text: Liam passionately cut through the pile of evenly squared and spread out potatos upon his kitchen table. Over the past few weeks he has largely perfected this exercise. When he just started cooking for himself Liam was helpless and unsure of every action, he was historically always a bad cook, and when his parents didn't account for his diet he usually settled on eating bags of chips, fruit, instant ramen, and other low effort delicacies. Both his parents worked long hours, so he did so quite a bit, and even when his mom did make proper meals they weren't particularly good. She always poured a bit too much salt. Lousy cooking skills passed through her side of the family. But throughout his childhood Liam did have one occasional path to salvation from his curse of unappetizing food: Granny Claire. Liam always looked forward to visiting Grandma. She was a very kind and boring old woman. She would rattle Liam's brain for hours at a time with war stories and other such things which he never cared for, but he sat through the stories and her old fashioned ways, that's how good her food was, she'd make ratatouilles and stakes and fancy dishes Liam didn't even know the name of, beautiful dishes vibrant with color, made with love and just the right mix of delicate tastes. It was wonderful. By the time Liam turned eighteen Granny Claire had been dead for a long while, two years to be exact. Liam didn't grieve at the funeral, he was never really all that close to Granny, that's the kind of mean boy he was, but he grieved later, when the realization set in, slowly but surely, that he'd never again get to enjoy Granny's cooking. Ouh, how he came to miss poor old dead Granny Claire, the only good cook in the family. So precise and scientific in every part of the cooking process. She never put in too much salt. Liam remembers well the last time he visited Granny (besides the time when she was buried 5 foot under the ground. He doesn't remember that time all that well. There wasn't even any food). The last meal she ever made for him was a beautiful thick potato soup. If only he could make a soup with one hundredth of the brilliance of that one, how blessed he would be to just be able to do that. He would do it, he would either bring that potato soup back into existence or slit his throat with his potato stained knife. This is his thirty second attempt. The vegetables have been cut: tomatoes, garlic, radishes, potatoes and other freaks of nature from a variety of colors, the water is boiling, the pot is still, the flames are dancing at the whim of the cooking plates. Everything is ready. All that is left, is to cook. Liam pours in all the vegetables he had prepared. He starts putting in the spices, paprika, various Indian products, pepper, and how could you ever forget: the salt. Liam was sweating, he was visibly nervous, his heartbeat slows, his cheeks suck in, his eyes are beaming with the determination that only a man hungry for potato soup can understand. Cooking is a subjective art form, many mistakes can be forgiven and easily brushed off, but there is no such leniency when it comes to salt. Put too little and the soup will be tasteless and bland, put too much and the whole meal is ruined. Liam grips the container of the salty substance in his hand: this is it. He starts shaking the salt into the pot of soup and counts the seconds. One, two, three, four, five. He flips the salt over and puts it back on the kitchen table. Is that enough? Is that enough salt? IS IT?! He isn't sure. Liam has always been a lousy cook. Finally, his mind is settled: just one more good shake. He picks the salt back up, and holding it tightly over his precious potato soup, he flips it over and gives it a good. long. healthy. shake. Immediately, he senses the folly of his mistake. He knows the soup is ruined, all he had worked for, his hope, his dream, all of it vanquished in an instant. Uncharmingly and without warning, the soup begins to decompose into an awful black goo, and the goo rambles and aches and quakes. It screams and it hurts and it hates. It clenches and wakens and hell opens its gates. And it grows and expands and gains form and shape while Liam trembles in his shoes. The terrible goo is now tall and gross and uncontained and alive. The goo's shape resembles that of a human, wrinkled and old and with long hair. "Granny?" The goo raises its arms and puts them over Liam's potato stained shoulders. After a long pause it opens its mouth. And the goo speaks. "Why couldn't you just leave the salt alone, Liam?" The creature's eyes widened, its arms grew heavier, its voice embodied despair. "Please, leave the salt alone.