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Lies About Cake
SSar's Beast
morbane
At a pleasant dinner at 20thcenturyvole's last week, I was given two prompts, for my sins: "Cake Is Never Consensual", keyword dirigible, and "More Consensual than Cake", keyword disambiguated (amended to keyword luminary).

I am actually quite proud of these ones - apart from the difficulty presented by 'disambiguated'. Which actually was 'disambiguation' remembered wrong. Now I have another story to write.


Cake Is Never Consensual

I knew I would age ungracefully. Around the time that my older brother came to live with me, my daughter-in-law died; and when my son remarried, he hardly visited. We were abandoned in the forest.

Hansel’s favourite escape was the city museum. At first he went for the dirigible exhibitions; when he struck up a friendship with a guide, Glinda, his visits always ended in the café. They played go, and she listened to his stories, and bought him cakes.

She would see him on to the bus, and I would meet him when he got off. He joked that if he ever got lost, I would find him by the go stones spilling from his pockets, a pebble trail.

Once he wasn’t on the bus, or the next two after.

I made Glinda open the museum. It was tidy, silent: but I saw cake crumbs on the floor, and found Hansel asleep. Abandoned.

I wanted to spit. I wanted to shove Glinda into one of the café’s ovens and turn it on, along with everyone else I was learning to depend upon, who might treat our age with such treachery.

We were old, now; the same trick wouldn't work again.


More Consensual than Cake

Rob had remembered every ingredient except the orange, and he realised this as he saw their neighbour's tree. He was already home – and so he simply picked one, and gave it to Julia to turn into Marcelle's birthday cake.

Julia was embarrassed about the orange, and went to talk to Mrs Dupuis. It happened that Mrs Dupuis taught singing. They'd wanted to enrol Marcelle in something musical.

Mrs Dupuis called Marcelle her '”Mam'zelle Marcelle”. Marcelle asked to have lessons twice a week. “But not on Sundays,” said Madame. “I have Mass.”

“Does Madame talk to you much about her religion?” Rob asked Marcelle.

“No,” said Marcelle. “But sometimes I ask.”

Then she asked if she could go to Our Luminary Lady with Madame on Sundays.

Then she told Rob that she wanted to be a nun.

Father Andrew told him she wasn't joking. “She needs parental consent, though.”

“No,” said Rob.

“Not until you're old enough to decide for yourself, Marcelle,” he said. But he could picture her clearly in an ancient tower, singing hymns with her hair braided down to the ground.



Spot the fairy tales :D

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I like them both a lot- the way you deal with the stealing of food from the garden in the second one is particularly neat. And I like the image of the go stones spilling from Hansel's pocket. Nifty.

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