenge piece from my creative writing course.

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The door of the shack clanged shut with an echo that caused Maxwell to fly into a passing moment of panic. He coddled the bundle of ingredients in his arms with the care of a new mother. Five minutes passed in silence. The old man’s aching bones stood firm as he listened carefully for the wail of sirens. Tired, ancient lungs struggled to hold in their breath. A soft whistle from the draft in the door rustled his greying auburn locks. Nought but a spider skittered across the dirt floor. Once those five minutes were up, Maxwell felt comfortable enough to utter a sigh of relief.

Treading lightly, a sliver of paranoia from the panic still haunting him, Maxwell shuffled across the floor in worn through boots to the kitchen counter. At least, that’s what he considered it. The shack itself was only one room. Crumbling brick walls, no floor, a single unwashed mattress. Yet, the two counter-tops and the gas-lit oven proudly sat in pristine condition. Maxwell’s only pride and joy left in the desolation he lived. Unwrapping the bundle, the old man gently placed the ingredients one by one on the counter. An onion, a carrot, a lightly crushed stock cube and a sprinkling of unknown herbs sealed tight in a plastic wallet. All were set on the counter aside the one currently hosting the somewhat fresh carcass of a chicken. Maxwell beamed at the display before him, though his expression quickly jumped to surprise. Mouthing insults to his deteriorating memory, he hurriedly exited the shack once again. Within a minute he returned with a cooking pot, filled to the brim with rainwater. Positioning it atop the hob of the oven, Maxwell beamed once again. Curious excitement enveloped his being as he endeavoured to begin meal preparations.

Aeons of expertise guided his hands.

As swiftly as elderly fingers could manage, Maxwell retrieved the knife he kept upon his person. Through thuds and scrapes, the onion and the carrot were severed into bitesize slices. The chicken carcass offered itself up in sacrifice of the trying times to the cooking pot, adorned by vegetables and glittering with the sprinkle of stock cube and mystery herbs. Sparking up the controlled flames, Maxwell’s concoction bubbled into a frothing frenzy. The sound of it blended with the growing rain outside. As a professional might, he took the opportunity to cautiously to crack the door open to stick out his hands for a quick wash. Returning to his post, Maxwell lowered the heat. Gingerly, he reached inside the pot to remove the bones from the mix. He would bury those later. The heat of the liquid did not cause much of a bother throughout this; the sensation of pain had become lost to time and travel long ago. Once finished, he turned up the heat again for the final stretch.  

Amidst the waiting, Maxwell let his eyes rest and his mind wander. Behind the closed eyelids, the world around him brightened.

He could hear remarks of amazement. He could smell the amalgamation of gourmet delights. Bright lights, bright smiles, bright people.

But now?

A dark shack, dark frowns, dark world.

Maxwell didn’t care.

The little slice of his old life simmering below his nose was enough. His attention was alerted back to reality by the aroma of completion. Scrabbling around the countertop for the cutlery, Maxwell retrieved an old, yet polished spoon. With a single scoop and a slurp, he was met with a taste that brought to mind a homely nostalgia of mother’s stew with a new and very welcome mystery twist.

Another new flavour for the memory banks, he thought to himself.

One step closer to dying happy.