Jane eyed the pantry like it owed her money. Three years of cereal boxes, expired spices, and a mystery gloop in a jar had to go. She yanked the door open, and a cloud of flour erupted, coating her in a ghostly haze. ‘Okay,’ she muttered, ‘this is just the beginning.’
The first box toppled like a drunk acrobat. Canned beans rolled into the hallway, clattering like marbles on a tin roof. Jane lunged, arms flailing, and snagged a can mid-air. It hissed. She froze. ‘Not again,’ she groaned. The can squirted a stream of beans across the floor, pooling like alien goo.
She backed into a shelf, knocking over a tower of pasta boxes. Rigatoni tumbled into the fridge, where it joined a half-eaten zucchini and a suspiciously slimy mango. Jane stared at the chaos, then barked a laugh. ‘You want to play? Let’s play.’ She grabbed a broom, swiping at the mess. The bristles caught a bag of sugar, which exploded in a white cyclone. Her hair looked like a dandelion gone feral.
By sunset, the pantry was spotless. Jane collapsed on the floor, surrounded by empty boxes. The only thing left was a single can of beans, glinting in the light. She picked it up, wiped it on her apron, and took a bite. ‘Tastes like victory,’ she said, chewing. The beans disagreed.
