This weeks challenge on Chuck Wendigs site was to write about 'Death'. However I just couldn't face the bleakness of it. So I am publishing a piece I did for my writing class. Challenge 'Write the detail of something commonplace uncommonly well'
Why don't you give it a try.
Peter entered the kitchen closing the door behind him with an
inelegant back kick. He was shivering slightly in the chilly air his bare
feet slapping against the cold tiled floor. He casually dropped the morning
paper on the kitchen table as he dodged passed, swinging his hips 'like a
girl'. On the counter top he spied a loaf of 'Pat the baker's' Pats Pan
heedlessly left lying on its side, the last two slices spilling out of the
gaudy yellow wrapper. He took them and leaning across the cooker dropped
them in the toaster. With a smooth downwards movement he clicked the knob
to the 'on' position. The element inside began to glow a rich red and the
wonderful smell of toasting bread began to fill the air. Peter dusted the
crumbs off his hand in a quick slicing motion scattering them across the
counter, cooker and on to the floor. This slicing motion developed into
a few karate chops and suddenly he was kung-fu fighting imaginary aliens
up and down the kitchen floor his bare feet oblivious to the cold.
Very black smoke smelling of trouble started to fill the kitchen, 'Ah no'
Peter gasped out of breath from killing aliens. Bounding to the counter
Peter smacked the cancel switch on the toaster. It was a small red
triangle on the top of the toaster and it didn't respond the first two
times. Two rather sad looking pieces of toast emerged from the machine.
Peter was disappointed; they didn't look very appetising at all. His
stomach rumbled, a loud gurgling sound that started somewhere near his
toes. Peter rubbed his belly up and down, the soft fabric of his pyjamas
moving over his skin warming him. His toes began to complain about
standing on the cold floor strewn with crumbs so he shifted from foot to
foot as he rubbed first one foot and then the other against his pyjama
pants to warm them while at the same time getting rid of the grimy feel of
the crumbs stuck to them. The toast did not smell good. But it was the
last of the bread and he would have to eat it. Taking a knife from the
drawer he began scraping off the burnt edges with great vigour, but he
wasn't happy with the result so he cut off the bits he didn't like the look
of letting them land in a pile at the bottom of the sink in the middle of
the halo of black dust which extended up the sides of the sink and onto the
counter top. He took a plate out of the wall cupboard and dropped the odd
shaped pieces of toast on it. He carefully placed it on the table. He got
a clean knife from the drawer and the butter from the fridge and put them
on the table also. He pulled out a chair and sat down curling his legs
around the limbs of the chair so his feet were finally free of the frosty
tiles. Carefully he set about buttering his toast. His tongue stuck out
as he concentrated, his black hair falling forward shading his face. He
worked methodically right to left, right to left, spreading great big
knife-fuls of butter on to the toast. Mounds of melting butter squelching
along in front of his knife. He took another lump of butter to cover out
along the edges and buttered his index finger and thumb too. He licked his
fingers and his knife clean, wiped it on his sleeve and popped it back in
the drawer. As good as new!