"Catastrophe" ~ A Fictional Short Story by Me

Logan woke up too early on a Sunday morning – courtesies of his alarm clock.

He immediately reaches towards the bed stand, thinking he's grabbing his phone, but in actuality, he just whacks off his glass of water that he stupidly left right next to his phone last night.

Now there's water all over the bed stand, the floor, and presumably his phone, and that damn alarm is still ringing – louder and louder it gets....taunting him.

Logan mutters a few choice words regarding the entire situation that's unfolding. He extends to grab the phone, but, low and behold, the phone slips out of his hand and crashes to the floor....presumably in the puddle of water that presumably now exists on the floor from where the glass of water spilled.

At this point, Logan goes from being fully asleep to being wide awake. "MOTHER OF PEARL! IS THAT WATER OR SOAP THAT SPILLED OUT ON MY DAMN PHONE?!"

He finally manages to wrangle his phone with both hands, and, with immense focus, selects "STOP" under the alarm.

Glad that such a fiasco is behind him, Logan stumbles towards the bathroom door. His feet are half asleep and numb, so he moves in an awkward manner across the cold wood floors.

He's made the executive decision that he will worry about cleaning up the water and glass that's on the floor after work, when he's in a better state of mind.

As Logan crosses the threshold into the bathroom, he flicks the light switch on, only to become immediately blinded by bright LED lights. As he puts the heels of his palms to his eyes (dramatically, I might add) he exclaims, "who made the decision to place such bright lights in a bathroom? This is preposterous at 4:35 in the morning."

Eventually his eyes adjust and he can begin brushing his teeth.

Logan sighs, "I hate this job. What type of business – aside from churches of course....are churches even a business? I imagine some are – but what type of business is open on Sunday morning? I'm the only bloke in this entire building that has to be at work at 6am on a Sunday. And to think that my parents always said to get a college degree so I could get a good job – hah! A lot of good THAT degree has done me, MOM..."

Aside from the light situation, the morning hygiene routine went smoothly. Our man, Logan, is gaining a little momentum all of a sudden.

Now in the kitchen, Logan decides to make some breakfast.

"Well, Logs," (yes, Logan talks to himself in the third person. Worse yet, he's given himself the nickname, "Logs") "what's it gonna be for the 'most important meal’ of the day?"

He opens the fridge and decides on the eggs.

Usually, Logan pairs his eggs with toast, but today is Sunday. He should have a little more than just toast. While he may be the only person in his apartment building getting ready for work at 4:47 on a Sunday, he's not a pauper. So he opens the pantry and grabs the big box of 1 minute oatmeal – an honorable food to pair with scrambled eggs.

He sets the carton of eggs and the oatmeal on the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, centering himself for the work that's to come – cooking Sunday breakfast.

He opens the carton of eggs. "Ah, 7 eggs," he notes. “Very good."

He reaches for the first egg. It's stuck in the carton. "What in the beard of Zeus?" He tries to grip it low, close to the base of the carton, firmly, yet careful not to – crack.

"Mother clucking hen!" The egg broke in his hands. Logan rinses the hand in the sink, shaking his head.

"This is starting out to be just one doozy of a day, huh? All because I got scheduled to work Sunday morning – the Lord's morning – at the ungodly hour of 6am..."

Back to the counter and the carton of eggs Logan goes. He grabs the next egg. It comes right out of the carton, "Ah-ha! Delightful! An egg that's not stuck in the carton...." He looks over toward the sink where the remains of the broken egg lay, holding the new, promising egg in his hand and shaking it in his fist as he addresses the remains of the broken egg, "as an egg should b–“ crack....egg number 6 spills out into his hand as bits of the shell tumble toward the floor.

A man of great patience, Logan pushes his frustrations down into his chest...deep down to the pits of his internal organs, so they can fester with all his other frustrations.

"It's okay, Logs. You still have 5 eggs left,” he reassures himself.

He grabs egg #5, keeps his mouth shut, staying focused only on the task at hand. No taunting this time. He manages to successfully crack the egg over the bowl and drop the perfect dollop into the bowl.

"Alright! One egg down, one more to go."

Logan grabs egg #4, successfully transfers it above the bowl, goes to crack it on the edge – dud. He attempts to crack again, a little harder this time...but it's too hard. The entire egg – shell and all – falls into the bowl, infiltrating the space of the perfect egg that's already in the bowl, ruining the integrity of the entire whipped scrambled egg concoction that Logan was planning.

Ever the patient man, Logan predictably responds to the situation, shouting, "SON OF A BASTARD ROOSTER!!!"

He throws the entire bowl into the sink and runs water over it.

"I need a break from these pesky eggs. My hands are shaking now. That's no condition to be in when trying to crack an egg. Especially when I only have 3 lousy eggs left!"

So he shifts his focus to the oatmeal.

"One should always do the easiest task first to build some positive momentum for the day."

He grabs the 60 second oats, pours a healthy portion into the bowl, and adds a bit of water.

Looking around, Logan grabs the honey and peanut butter and adds that to the bowl before putting the bowl in the microwave.

He hits 1, followed by a few zeros and presses start.Realizing he has a minute to spare, Logan heads off to the loo to take a wiz.

Coming back into the kitchen, Logan doesn't think much that the microwave is still running. He takes some time to breathe and relax. Checking his watch he notices the time is 4:59. He’s still ahead of schedule.

As the microwave continues to churn, Logan begins to wonder how long this minute could possibly last. Looking at the digital timer display, he realizes the microwave is currently counting down from 7:51, 7:50, 7:49, 7:48, 7:47...

"Schnitzels and butter head lettuce!" Logan dashes over to the microwave and presses "Stop."

"I must've set the timer for 10 minutes instead of 1 minute!"

As he's belittling himself and muttering not so friendly 4 letter words, he opens the microwave and grabs the bowl of oatmeal.

Big mistake.

Logan grabs the bowl firmly in both hands, and immediately shrieks a bunch of unidentifiable nonsense.

Temporarily losing control of his motor skills, he launches the bowl across the kitchen, into the opposing wall. Seemingly forgetting how his feet work as all his focus has gone to his burned hands, his feet get tangled, tripping himself. As he's falling towards the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, he reaches out hoping to catch himself. All he catches is the remaining 3 eggs in the carton that he left open on the counter. The eggs smash, shortly followed by Logan's body crashing on the floor.

After several seconds of rolling around wailing in pain, Logan comes to a sobering realization, "obviously, I was never meant to work this morning. This is a sign that going to work this morning would be a cardinal sin, and I mustn't give into the temptation of my heathen boss."

With that, he stands up, grabs his cell phone, dials his supervisor and waits for the ringing to stop.

Voicemail."That's okay, I'll leave a message. That's even easier."

He waits for the beep, signaling when he is allowed to speak, and then says, "hey Marie, it's Logan. I'm sorry, but I can't come into work today because...." He looks around the kitchen, taking in the scene, while also remembering the mess in his bedroom. "...because there's been a catastrophe."

At that, Logan hangs up the phone, limps over to the couch, and goes back to sleep.