Lyn's Other Battle

         The shrill insistent whistle of the kettle fought with the high-pitched scream of the smoke detector. The shrieks echoed and reverberated in Lyn's a Witchy Woman 's skull. She coughed and squinted through the gloom of the smoke.

         Where was I? How far down that rabbit hole did I tumble? It's a good thing I wasn't actually writing with a pen. I'd be wearing the telltale ink tattoos. Whew, when did I fill that old kettle and set it on the stove? How many stories have I conjured up?

         Lyn's a Witchy Woman stumbled from her cluttered desk into the smoke-filled kitchen. She waved at the angry clouds with a dish towel , but soon abandoned that form of attack.

         Am I certifiably crazy, now? That's a futile stunt Aunt Edna would pull.

         With streaming eyes she felt her way to the window and tugged it open. While standing there she gulped in great breaths of fresh air. Fortified, she groped her way back to the stove and swiped at the objecting kettle. Almost immediately she dropped it and attempted to jump out of the way.

         Watch it! That water's gonna be hot. Ow!! That was stupid of me. Why didn't I grab the oven mitts? Geez, I've forgotten how painful burns can be. Wait a minute. Why are my feet not wet? Where's the puddle?

         As the pungent smoke cleared just a smidgen, she stared at the floor. The now battered and definitely blackened kettle rolled at her feet. There wasn't a drop of water to be had.

         Duh, of course the water has turned to steam. Well, I guess I have an excuse to go shopping when this Game of Thrones Challenge finally ends. I wonder if I can find a dragon or fox-shaped one?

         Well, this mess will have to wait. I'm putting it on the back burner. There are deadlines looming. I don't have time for distractions. Not this month anyway. Huh, and I thought the gears grinding in my brain had combusted for real. Water is safer. I'll stick with that.

         The kitchen sink's faucet glimmered and beckoned Lyn.

         While I'm here I'll take the opportunity to hydrate. Maybe I was a wee bit groggy. Nothing like the heart-pounding siren call of the smoke detector to shock me awake.

         Lyn's a Witchy Woman reached for the faucet's lever and flipped it up. That simple oft-repeated movement backfired. There was absolutely no warning and as such Lyn's reflexes left her stranded, oh, and floundering. She spluttered. She gasped. She attempted to shout, but her words were drowned out by the heavy surge of freezing cold water pouring down her throat. Her hands scrabbled for the lever, but it had fallen into the sink, sheered from its base.

         Her writer's mind struggled to make sense of this new disaster. Catastrophe. Unfortunate incident. Unforeseen accident. Bloody, bleeping mess!

         Does this count as a deluge, or a monsoon? I bet this is what torrential flood waters feel like. Should I describe this water as merely wet? Am I in danger of drowning standing here at my own kitchen sink? Should I attempt the breast stroke, or the doggy paddle?

         "What in the blue blazes is happening here? Aren't you supposed to be furiously writing?"

          Lyn's husband materialized out of the current torrent and pulled her free of the new water trap. She could just see his dripping face as she swiped at her own.

         "Oh, you've got the furious part all right. How many days are left in April?" Her Story Prompt 18 AND The Citadel Task 68 586 words