...CAUSE IT TOOK SO LONG TO BAKE IT...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

From the depths of a dive bar, arrives a huge astonishing pastry. Following an eerie silence, the show is on!

. . . ‘CAUSE IT TOOK SO LONG TO BAKE IT . . .

 Flash Fiction

Nicholas Cochran

 

When she opened the door to the Dive-Into Bar, chunks of seamy smoke, seasoned by Gauloises and Camels—mixed with very little air—slammed up the nose of Maizie Floorclops.

She hated these owners’ joints where anyone could smoke if the owner was a smoker, but the caller specifically told her to come here, at eight o’clock. It was two minutes to eight. The caller told her he would recognize her; no need for his name or description.

Clattering of cheap crockery smacked alongside the chinkling of ice and glasses; whoops of joy and despair radiated from the locus of the dartboard; pings and pongs wafted on the choked air from the two pinball machines by the restroom entrance.

God; why would anyone want to be here?’  Maize was neither a prude nor a snob; only an attractive young blonde with an assignation. Here.

She tried to drift along unnoticed with the prevailing smoke cloud while shrinking and slinking into the dimmer area of the bar’s depths. Pretty tough to do, because she was an arresting figure with an arresting figure. She was a double down on the beauty card. Everyone present, of all genders, as well as those in between, stopped whatever they were saying or doing as soon as they spotted her.

When she was in a pool of dimness nearest the bar, she saw the electric clock over the dartboard reach eight pm. Within those two minutes from her entrance, every region of the benighted alehouse plummeted into a deathly silence.

She heard the front door crash open. She slowly turned and gasped. Two tall brawny young men wearing nothing but Speedos, hoisted a huge cake upon their shining shoulders and strode with exaggerated purpose to the central zone of the grubby tavern. The bearers made a precise stop, exactly under the highest point of the room.  The absence of any movement slid over the entire scene; no one coughed or wheezed—barely breathed.

Abruptly, the husky bearers raised their commitment until their arms were completely outstretched and the apex of the cake was two feet from the roof.

A sudden movement at the top of the monumental pastry induced gasps of confusion and alarm; almost notes of a celestial choir.

From atop the pythonic sweet, popped out a very tall blond young man, clothed in tails, bearing a top hat and cane. His landing was fluent and precise; athletic and astounding. Maizie clutched at her throat.

 “My God Alan; what are you doing?” shrinking back a little.

 “Maizie; oh Maizie; Happy Birthday,” now on one knee, one hand clasping hat and cane; the other devotedly holding Maize’s right, “. .  . will you marry me?”

Spontaneous uproars broke out in all directions, engulfing the very words they all so passionately wanted to hear. That’s when I left.

 

THE END


Submitted: January 07, 2016

© Copyright 2021 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.

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