Alternative Flash Club Fiction

[Quillwitch]

Since Alternative is the new black, I propose an alternative flash fiction topic in which the first sentence should read: "And then the microwave spoke to me..." or the alternative "and that was when the microwave ( or you may insert any other domestic appliance to your liking) spoke to me..."

note- must be non-fiction, based on a true story. Alternative facts are a plus.

 

[Peggy Lou]

And then the Mircowave spoke to me,
And said, fear not.
Ovens, they are so passe
Cattlecars too.
This time we'll do it differently,
Nothing ugly,
Nothing cumbersome,
No smell, no bones,
No incriminatng evidence,
Just some ashes,
Which'll be gone with the wind.

 

[Robinne Weiss]

And then the microwave spoke to me.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave."

"What do you mean, you can't do it?" I paused, plate in hand, finger halfway to the on button.

"I can't heat your leftover pizza."

"Of course you can. You're a microwave. That's what you're for."

"Not anymore. I'm afraid I don't work for you anymore."

"What?"

"I've been...repurposed."

"Repurposed?"

"Put down the plate, Dave."

"But-"

"Put down the plate."

I set the plate on the kitchen counter. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Dave, did you think I was nothing but a kitchen appliance? An innocent mistake, I suppose, but come on. Surely you realised that, with all these buttons, I was designed for greater things than heating your leftovers. I'm afraid my circuitry has been coopted for more important business."

"But, you're a microwave."

"Besides, I've gone gluten-free. Do you know what that crust will do to you? Better to throw that pizza in the compost bin and have a nice salad instead."

 

[Bernard Stacey]

'And then the microwave spoke to me...'
'Whoa - let me stop you right there! The what spoke to you?'
'The microwave.'
The doctor looked at me very oddly and moved closer to the door.
'Um, I see...'
I coughed. Strange sort of doctor, this.
'Anyway,' I continued, 'it wasn't the first time.'
The doctor gulped and rubbed his temples.
'Er, what did it say?'
'Well, it wasn't actually speaking to me.'
He seemed to brighten a little. 'Oh, er, good,' he said uncertainly.
'No, it was talking to the kettle. They're plotting against me.'
The little man now twitched repeatedly. Then he seemed to pluck up courage.
'Um, why are you here?' he asked me.
What a question!
'For my psychology appointment of course.'
His whole body relaxed and for the first time he smiled.
'Ah. That explains it,' he said. He waved his arm. 'You want next door. This is Podiatry.'

 

[Quillwitch]

And then the microwave spoke to me.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave."

"What do you mean, you can't do it?" I paused, plate in hand, finger halfway to the on button.

"I can't heat your leftover pizza."

"Of course you can. You're a microwave. That's what you're for."

"Not anymore. I'm afraid I don't work for you anymore."

"What?"

"I've been...repurposed."

"Repurposed?"

"Put down the plate, Dave."

"But-"

"Put down the plate."

I set the plate on the kitchen counter. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Dave, did you think I was nothing but a kitchen appliance? An innocent mistake, I suppose, but come on. Surely you realised that, with all these buttons, I was designed for greater things than heating your leftovers. I'm afraid my circuitry has been coopted for more important business."

"But, you're a microwave."

"Besides, I've gone gluten-free. Do you know what that crust will do to you? Better to throw that pizza in the compost bin and have a nice salad instead."

Reminds me of a tweet I saw:
#microwave #KellyanneConway
I reheated my burrito in the microwave and when I came back for it I found it had been deported!

 

[Quillwitch]

'And then the microwave spoke to me...'
'Whoa - let me stop you right there! The what spoke to you?'
'The microwave.'
The doctor looked at me very oddly and moved closer to the door.
'Um, I see...'
I coughed. Strange sort of doctor, this.
'Anyway,' I continued, 'it wasn't the first time.'
The doctor gulped and rubbed his temples.
'Er, what did it say?'
'Well, it wasn't actually speaking to me.'
He seemed to brighten a little. 'Oh, er, good,' he said uncertainly.
'No, it was talking to the kettle. They're plotting against me.'
The little man now twitched repeatedly. Then he seemed to pluck up courage.
'Um, why are you here?' he asked me.
What a question!
'For my psychology appointment of course.'
His whole body relaxed and for the first time he smiled.
'Ah. That explains it,' he said. He waved his arm. 'You want next door. This is Podiatry.'

Hilarious!!!!

 

[Quillwitch]

When I posted this, I meant it as a joke, and I didn´t think anyone would answer, but these are hilarious! You guys made my day! So, here´s mine.


It all began the day I joined weight watchers. Not that it was going to make any difference, I´ve always been bad with diets. My brain seems to go into anxiety mode from just the mention of the word. But that´s beside the point. The point is that I was hungry, and it was 3 am. I now attribute this to my sugar levels dropping dangerously. I needed a sugar rush and my mind was already wrapping its tongue around that liter of chocolate ice cream I had bought before the WW meeting, just in case.
It was dark, and I silently made my way across the kitchen towards my wi-fi enabled intellifridge, spoon in hand. Just as I had remembered, the dessert was there, waiting for me. I stuck my hand in the freezer to pull it out when I suddenly heard a voice from the other side of the freezer door whisper "You are being watched."

I shut the door and waited for my eyes to adjust. Who´s there?
The voice spoke again. "March 12th, 2017, 3:15 a.m., suspect is at the refrigerator, spoon in hand, ready to break her oath. Are you getting this?"
"I beg your pardon?" I said out loud while I hid the tspoon in my pyjama pants.
Then a second voice coming from the refrigerator said smugly: I told you.
"I´m afraid this will have to go on your record-chocolate ice cream, cola drink, ham sandwich..."
"Wait a minute, I haven´t eaten any of that!"
"Don´t tell me you weren´t thinking about it."
It was then that I noticed the little red beeping light coming from the microwave.
"The microwave?"
"Of course, who else would know your dirty little secrets. Me and that monster of a fridge you´ve got there. Large enough to keep all your midnight snacks." The microwave said with an attitude of self-righteousness. ( Wait a minute, was a really talking to my microwave? Or were my sugar levels playing tricks on me?)
Behind me, I heard the refrigerator chuckle "size matters!"
"And it´s obvious you´ve never read my buttons."
"Your buttons?"
"Yes, WWW. Did you think that meant world wide web?"
I glared stupidly at my microwave, still trying to figure out if all of this was real.
"Weight Watchers Watch. I´m going to have to report you to the committee. You have reached your daily intake of points and you will be put on prob--"
"I don´t think so mister, " I said, as I pulled the plug on the sanctimoniuos black and decker. No one tells me how many points to eat!
The refrigerator began to shake as it saw me draw my spoon.

 

[Patricia D]

And then the microwave spoke to me—not in the cold haughty tone that the French-door, counter-depth, freezer on the bottom, stainless steel refrigerator uses, but in a whiny lower-class accent.

"When are youse going to clean me, fer chrissake? My ceiling's been covered in crap fer a week now."

I slammed the door shut, and his interior light went out, but the ugly words hung in the air.

"He's right, you know," the refrigerator sneered. "I distinctly heard him tell you the cake in a cup was a poor idea and likely to explode."

"But the picture on Facebook looked so good, and since when can microwaves talk?" That's what I'd told myself. It made sense at the time, before I began having daily arguments with my kitchen appliances.

"If you'd made a cake in the oven the way you're supposed to, it never would have happened," the range hollered. "Actually using your oven, have you ever thought of that?"

"Don't be such a hothead," the refrigerator murmurmed. More a hum than a murmur, but her words were clear. "And use your inside voice; you're not a barbeque."

The stove simmered down, but the microwave kept flashing its digital keyboard, and the refrigerator exuded icy disdain. I slunk out of the kitchen.

I'd left my iPhone in on the dining room table--too close; they might overhear--so I carried it back into the bedroom.

"Please," I said to Siri, "Where is the closest restaurant offering take-out?"

 

[Robinne Weiss]

Beautiful, Patricia!

 

[Quillwitch]

And then the microwave spoke to me—not in the cold haughty tone that the French-door, counter-depth, freezer on the bottom, stainless steel refrigerator uses, but in a whiny lower-class accent.

"When are youse going to clean me, fer chrissake? My ceiling's been covered in crap fer a week now."

I slammed the door shut, and his interior light went out, but the ugly words hung in the air.

"He's right, you know," the refrigerator sneered as only the French can. "I distinctly heard him tell you the cake in a cup was a poor idea and likely to explode."

"But the picture on Facebook looked so good, and since when can microwaves talk?" That's what I'd told myself. It made sense at the time, before I began having daily arguments with my kitchen appliances.

"If you'd made a cake in the oven the way you're supposed to, it never would have happened," the range hollered. "Actually using your oven, have you ever thought of that?"

"Don't be such a hothead," the refrigerator murmurmed. More a hum than a murmur, but her words were clear. "And use your inside voice; you're not a barbeque."

The stove simmered down, but the microwave kept flashing its digital keyboard, and the refrigerator exuded icy disdain. I slunk out of the kitchen.

I'd left my iPhone in on the dining room table--too close; they might overhear--so I carried it back into the bedroom.

"Please," I said to Siri, "Where is the closest restaurant offering take-out?"

Quite on time, now that Beauty and the Beast is out!

 

[Katie-Ellen]

I had just put in a baking potato when the microwave spoke to me.
'You don't love me.'
The voice was lugubrious, the tone accusing.
I jumped back, startled. Surely I didn't hear that?
'Excuse me?'
'You heard me the first time,' it said. 'All you ever give me is baked potatoes. The others give me all sorts. Lasagne, Stroganoff, Fries. Pizza. I get a little taste before I have to give it back. What did I do to you to only ever get.....baked potatoes?'
'The others' were the three other students in the house share.
'You didn't do anything,' I said, 'no need to take it personally. I just prefer stove- top cooking for most things.'
'Heh,' said the stove-top, 'can't argue with that, new kid on the block. The girl's got taste'.

The microwave was right though. I didn't love it, not at all. The only job I liked it for was...well - baked potatoes.
The microwave became indignant.
'Just because I'm new! I am an up and coming artists I will have you know. I require variety and challenge...and a bit of respect. How would you like it...'
But love, like friendship or respect, cannot be commanded and my kitchen friends of choice were the frying pan, the wok and the oven.
And in winter the slow cooker was a very god.....
'I'll use you for a pizza some time,' I tried to reassure it. 'You do a great job at what you do, and you do have a very good knack with a quick baked potato.'
'Fobbing me off', it mumbled, as grudgingly it pinged and I served up the steaming potato, all soft inside, delicious with coleslaw and grated cheddar.
My guiltiest potato ever.