#white appliances and no island red toile

[curlyrps]

Kitchen - Traditional Kitchen

[zuley7]

Traditional Kitchen - Enclosed

[remukan]

The Man-Witch, the Modern and the Death of a Microwave

“Eye of toad, heart of newt, now stir the mixture like a brute. The eyelashes of a goat, the tail feathers of a pigeon, gather the dust from an old relic, put just a pinch in. Now that you’ve come to toil, heat the milk of a llama, and bring it to a boil.”

“A BOIL?! I THOUGHT THIS WAS AN INSTANT POTION BOOK! BOILING IS CERTAINLY NOT INSTANT,” he yelled, insulting the book as if it would listen to his scolding. Alas, it just sat there and looked at him dumbly, ignoring the scathing comments he muttered under his breath as he turned his back and grabbed the carton of llama’s milk from the fridge. He started to head over to the oven to turn it on, but stopped mid step, eyes caught on the angrily glaring time of the microwave. The microwave. Nabbing a coffee mug from the shelf, he poured the milk into the cup, topping it up to the brim. He carefully carried it over, hands twitching just enough for it to start to leak down the sides of the black, old mug that’d seen it’s fair share of weird substances. Setting it carefully in the microwave, he closed the door and turned the timer to five minutes. It started with a blugghp and began heating up the milk, angrily groaning as it turned the cup counterclockwise to even out the heat distribution.

“Five minutes should pretty much bring it to a boil, right?”

As suspicious popping noises started erupting from the ‘boiling’ llama milk, the male turned and hopped over to the book again, scanning the page for any further instructions on his concoction. He hadn’t made this one before, and thought it’d be a nice addition to his store full of acne-ridding, confidence-boosting, eye-colour-changing elixirs. He actually had gotten a few requests for a voice altering potion on his etsy store and was short on cash so he couldn’t really turn the money away. It had, however, been difficult to find a book that had this potion in it, without it being expensive or far too high a level for him to do. Luckily for him, there was websites devoted to this and he found the book, trading the seller his oldest elderberry wine for it. Hopefully it was worth it, he thought, as his eyes flickered to the last line of the page.

“Let it sit for three days before consuming. Lasts up to six months. Store in a cool, dry pla-.”

Just as he muttered the last word under his breath, BOOM! Glass shattered as a horrific screaming noise tore through the air and the roar of fire burst to life. Amber optics widened as the man turned around slowly, eyes immediately caught on the, now doorless, burning microwave. He stood there for a second, dazed as the flames licked the ceramic edges of the battered old mug, which was, miraculously, still standing. Snapping back to the danger before him, he scuttled over to the fiery gates of hell, which once was a kitchen appliance, and immediately felt frost in his fingertips. Muttering a few words hurriedly under his breath, the ice reached out to the microwave and smothered the flames in a frosty blue magic. As the ice crackled, snuffing out the flames’ growl, he let out a long winded sigh of relief and peeked in to see the remains of his llama milk. It quietly bubbled, thick, off-white liquid parting slowly as air fought for release from the sticky, chunky milk.

“Well that’s as boiled as it’s going to get,” he said with a sense of accomplishment. He knew his microwave was broken and he was going to have to pay in both money and time to get it fixed, but his plan had still worked right?

Stepping over the shattered microwave door, he grabbed a pair of oven mitts, which were pink and covered in cupcakes, and picked up the boiling mug of milk, careful not to spill it. Teetering back over to the makeshift cauldron he had, he dumped the milk into the vat and set the empty mug down beside it, stirring the mixture with a long wooden spoon. This makeshift cauldron he had built was quite simply a big metal bucket, set into a metal rack above a gas fire pit. Currently the fire was out, but the remote to turn it on was somewhere…

After the mixture turned a satisfying milky yellow colour, he lifted the cauldron by the wire handle and dragged it into the kitchen where it crunched the shards of microwave door beneath it. He grabbed five large plastic Tupperware containers from the dishwasher and set them on the ground, lifting the heavy metal bucket with two hands as he carefully poured it’s contents into each. It was very much akin to pouring cake batter, the slow, viscous liquid inching out and into each container with no sense of urgency. Despite taking painstakingly long, he had filled all five vessels and popped the plastic lids on top, putting a piece of masking tape on each that explained the contents within it. Then, he shoved all five in the fridge, pushing aside other containers, some a sickly green, others a vibrant blue; it was incredibly full and couldn’t possibly fit much more than what was already crammed inside of it.

Shutting the fridge door he ignored both the dirty cauldron and the broken glass on the floor as he lept over the dangers of slicing his feet and fell onto his soggy brown sofa. Nabbing his phone, he opened up his online bank account and checked its contents. With the flashing signs of negative dollars, he quickly shut the app off and moving onto his browser. He needed to find a real job. Stat. He typed ‘Jobs for man-witches in my area’ and hit search, only praying-to a god that didn’t exist-that something would come up. As it loaded slowly, the tiny icon spinning to indicate it was thinking, he narrowed his golden eyes, his confidence in the answers already failing. Suddenly it changed screens, going from black to a big old empty, white page, labelled search results.

Of course, nothing.

Just as the man fell back into his old couch, a knock at the door rang through his apartment, startling him out of his self-pitying session. His mind flickered to all the potential bad outcomes that might happen if he opened that door, but this was counteracted by his logical brain seizing control and assuring him it was probably just the landlord. Still, that outcome was probably no better than the others he’d thought up.

The knock came again, this time more urgent and impatient. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he called out to the invisible knocker, flexing his fingers instinctively at the thought of some stranger in his house. At least high school taught him self-defensive spells or else he’d be a pretty useless witch. His feet scuffed the dirty wooden floor as he tentatively made his way over to the door, filled with regret that he hadn’t gone to college. Had he gone maybe he wouldn’t be struggling to get by each month, and he wouldn’t be afraid to open his door.

And maybe he would know how to make llama milk boil instantly.

Cracking the flimsy wooden door open just enough for his large copper eyes to peek through, he evaluated the strangers who’d been banging on his door. They were… strange, that much was for sure. Four very pirate-esque men, along with two women, stood outside his door, standing a good five inches above his meek, fragile frame. Pushing large, clear rimmed glasses closer to his eyes, a self conscious tick, he tried to stand up a bit straighter, daring to stare the big, rough, tough looking strangers in the eyes. His stomach churned with anxiety, if only that potion had have been made sooner; he could’ve really used a loud, confident voice right about now.  

“A-a-ah yes hello. What...what is it you need?” he said, trying-and failing-to make his voice sound intimidating.

The pirates shuffled, all seemingly taken aback by his pitiful appearance. One of the women stepped forward, her wooden leg scratching along the floor with an irritating ripping noise. “We’re looking for someone to help us on our… travels. Your neighbour said you could help us,” she said, voice clearly impatient with the rest of her uneasy looking party.

His mind flashed to the picture of a tall, pale, willowy vampire he knew to be his neighbour, Elliott. They hadn’t talked much, but did make large orders of rather… unusual ingredients together to save on shipping, He didn’t know him that well, why would he be telling crazy pirates that his neighbour was perfect for their nefarious plans? Opening his mouth to tell the strangers that they were mistaken, the pirate lady spoke again.

“Let’s get to the chase, we need someone to help us navigate through a particularly nasty patch of sirens guarding an untouched island rumoured to have gems, and lot’s of them,” the women spoke briskly, tossing her wildly curly red hair over her shoulder.

Closing his mouth, he stood and pondered on that bit of information he’d been told, trying desperately to make some sort of connection between the two clauses. How was he related to helping them through a bunch of mermaids? He didn’t get it at all, why would they-Oh, Right. Sirens lure sailors to their deaths because their beauty drives men, and women, mad. Sirens wouldn’t affect him because... right. Oh yes. That was it.

Asexuality.

“Our apple stocks crashed and we need some money,” one of the smaller men piped in his black hair tied back into a braid. He was silenced by the other woman shooting a sharp glance in his direction, indicating that he had said too much. She turned, her cropped purple hair seeming to glisten in the afternoon sunlight, and spoke with growing irritability.

“So, mate, can you help us or what?”

He thought about his potions in the fridge, then, about his empty bank account. The witch flexed his hands, ice crackling as he popped each frosty, dirty knuckle in and out of their joint. His initial anxiety had faded to a dull gnawing, and as he glanced to his moth chewed cloak hanging on the rack beside the door, he sighed inwardly. He looked up once again to the odd party standing outside his door, small blackened fingertips adjusting his dirty glasses with finality.

“Well, I did need a job.”