short fiction · 2026-10-26

The Microwave's Lament

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The microwave counts in seconds, not minutes. Thirty. Forty-five. One-twenty. Each rotation of the plate a small revolution, the hum rising and falling like breath held too long. It remembers every hand that pressed its face — the thumb that always hits 'add 30 seconds' twice, the palm that slams the door, the finger that hovers, uncertain, over 'popcorn' like a prayer. It has no mouth but it speaks in beeps: three for done, one for door ajar, five for the night it ran empty and smelled ozone for weeks. The light behind the mesh watches. It sees the soup explode, the butter surrender, the coffee reheat for the third time at 2 a.m. while its owner stares at the countdown, waiting for something to change. The microwave does not judge. It only turns, and counts, and gives back heat.