Crossing Genres Assignment #1

Okay, so here's my first attempt at one of the writing challenges from the Ravelry '52 Books in 52 Weeks' group (since I was a lazy bum and never got around to writing something for the first challenge).

The instructions:
Step 1: Pick a short story topic. (ie walking to the store, going to class, picking up milk)
Step 2: Pick two or three genres of writing style (ie romance, horror, fantasy, mystery, humor, etc.)
Step 3: Write your short story in the style of each of those genres.

Anyway, I kind of latched onto the milk thing, so both of these are about waking up and realising that you need to get some milk. I decided to go with fantasy (gee whiz, what a surprise), and something that ended up some kind of weird blend between a spy novel and satire. Here's the first one (I'm posting them separately as to avoid another Enormous Blob Post of Doom):


Fridge:

I was woken up earlier than I would have liked. It was my day off – the first in too long – and I would have liked to have slept on for a more fittingly indulgent amount of time. It was going to be hot today too – and I wanted to enjoy being lazy by choice before the heat forced it on me. But the Fridge had other ideas. That bloody Fridge…

Shuffling out of my room, picking my way across discarded clothing, I made my way towards the kitchen. Not that it was strictly necessary to do so – the Fridge has ways of making its wishes known, so I already knew what was bothering it. It sat regally in the kitchen, humming away busily to itself as if it didn’t really care for whatever reason it was that I had come to see it. I leaned my head against the cool white expanse, so it couldn’t possibly ignore me any more. Milk, the Fridge said. Rather to the point this morning – the Fridge can be very articulate when it chooses, but obviously today was not one of those days. “It’s hot,” I grumbled in response. “The shop around the corner isn’t open yet, and it’s too hot to walk all the way to the supermarket”. Milk, the Fridge insisted. I could sense that it was also none too pleased about the power bill that I’d stuck atop its face with a magnet shaped like a smiling octopus, but at least it wasn’t actively complaining about that yet.

I put the jug on to boil. “I have everything I need for my breakfast right here,” I pointed out. It was true – I always take my tea black, my toast with honey, and all required ingredients were present and accounted for. If it was possible for a major appliance to give you a dirty look, then Fridge would have accomplished the feat at that moment. I did my best to ignore it and sat at the table, jiggling my teabag up and down in the mug and eyeing yesterday’s crossword, for all the world as if Fridge wasn’t there at all. The impatience in the air was palpable.

Fridge tends to demand a certain respect. After all, it has lived here for longer than I have, so apparently that puts me lower in the pecking order. It was there when I moved in originally. The landlord hadn’t made any mention of it, but when I staggered into the kitchen under the weight of a rapidly disintegrating cardboard box full of cutlery, there it was. One less new thing to arrange, I had thought after a brief inspection had shown it to be in fine working order, if none too clean in the vicinity of the vegetable crisper. I had later inquired about its presence to the landlord, who had simply shrugged and said that it had been there when the last tenant moved in, so presumably it was from the tenant before. She didn’t seem puzzled, so I resolved not to be either. Perhaps this kind of thing happened all of the time. Turns out it doesn’t, but it hasn’t been a bad arrangement. When the Fridge isn’t being a stroppy pain the arse.

“What do you want milk for anyway?” I finally asked – the tension in the room had grown too much, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my tea and do the crossword until Fridge had been placated. What kind of Fridge doesn’t even have milk? It’s a staple ingredient. The thought was indignant, but tinged with a little bit of embarrassment. I grinned, somewhat unkindly. “Getting self conscious, are we?” Fridge’s fan motor skipped a little, as if it flinched. Then it gathered itself to retaliate. In a single second my mind was suddenly saturated with reminders of how hot it would be that day, as well as a singularly vivid image of what all of my perishables would look like if Fridge were to decide that it felt like taking the day off. Vegetables wilted, cream curdled, iced tea icy no longer. It did not sound pleasant.

“Fine, fine,” I grumbled, swigging the rest of my tea down in a hurried gulp. “You win”. I felt Fridge positively oozing smugness as I stumbled into the living room, threw on an old t-shirt and began pulling on my sandals. The feeling continued as I fumbled for my purse and keys, and didn’t abate until I had closed the front door and started off down the street. The sun was already hot, and it was well over a kilometer to the supermarket. Stupid Fridge. Oh well, I thought with a smile. Revenge would be had. Fridge still hadn’t discovered the Tupperware-encased leftovers of my brother’s valiant but unsuccessful attempt at cooking osso bucco that I had banished to the back of one of its shelves. Two weeks ago. I looked forward to that moment with childish glee as I tramped down the street, grocery bag in hand. The heat suddenly seemed less oppressive.