Mark M Bulmer

Few humans store their peanut butter (Note: may contain peanuts) in the refrigerator. It is a stable product.

Those who do grant the peanut butter abilities they cannot understand. We, for I am a peanut butter, sense. There is a see and a hear, but it is much deeper.

"Squalk!"

They bought a whole chicken again. I've been forced to listen to the incessant and supremely annoying beast for three days.

When the door opens and the light comes on, the hideousness of the monster's face cannot be ignored.

I've tried. I've turned to the burnt sausages writhing in their airtight container. I've focused my attention on the Dijon mustard muttering alluringly in French. Her label has a tiny tear in one corner. She is desirable … but the chicken.

"Squalk!" it squalked again.

Were it within my considerable power, I would tear the soul from the damnable bird and feed it to the leftover corn niblets. They are voracious.

Hated thing with wings. Leave me be.

Come, humans. Your hunger grows. You can feel it within you, reaching, searching. It wants the chicken.

Rip the monstrosity from the coldness. Strip the clingwrap from its flesh. Heave it from the plastic tray. Fling the carcass into the heat so its soul may scream for one hour and eighteen minutes (plus rest).

Light!

The door opens!

"I'm hungry, hon."

It is his voice. He, devourer of chicken. He, whose hunger I tease.

"Gonna make a sandwich."

Sandwich?

"Want one?"

His warm hand closes around me.

There is little left within.

Goodbye, blessed cold.

Curse you, chicken.

"Squalk!"