Cakes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic


I had this idea on the bus home soooo, yeah...... It's not exactly smart, or funny, or particularly well written (actually its a really bad first impression), but I just wanted to publish it
because its fun :-)

Submitted: January 03, 2018

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Submitted: January 03, 2018

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Alan had always imagined the afterlife differently. Heaven as a place of wonder and peace, where the rivers would run golden and warm from apricity, people walking hand in hand regardless of gender, race, sexuality or Star Trek Captain preference, where children would play together with their laughs echoing round like the gentle rhythmic pulsing of the aurora in the night sky. A place he had envisioned infinite times before he went to sleep: a place where there was no pain, no loss, no grief (except for the atheists sulking in the corner). A stark contrast to the image of hell he had always pictured: the burning landscape, the dark screams of those condemned to perpetual torment. “A furnace of fire”.

So he was slightly surprised when he found himself reincarnated as a cake on the second aisle of the Sainsbury’s in Crayford.

 “The second aisle,” he thought, “The second aisle!” He continued to swear and curse vigorously for the proceeding fifteen minutes. His tirade stopped coincidentally close to the when a small girl pointed him out from across the room and began pleading to have him. She was quite right in her plea as well, he was one of the best cakes – even if he said so himself. He had a fantastic chocolate coating that shone resplendently in the fluorescent lighting, his bottom was neither soggy nor moist and yet – by the miracle of Sainsbury’s cooking technique which has been perfected over 148 years – he wasn’t dry, but rather soft and creamy in texture. He had to admit if he hadn’t had been a cake he would have eaten himself.

“Wait a second” he thought as he went pale (or the cake version of pale but he couldn’t tell what that was, a major drawback of being confectionary is the lack of mirrors, the second, of course, being the lack of eyes, interestingly being a cake is the only tenth). “Are all cakes sentient?”,  his mind raced as guilt flooded his chocolaty innards, the consequences – both morally and logistically – span round his head like a whisk, had he spent his life eating sentient beings as treats? All those years spent licking his lips and wiping away crumbs, had he been cleaning up their bodies? But most terrifying of all: what does that make Mary Berry?

His muse was halted, however, when he felt himself being lifted gently from the cool metal of the shelving unit and placed carefully onto a grated material that cut into his caramel base. Fear slowly grew within him as the realisation set in; someone was going to buy him. Well of course they were, he was baked perfectly in a fan-assisted oven for exactly an hour to allow his fluffy texture to mature and the edges to caramelise ever so slightly to give him a crunchy and sweet flavour.

But if they brought him then they would surely eat him. Him! The most glorious cake ever to grace this Earth! He should be revered not eaten! Besides which, he would feel ever so slightly embarrassed if he died twice in the span of a day, though embarrassed to who he wasn’t quite sure.  Either way, he didn’t want to test the limit on reincarnation.

He focused all of his minds on the events unfolding around him; he felt his body move beyond panic into an almost zen-like state. He could feel every pulse of the basket as it rocked, the slightest jolt as his captor threw his perfect prison precariously around, like an infant excited at the prospect of cake (possibly due to  the fact that it was an infant excited by the prospect of cake), his every sense became exaggerated with almost perfect fidelity.

Alan had always thought himself to hold a likeness to a great warrior or strategist in his ability to take a situation and break it down into its finer details like a toddler takes a priceless vase and breaks it into its constituent parts. Like most of the things in his life, however, his blinding incompetence made him both right and wrong about this aspect of his personality, he was correct in that he is a direct descendant of King Harold of England, explaining his distrust for archery. He was incorrect in the assumption that this is what gave him the ability to slow time; this was in actual fact due to the stroke that killed him.

His blindingly slow intelligence was made further apparent when he was moved from the basket to the conveyer of the check, to the hands of a small child, in what he thought constituted a sharp turn and a brief pause in the frozen section to contemplate the logistics of the pizza aisle. Alan was only made aware of his mistake as he felt the sweaty, hot childlike hand grip his hard, protective chocolate shell and its sharpened steel teeth cut through him like scissors through tinfoil.

The only thing he could do was think, to pass on his final tribute to the world he was leaving for the second time this week, an epitaph to everything he had lost and won, the last farewell to all that he loved. “Oh hell”, he thought, in a tone that he hoped would display his annoyance with the current situation.


© Copyright 2018 tim south. All rights reserved.

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