Slaughter, spells, and sweets

1153 words

Rated PG; some mature subject matter

Author's note: No, I have no idea what I just wrote. It's almost midnight, and my mind is trying to comprehend how I mixed evil magic and baked goods. Tell me if I should do another part, or abandon this God-Forsaken anomaly.

When I was younger, I would run up and down the home with my brother and sister, the three of us dressed in Grandma’s old dresses, pretending we were cottage girls-- with flowers in our hair and big ideas in our mind. My Mom would always joke she'd put something on the counter, see the swish of a skirt, and it’d be gone. She never dared leave a plate of cookies alone.

 We loved playing it so much that Mom and Dad would make us take them off so they could cast a spell, adjusting them to size. This was especially true for my brother, Shane, who was only 5 at the time. Grandmama may have been small, but she wasn’t that tiny. That was when we really bonded as a family. Those are my fondest childhood memories. 

I heard of stories of teenagers stealing and rebelling about their parents, and swore I’d never let it happen to me. I made that oath at 9. I’ve kept it up for two decades. Today, it all goes down in flames.

[]

Don smiles. “Oh, are these oatmeal raisin?”

The families are talking and eating baked goods. Don’s voice booms over the speaker. “And another round of chocolate chip cookies for my friends!”

The children go wild, hooting and clapping. They jump up and down, partly from excitement, and partly from their growing sugar rush. 

They run around the auditorium with full mouths and wide grins.

You can barely tell this was ever an airplane hangar. The streamers are swung from the rafters. A carpet has coated the entire floor. And, of course, the smell of cookies lingers everywhere. They’re all in baskets or wrapped in ribbons. Professionals and amateur bakers stand behind counters, laughing and talking about their recipes. 

Don is sitting on the stage, with many round, sweet offerings around him. Paperwork is also scattered on his desk. I can see the scheduling and checks for the other participants in the cookie exchange. I stand 6 meters to his right, reading over the order for the gluten-free wafers.

Don’s trousers have a dusting of crumbs on them. His eyes and hair are the same shade of brown. His sweater has the logo of Super Worldwide extraordinary exchange of treats, or S.W.E.E.T.

 If you look directly in his ear, and really squint, you might make out a tiny black dot. An earpiece. It’s shaped like a bean, and about a quarter the size. I’m wearing an identical one. It works like Bluetooth, but with magic instead of technology.

A thin, purple wave of energy goes back and forth between us as we speak. You’d have to have beyond sight to see it, but it’s there.

“Everything’s in place.” I whisper.

“Good. Commence phase 1.” he replies. 

I sigh, and get up. Walking over to Don, I take the microphone from him. He winks. I nod solemnly. Now or never.

I turn to the audience. I’ve always had a way with crowds. I put on my brightest face and use my most winning voice . “Hello everybody!” I say in French.

Faces look up from stuffing themselves.

“I am the CEO of Glasgow’s Puddings! I was worried England might be cross that they weren’t invited, but it’s not like they could represent the UK anyway! Unless you want them invading this party!”

They laugh at my unfunny joke. Don’s idea to add it in. Warm them up.

“Now, this is the Super Worldwide extraordinary exchange of treats. And no, we didn’t just put it because we needed an acronym. We put it because, today, we’ll be giving you a worldwide taste of cookies.”

I look back to Don, who gives me the thumb’s up symbol. A man comes up next to me. I give him the microphone, as I was instructed to. He waves at the crowd. “Are you ready for the most exciting part yet?”

The families holler.

I walk away as he continues the presentation. I jump down the steps at the side of the stage. Don will be here in a few minutes. All I have to do is wait.

I finger the piece of paper in my pocket. It’s rough and jagged. I run my thumb along the tears I know so well. And betray my family.

[]

The curtain behind the stage is thick. Someone once got trapped under it for an afternoon--it took 12 people to lift it off. The rich fabric dips behind the stage. One could shimmy in it and have a conversation without being heard.

A sticky, hot conversation. I scratch at my collar. Don’s got a walkie-talkie to his ear. “They’re about to unveil the dessert.”

I can hear the distant voice of the man who took the mic from me. He’s getting ready for the reveal. “Alright, 5 seconds.”

I fumble with the paper in my hand. The messy writing on the faded white material is a little blurry. It doesn’t matter. I’ve memorized it. “3, 2, 1!”

I hear the gasp of the crowd. The rainbow cookies are in sight. I quickly begin. 

“With this colourful thing you see

Your heart will belong to me

With the cosmos stuck in mind

Our two heart will quickly combine

With the way I command thy soul

You’ll hand over secrets untold

With this mighty hand I rise

You won’t see coming your demise”

I raise my hand to the ceiling blast of white light shoots from it. It turns into a spiral, twisting towards the audience. The pure joy in Don’s eyes is sickening. I’m the last piece of this plan. And he played me well.

[]

When you’re rich, you want more. I don’t know what mental illness Don has, but it’s magnified that. He wants to control everyone. He wants to make the world tremble. His eyes flicker with mischief.

He also knows where to hire hitpeople. He could kill me if he wanted to. Luckily, he needs at least one member of the Llewyn family alive for his plan to work. However, he has nothing against slaughtering my children. He outright said that in my bakery, in broad daylight. He didn’t care who heard him. Would’ve made his day more interesting if someone did.

I feel the energy leaking from me. I collapse on the ground. My head hits the concrete hard. Don doesn't blink an eye. My use is done. He can now forget he ever involved me. He steps over me and shuffles out from behind the curtain.

As more tendrils of yellow leave my chest, I get weaker. The necklace is burning my collarbone. I’ve made a grave mistake. I feel the wet blood trickling from my nose. I hear it drip. I give in to unconsciousness, but not before I hear the first child start screaming.

It pierces me, forming one clear thought. I don’t even like cookies.