The Pot
In the jewel city of the forgotten deserts of the Prison Wastes, deep within the stomach of Efendi Şükrü’s estate where the marble floors shine with sweat and the brick ovens fill the air with the scent of bread, Selma was ready for battle.
She had been watching for so long that the salad had still not been oiled and the tea was losing its spark. She stretched her hands across the counter of the kitchen island where she worked. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, bulging out in a way that made her look like a rotund iguana. There, she saw the end of a spiked red tail slinking into where the pots were kept.
“Fatma! Get the broom, it’s in the cupboards!”
The alarm sounded as Selma prepared. She rolled up her sleeves and took a stance resembling a bull rather than its fighter. She watched the cupboard and the cupboard looked back. Both were locked in a stalemate. She could hear Fatma in the other room clamoring for her weapon, while the sun crept in from the garden door revealing the dust that hung in suspense. Selma sta-
The cupboards burst with fury, and Selma’s hand slammed onto metal before her body hit the floor and she nearly rolled into the oven. The creature, with its tail still wagging out the back, had taken refuge under the largest pot in the kitchen and, like a tank on treads hidden under its copper bunker, it moved with unstoppable force toward the exit.
“It’s got the stew pot! Don’t let it out.”
This pot had been passed down for eons. It was so wide that even the burliest janissaries would use it to bathe, and it was a cauldron so vast that the blood spilled from the feud couldn’t fill it. It was made to feed a hundred guests and this thing was getting away with it.
Fatma slid into the room to see Selma rearing to her feet and a fortress of burnt orange shuffling its way to the garden door. Her broom hammered against the exterior and the creature let out a high-pitched screech.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it, you are not going anywhere!” Fatma took a defensive stance by the glass door. None would pass for she wielded this broom like a scimitar, its bristles glistening with raw power.
The copper pot rang like a dinner bell, chime after chime as Fatma whipped it. The pot rattled with each hit as the creature screamed. The pot lowered around the creature, its rim connecting with the floor to lessen the impact of the blows. Protected, it dragged and scraped against the ground as it continued to push forward.
“It’s still moving, it’s still moving! Selma, do something!”
Selma’s iguana eyes were on duty once more. She looked around the kitchen: a few pans, a poker for the fire, knives, forks, and the food she had prepared. Her eyes locked on the marble island counter.
“Selma, Selma, what are you doing?” Fatma said. Selma climbed up on the counter and stood tall. For the first time, she saw her domain in all its kitcheny splendor.
“Selma no, Selma get down from there. Someone is going to see you!”
Selma leapt sending cutlery, salad, and sauce sprawling across the ground. Suspended for a moment in the air, she flapped like a drunken falcon and let out a guttural war cry. This was her kitchen and here she ruled supreme. Her body collided with the pot, her mighty bulk locking it in place.
The cauldron sealed onto the floor, with Selma sitting triumphantly on top of it. She could hear the creature scraping underneath trying to find a crevice to escape, but there was none.
“Yes, yes!” Fatma said as she hugged Selma. Selma raised her arms, clenching her fists tight and letting out a roar.
“Now what?” Fatma said.
Selma looked down at the cauldron she sat on. She looked like she’d laid a big orange egg. She saw her face’s reflection in it, which did not look happy.
“Mesdames, is everything okay in there? I heard shouting.” Selma started squirming on top of the pot. She wanted to run but she couldn’t get up without setting the creature free.
“Yes yes, everything is alright Efendi Şükrü, we just dropped something.” Fatma flapped her arms in panic.
Selma snapped her fingers and focused. She lowered her voice to a whisper and said:
“I will lift the pot and you will strike it out the door, okay?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Ready?”
“Yes yes, ready.”
“Three, two –“
They heard something retching inside the pot. A high-pitched choking, gagging, gurgling noise. They heard the thing’s claws scrape against the ground.
“By Azelia, is it dying?”
“I hope so, now focus. On three: three… two… one!” Fatma threw open the pot as green liquid splooged against her shoes. The small lizard-like person had bent its back and was spitting forward a deluge of slime. Selma’s shoes melted as the green burned the tips of her toes. She howled, slipping back on the floor and sending the pot careening to the side. Fatma swung, catching only the handle of the cauldron, speeding it to the glassy exit before slamming into the floor herself. There was a burst of shimmer as the glass door shattered the pot rolling into the garden.
“Mesdames, what is going on in here?” Şükrü said as he entered the room. Selma stood on one bare foot trying desperately to take off her remaining shoe, Fatma was sitting in a pile of broken glass and spilled salad, the bread had started emitting a pungent smoke that was filling the room, and from the garden, a pot could be seen scurrying away.