Sylvia Plath Oven Novels & Stories

—winked in the oven’s glow. The apartment kitchen was narrow and obliging, counters worn smooth by years of unremarkable use. The oven light cast a small amber square on the floor. Celeste moved within it with practiced economy, sleeves pushed up, hair braided tight so it would not fall forward and tempt distraction. The kitchen had its own music: the metallic thud of a spoon in a drawer, the soft clink of a chipped measuring cup, the low hum of the fridge cycling. Celeste moved in rhythm with it, the choreography of solitude. She cradled a mug, chipped at the rim, letting the heat seep into her palms, the bitter tang of strong tea grounding her to the moment. Every so often, she’d glance at

Tony inserted his visitor pass into the card slot, and the door buzzed then opened with a click. It was just large enough for one car. Dillon saw up close what the whole thing looked like. It was definitely an oven of some sort, since there were some kind of special elements(lights?) that lined the floor and the ceiling, and ran up and down the walls. The floor was some kind of chain link metal grate. It looked like there were drains at certain intervals under the grate. Maybe to clean up paint overspray and spills? It looked and smelled as if there had been paint in the room recently.

I heard a rhythmic, metallic tapping coming from the kitchen area. I threw on an oversized sweater and padded across the cold floor. Silas was standing at my small, rusted gas stove, his charcoal suit jacket discarded on a milk crate. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms, and he was currently using a vintage silver spoon likely the only nice thing I owned to stir a pot of something that smelled suspiciously like actual food.

I folded the paper and put it in my jacket. He stacked soup cans on the windowsill like trophies. I watched from the chair by the door with my arms crossed. He hummed something under his breath. A song I didn’t know, but the kind of thing she’d sing while folding towels or cleaning a scraped knee. His voice broke halfway through, then picked up again, like nothing had happened. “She used to sing to the oven,” he said. “When the bread was rising. Like it could hear her.” He added another can. Lined it up beside the others. His hands weren’t steady. They wobbled like her handwriting on a bad day.

"He was warned. But if a war is what he wants, then that's what he'll get. Get everyone ready." "What potion are you brewing now?" Sylvia, the forty-year-old potion master, turned to witness the presence of Mia munching on an apple while discreetly coming into her little potion camp. "Jeez, it's suffocating here. How do you even breathe?" Sylvia only gave her a small smile before returning to drop some ingredients into her burning pot. "It's my catharsis," Sylvia commented.

And eventually, we were able to find more than plants and valuable stones to trade in a nearby pack. "Well, if you're cooking at the pack house, I'd love to help you. I wanted to use some of the appliances in the pack house," I joked lightly. "I haven't used a stove in years, and I have no idea which of the fifty buttons on that thing actually turns on the oven." They both laughed alongside me. "Well, I will be more than happy to show you anything you want in the kitchen. I have a morning shift there, three times a week, so feel free to accompany me, Etheral. My name is Sylvia," the lady replied.

Sylvia was bored in her room all day, she wanted to go out in the garden for a walk, but of course Ryan did not agree. Outside there was the sound of hurried footsteps… the wooden door opened, it was Viola. “Sylvia, what are you going to do?” “I… Thank you for bringing the food.” Seeing Viola carrying a copper tray with cakes and milk, Sylvia thought to bring it to herself. “Your dinner is only a glass of milk with a plate of this bread! This part belongs to the boss. But he threw it all in the trash once, afraid it's going to be a waste of food this time."

We got to a door and I pulled it open and pushed the tray into it slowly. "Is that..." I heard Giulia ask on the other end then trail off. I looked at her face as I closed the door of the cremation oven amidst screams from Edith who was finally understanding the picture. "I have seasoned the meat. Now we let it cook." I smiled and flipped the camera so they could see through the glass on the front of the oven. "Mary should stop watching at this point. We are about to cook." I turned the switch on. It heated up fast.

What could be the reason of this sudden talk she was intending? Before Olivia could say anything, a woman's voice was heard outside the door. Followed by the servants entering the room. Each of them were carrying trays. "Leave it all here." Sylvia's order. When everyone had left and only the two of them were there, Sylvia began to slice the cake and put it on the plate. Then gave it to her. "Taste this cake. Of all the desserts I've tasted, this is my most favorite." The shiver began to creep into Olivia's chest. She thought Sylvia's actions were getting weird now.

Then Lilian pulled away with a soft smile and walked over to admire the oven like it belonged in a museum. “This thing is beautiful,” she said, running her hand over it. “I feel like it needs a name.” “Like what?” I sniffled. Chloe grinned. “Oven Winfrey.” Lilian burst out laughing. “Stop!” “No, wait,” I said, wiping my face and grinning. “Oven McStunning.” Chloe howled. “That’s it. That’s the one.” We laughed again, and something light settled in my chest. It was the beautiful hope that came with moments like this.