Jamal stood in front of his stove, afraid.
The day started normally enough. He got out of bed. Whipped up some pancake batter. Started pouring it on the pan. Moved the pancakes to the oven to stay warm while he made more.
When the stack reached fourteen high, Jamal switched off the stove. He opened the oven to put the last three in, only to find the pancakes waiting.
They leapt out. At first it was cute – 14 pancakes, plus the three on his spatula, now sentient. But they quickly raided the kitchen for weapons, and were now standing around him, poking and prodding him. Jabbing at him. Trying to force him into the oven.
Jamal was trying to fight back, but didn’t want to hurt them – they looked so cute, with their little blueberry eyes. But they were vicious, stabbing his shins and demanding he put himself in the hot box.
By the time Jamal felt he could fight back, they had him in the oven, the door locked, the heat rising.
And so the pancakes feasted on Jamal, drizzling him in syrup before marching on their way to find further sustenance.