Whispers of Change

I sat on a park bench, the lemon poppy seed muffin I bought on my morning walk turning into crumbles in my palm. Children ran across the expansive green space in front of me, shrieking as they chased each other and played silly little games. Birds chirped in the distance, adding the final touch to what was already a perfect spring day. 

The weather was mild, just cresting over 60 degrees as the mid-morning sun cast strips of light across the grass and pathways. This was my favorite time of year. My heart would flutter with excitement as nature came alive after its long winter sleep. Long days spent indoors huddled in front of the fire would be transformed into hours devoted to exploring local parks and gardens, marveling at the beauty of the world.  

But, not today. My attention wasn’t focused on the bright blossoms that exploded overnight in the park. No, my attention was fixed on the massive oak tree on the far side of the lawn. It towered over everything below it, hunched over like an old man who couldn’t stand up straight. Its countless branches were filled with vibrant green leaves. It was a famous tree in the city, some said it was thousands of years old, sprouting up from the earth as soon as Adam took a bite of the apple.

My eyes zeroed in on the swirls of brown and deep crags in the bark on the trunk. I had whiled away many mornings and afternoons in this very spot as I read a book or just soaked in the scenery. However, this morning was anything but relaxing if the decimated remains of my muffin were any indication. 

The tree looked different. 

The average person might not have noticed anything, but due to the countless hours I had admired the tree, I knew right away something was off. Fear gripped my heart as my palms started to sweat. I steeled myself for the possibility of what might’ve occurred. 

An epidemic had been sweeping the world for the past few years. It started out as something small, something that was supposed to be entertaining. Highly skilled bakers, bored with making the average cake you’d find in any bakery, had taken to making desserts in the shape of real life items. Birthday cakes were no longer simple layers with frosting sandwiched in between, decorated with balloons or sprinkles scattered across the top. Instead, you might receive a cake that looked like a shoe, a stapler, or even your pet dog. The popularity of these cakes spread like wildfire. TV shows popped up where contestants had to make a cake that looked so much like a real item that it would fool judges. People would lose their minds over them, not knowing what was real or what was cake. 

Then, something strange started to happen. Things in the real world started turning into literal cake. It started in a small town tucked away in the countryside of Arkansas. A farmer had gone to his barn to start his morning chores. He went to sit on his tractor, only to sink into a seat that was made from vanilla cake covered in brown fondant. 

It spread from there. You might open the front door to grab the morning newspaper only to find your fingers plunging into a lump of red velvet. Nothing was immune. There was no rhyme or reason as to what would transform into cake. 

It started getting worse. People would wake up one morning and roll over to kiss their partner good morning, only to find out they had turned into cake. The world devolved into mass chaos when that happened. Most people had to bury their loved ones quickly before they started to mold. I didn’t want to think about the other things people might do with a massive amount of cake. 

As you can imagine, the world went haywire. There was no explanation, no warning signs. Anything and anyone could turn into cake at a moment’s notice. People started wearing masks, thinking the virus was airborne and they could catch it from one another. I don’t know if that made a difference, but I wore my mask religiously. Each morning I woke up I patted myself, thanking my lucky stars that I was still a man and not yet cake. 

I stood up. I was going to solve this mystery once and for all. I quickly crossed the grass, weaving in and out of pesky children as I made my way to the tree. I didn’t even hesitate as I got to it, instantly reaching out my hand and grabbing a nearby branch. 

I let out a breath – the branch was firm. I must be losing my mind, I thought to myself. I was seeing cake everywhere I looked. I took a step back, my heart pounding in my ears. I needed to get home. 

“What are you doing?” I looked down. A little girl stood next to me, clutching a red ball in her hands. 

“Nothing. I was just checking.”

“Checking for what?”

I glanced back at her, the red ball no longer in her hands. Instead, her tiny hands were crushing a lump of vanilla cake, globs of red frosting falling to the ground. 

“Didn’t your parents tell you not to talk to strangers?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I adjusted my mask and rushed away, not slowing down until I put some distance between myself and the cursed child. 

I slowed my walk down to a more leisurely pace as I reached the street. There was no reason I shouldn’t enjoy my walk home. I lived in an old part of the city with tall buildings lining cobblestone streets. The roads were too narrow for two lanes of cars to go down, but that didn’t stop people from trying to squeeze their way past one another. I let the sounds of honking horns and yelling people lull me into an almost dreamlike state, my body moving on autopilot as I traced the familiar route back home. I almost didn’t notice when the usual curses had started turning into screams and cries of anguish. 

I looked up. People had their phones clutched in their hands, looks of abject horror crossing their faces as they read what was on the screen. My own phone made a quiet ping in my pocket. I quickly grabbed it and tapped on the notification on the screen. It was a news article. 

“The president has turned into a cake?” I asked no one in particular after reading the headline.

“Yes!” cried a woman standing in a doorway next to me as she rushed over to clutch my forearm. “She turned into strawberry cake with vanilla frosting!”

“How would they know what type of cake she was?” The woman and I shared a mutual look of horror. There was only one way to know what kind of cake someone or something had transformed into. I snatched my arm back out of her grip and hurried down the sidewalk, zigzagging around people who stopped in the middle of the road. 

Relief flooded my body as I turned the corner and saw my house in the distance. There I could be safe. There I would be away from the terrible virus that threatened to claim us all. I pulled out my keys, my hands quivering as I shoved them in the lock. I turned the doorknob and it crumbled in my hand. I looked up at the door, poking my finger at its surface. 

It was cake.