The Kettle

a flash fiction story about something big that happened

By the time the kettle began to skirl, she’d already decided to disappear. A cup of tea always helped calm her nerves. And after the last twenty four hours, she needed calming. She sat in her living room, which she’d cleaned the day before yesterday, before everything happened. The flowers were still fresh. Colorful streamers still hung, strung back and forth across the ceiling, from the lamp to the coatrack to the bookcase and back. The cake sat on the counter, with one slice missing. She still wore the polka dot dress she’d bought last week. If she didn’t look to her left it was as if nothing abnormal had happened. If she kept her vision pinned on her hands and the kettle it was just a normal day. She had somehow managed to pack a small bag with her toothbrush, a change of clothes, a blanket, her journal and a book of poetry, and a picture of her parents. She had put the only cash she had into a plastic baggy and tucked that into her underwear. She was pretty sure credit cards didn’t matter anymore. She had a 32-ounce metal water bottle half-full of water, leftover from before. She pretended her preparations were for a normal weekend visit to her family’s cabin and an Uber would arrive soon. She pretended that the entire exterior wall of her apartment wasn’t missing. She couldn’t hear the sounds of the sirens’ constant wailing or the kettle’s piercing scream because her ears were still ringing from all the other sounds she couldn’t comprehend that clashed and bashed the air around her. She didn’t care how her stove still somehow magically worked. And she’d worry later about how to get down from the fifth floor, now that the stairs were gone. She sipped her tea and began to think about where she could go to escape whatever was coming next. She turned, deciding to brave the view. A breeze blew through the gaping, irregular hole carrying a scent of jasmine mixed with ash. The building across what used to be the street wasn’t there anymore. In its place was something else that blocked the sky. The breeze became a gust and a streamer detached and fluttered to the floor. The floor groaned as if the streamer landing there had been too much. It was time to go. But first, a cup of tea.

*In the original version of this post, published 9/12/25, the subtitle called this story a microfiction. I updated it to “flash fiction” since the piece ended up being 400 words (I forgot to correct up top before publishing). Usually microfiction is less than 300 words. Small details, but details matter!