Breakfast

The shattered fragments of china were of varying sizes. The littler chunks that littered the room were an opaque hue of green; a sugar bowl perhaps, or an ornate cup. The bigger pieces were obviously plates - smashed like fireworks and exploded in shards across the ceramic tile. The way they spread across the room was a mine field - the nightmarish quest of a shoeless adventurer. But blood from nicked toes was not enough payment for this crime.

A black lake spread across a chequered plain. Oozing with a friendly morning steam which ascended in a mist to the default cream sky. The lake was advancing, stemming from a weeping glass tunnel with a snapped plastic handle. It shrouded the red and white squares that were unfortunate enough to be stagnant in its path and it ran for the edge of that plain. In a feat of escape, or with the thirst for an end, the lake dropped beyond the plastic coated horizon and slid to the mystery of the ground below. One drop at a time it leapt to freedom; if it survived the glass would not know.

What was that sharp demanding note? A pitch violent screeching, monotonous and endless. Was it a warning? What was it warning of? The accompanying flash of red was like a light house signal; screaming 'please, please, please' to those ignorant to danger. It passed through the dense smoke that was quickly filling that place like a navy ship search light through a sea-hung mist. But like a singular match in the depths of a chasm - it could do nothing to help.

The licks of orange were hungry today. They passed through the world feasting on victims of cheap fabric and dry leaves. Able to be where ever a banquet lay, invited by the accidental slip of a hand, or the heat of the sun. Today the slip was of feet; the dance of spilt coffee - which lead to a soft skull on a hard floor. The licks tasted the woman tenderly at first; savouring the initial raw lashes of flesh. Delectable and virginal. But the flames had been growing ravenous since they left the charred breakfast exhausted in the pan, snacking on curtains and cabins in preparation for their main feast.

The coffee wept for its careless mistake and the drops picked up pace, thinking that maybe were they able to catch the licks in time they could stop them from gorging on the woman who gave those drops life. But the battle had already been lost, the moment her slipper lost contact with the ground. The fire's gluttony consumed her, drooling blue heat and roaring with a thousand degree bite. The only solace the murderous spillage could cling to, was that the damage to her lungs caused by the friendly coiling smoke would kill her long before she felt herself becoming a meal for the heat. At least that was what it thought; but of course it could not hear her scream.