Time to put the frying pan back in the cupboard. With a whopping thirty fantastic submissions and over 200 votes, what can we say but thank you and boy that was fun!
Runner-up:
Scott Moen (with 37 votes)
“Thamus are you sure you want to do this?”
“You heard the voice, I have no other choice.”
“They most likely will kill you.”
Thamus stared out across the moonlit sea, trying not to imagine what would await him once they docked. He had a message to deliver, but who would believe him that Pan was dead? As they neared port, he prayed his fate would be more pleasant than being cooked alive.
“Could you imagine frying Pan, and eating him? I wonder how a god tastes.”
Thamus and his companion stared out to sea in silence, letting the salt spray shower over them, as the harbor lights began to appear on the horizon.
Honorable Mentions (our staff wants to make sure you don’t miss these!)
Sea Shore
I got home from work love drunk and not wearing shoes. Crooked tie. Crooked teeth. Crooked smile. Coat hung over my arm like we were dancing. It was dark inside when I opened the door. No light bled through the windowpanes from the street lamps outside. The couches were black. The floor was black. He was not there. No ...sound came from the television, no evening drama played itself out with women who looked like marionettes and men with jaws made of diamonds. His shoes were not there. The light to the bathroom was off. No golden sliver peeked out from under the door and I did not hear the water running. His pearly whites. Tongues skipping off teeth like stepping stones. His smell was not there. The kitchen was black and empty. No sizzled and sirening frying pan cadences. No coarse and caustic smells of culinary missteps. No eggs. No bacon. Not at this hour. But one can dream. One can dream. And he was not there, but one can dream.
Brianna Tongen
These days an unwashed frying pan fatigues me.
Greasy cold like a homeless drunk
in St. Petersburg. At once I am tired, and the energy of inspiration
so carefully collected during the day, slips and spills
like melting lead.
Instead, what if I came home to five sunflowers
growing from my kitchen floor?
A life-sized sandcastle.
A bluejay loose in the apartment.
Then, I would sit up for dawn,
having something to write,
something to watch. I would call my little sister and tell her a story
about a bird in a sunflower sandcastle. And how he flew over the Baltic
to find a drunk in St. Petersburg.
After I plant basil and ginger in the frying pan
I would wear my cotton-candy-pink dress
to school in the killing rain.
I would assume the role of the flowers November never recovers.
Justin Teerlinck
Fry Pan and Fire crept up to the forest, real slow-like. “Gotta get us some o’them fish legs,” said Fry Pan. “Think you better than a skillet?” asked the jaded orange flames. “Shore am! I’m a teflon pan, man, and I aim to show it!” “Alright then. Lets get ready. Got get some of them fish legs,” said Fire. Just then, the two heard the sound of many feet crunching on pine needles and stones. “Its them! Die down! Here, they gonna see ya boy! Wear my coat.” Fry Pan reached over with her handle and placed her coat around Fire, who struggled to get his arms through the little holes. Fry Pan hid low. One of the fishes stopped to gaze at the strange, smoking jacket. Fry Pan stood up and Fire threw off the coat. The salmon jumped back, aghast. “We just want your legs, Mr. Fish” said Fire. “We ain’t never had no salmon legs before.” Fry Pan bowed low. “Your legs must be sooooooo tired. Come rest them in my hot tub.” “No thanks,” said the fish.
Emily Schnobrich
Morning seeped in like a thick smoke as she pulled slowly out of sinister dreams. By the time she felt cold and awake, she had remembered. Only sleep can bring the kind of calm that spread through her bones as she sat up, straight and knowing exactly what to do.
Downstairs she moved with rigid purpose. If Josh had seen her he would have been surprised by her haughty face, she thought. Smiling for no one, she entered the kitchen. She felt like a statue, with years of history and thick limbs that were meant for only one thing. I’m a fucking statue, she thought.
The frying pan was still lying in the middle of the room and she kept her distance. It was a black hole, an iron reminder of what she had done. Luckily she’d tidied up last night, but there was still more to do. In a minute she would pick up the frying pan and go outside. She would wipe its sticky backside in the grass, in a gooey red streak, and then walk down the block to the next house. Perhaps it would be a foggy day.
Prompt: Come up with a title, author, and summary for this fictional book cover!
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