Run Away! by Nancy Bell

First, there was nothing, so he felt nothing. Then, a melting happened. A spreading happened. Bubbles arose in the nothing that had been and from them the pancake became. There was heat. There was pain. The pancake was born in pain.

He heard a voice.

“Flip it. It’s time.” 

He named the voice Little Old Woman.

“Not yet. Not until there are more bubbles,” said another voice.

He named that voice Little Old Man.

“Flip it or burn it.”

And then the pancake was airborne, free for a moment from harm. But then, he fell again with a sizzle.

“Perfect,” said the Little Old Man.

“Ah,” said the Little Old Woman.

The pancake decided to run. He did not know how to run. He did not know what running was. He did not know the word “run.” But he ran. He rolled.

“Clumsy!”

“Get it!”

The pancake rolled across the threshold of the open cottage door. The weather was fine and the roads were dry. He did not know what freedom was. He did not know the word “freedom,” but oh, how he rolled. 

He rolled past a school, where the children dozed.

“Stop little pancake! We want to eat you.”

“I was born on the fire, but I wasn’t burned. I rolled away from The Little Old Woman and The Little Old Man, and I’ll roll away from you.”

He rolled past the butcher among his hanging hams.

“Stop little pancake!  I’m sick of just meat.”

“I was born of flour, but I have a beating heart now,” cried the pancake. “I rolled away from The Little Old Woman and The Little Old Man and all the little children, I’ll roll away from you, too!”

He rolled past a theatre, where the penny-stinkers were just leaving from a matinee. 

“Stop, little pancake! Watching Macbeth’s feast made us hungry.”

“Tragedy doesn’t scare me,” called the pancake. “I was born in the fire. I rolled away from The Little Old Woman and The Little Old Man and all the children and the butcher and I’ll roll away from you, too.”

He rolled past the Coliseum, where the crowds howled. The gladiators said, “We who are about to die will eat you.”

“Thumbs down to that,” crowed the pancake. “I rolled away from The Little Old Woman, The Little Old Man, the children, the butcher, and the penny-stinkers.”

Before too long, the pancake was rolling along, leading a crowd behind him of old men and women, little children, the butcher, the penny-stinkers, a barkeep, a milliner, a longshoreman, a mathematician, four philosophers, Queen Victoria herself, and a whole crowd of graphic designers. 

Suddenly, he felt an ache in his dough. It occurred to him that all he knew was the pain he was born to and the rolling that came after it. Suddenly, he felt how dusty he’d become from the road. He felt that he was growing cold, no longer the fresh hot treat he had been. 

When he saw the fox, there was nothing. Then, there was a melting, a spreading. Then: pain.

He did not know what love was. He did not know the word “love.”