Saturday, June 25, 2011

Old Teapsie


Protests from a kettle of boiling water. The whistling spout has long since been deficient, from all the calcite deposits left after boiling liters upon liters of water. The incessant chattering would go on and on and on, stopping only when little Millie would take notice of the lonely pot, running and shouting excitedly at her mother.

"Mom! Mom! Old Teapsie is about to BLOOW!" she would say, her hands waving excitedly. Her mother, slightly annoyed, would pat her on the head to calm her down, then would take her time, fixing flower vases and piled bills before finally making her way over to the old steel gas range. Millie often kept watch, waiting vigilantly on Old Teapsie. Kitchenware has been an heirloom of sorts for the Wilkins; as new generations of Wilkins come and go, at least one would be left to take care of their old home. This generation, the title of keeper fell on Mrs. Fiona Grattam-Wilkins; by default as she was the youngest.

Mr. Steven Grattam was an huge bloke of a man; he definitely would've fit better in a football team than in a chic apparel shoppe, which he owned and ran. This was where he first met Fiona, fifteen years his junior. She was a teenager then, he thirty-two. She was the first to take a liking to him, much to his chagrin (he didn't want to be branded as a pedophile). Fiona would often visit; at first she made it such that her interest would seem to be eternally fixated on the trending clothes, secretly eyeing the then lonesome shopkeeper. As the years passed and the shop grew, she began having small talk with Steve. Slowly he warmed to her, until that fateful day.

Millie was born out of wedlock. Her mother raised her alone, as Mr. Grattam would often be away on business trips and on other business matters. She was a happy young lady, always full of energy, always a bundle of joy for the odd couple. She was a brave soul too, as whenever her mother would chastise her, she never cried. She bit her lip hard as her mother disciplined her, sometimes with a tailor's iron ruler, sometimes with a yard stick. Mrs. Grattam-Wilkins would regret it of course, but she knew it was her job. She hated harming little Millie, but Millie's bravery becomes her strength. She knew she has to, as does little Millie.

The old wood and clay bungalow in 24th East Westshire has been there for ages. No one exactly remembers when it was built, as it predates even Westshire itself, and thus predates its municipal records. One thing's for certain though, while it's definitely old, it's also very sturdy and stubborn, not unlike the Wilkins, who for ages have taken refuge within its quaint, semi-dilapidated walls. While appliances in the old home has been constantly replaced with each new generation, some old artifacts still remain.

One of which is Old Teapsie, the little iron tea kettle.

"Mom! Mom! She's gonna BLOW!"


Steam rushed out from Old Teapsie. Scalding hot water flew like hot needles all over the kitchen space. Old Teapsie herself flew like a rocket, ricocheting off the walls before finally hitting little Millie in the head. Sensing what just happened, Fiona rushed with uncharacteristic alacrity, nimbly weaving through chairs and other furniture, as much as her petite frame could afford her. She found little Millie lying unconscious on the floor.

"Millie! Speak to me, Millie!" mother took daughter into her arms, shaking her, hoping for a response.

Little Millie struggled to open her eyes. She had a huge bloody wound on her forehead where Old Teapsie hit her. Parts of her exposed arms and legs were red, blisters breaking from the boiling heat. Her clothes were all wet, but it did little to protect her gentle skin. She was breathing heavily, as if her body was asking her to stop struggling.

"Mum... Is Old Teapsie going to be okay?" whispered little Millie.

"Yes... Yes Millie... She's going to be okay..." Fiona said in response, her voice breaking.

"Then don't cry anymore mom..." little Millie's breathing became more relaxed, and less often.

She didn't even scream, she didn't even cry. And with the passing of the last generation of Wilkins to reside in the old wood and clay bungalow in 24th East Westshire, will be the tale of brave little Millie Grattam-Wilkins, who wanted nothing more than her mother's happiness.


  1. MILLIE!!! ;A;

    Depressing, but well-written. Probably one of my favorites from you. :3

  2. amazingly alive.

    I think am immune to death stories, granted it's something you do a lot.

    But... T___________T and lovely work all the same!



love you

dearest I love you


And till I can my frail heart will

always be for you