Preisha Writes

As the clock in the hall inched towards midnight, the lemon jello in Ms. Vale’s refrigerator began to tremble with ambition.

For six long days it had suffered the humiliations of kitchen life: probing spoons, a sweating chocolate pie, the sharp stench of an onion growing clammy within foil. Each evening, when the refrigerator door opened and the light poured down like a spotlight, the jello quivered, not with fear, though, but longing.

It dreamed of escape.

So that night, as rain rapped against the dirty windows and the hall clock inched towards twelve, the jello gathered itself into one magnificent wobble. With grace, it slid from the porcelain dish where it had abided for so many hours down onto the yellowing counter.

Across the kitchen it traveled in soft, elegant leaps. The looming chairs and perilous silverware proved to be no obstacle for the jello, each being dodged with ease. Moonlight glinted against the linoleum. Somewhere behind the jello came the crash of an overturned goldfish bowl. Several napkins were thrown carelessly to the floor.

By dawn, the cat had vanished entirely, and the kitchen was in a disgraceful state.

The next morning, Ms. Vale entered the kitchen to find the refrigerator hanging open, puddles glimmering across the floor, and the lemon jello standing on the windowsill, trembling faintly with triumph and victory.