Cake

This story is the first in a series of shorts that I will write based on prompts from Facebook friends.  Call it practice for 2011, when I take the WriYe challenge:  350,000 word count for the year.  That means 1000 words a day.  The word for this story is "Cake".

Cake. Cake everywhere. White icing splattered on the wall. Yellow cake like bare insulation stuck to the ceiling. Pink pulled sugar roses crushed into the carpet. The remnants of the Tasty FotoArt print were iced to the wall like a whitewash poster. A pile of liquefied cake in the center of the room held a small, burned candle; a wax reproduction of the numeral 5.

The Tasty FotoArt print hung in three separate pieces, a triptych of destruction. The edible "paper" was actually a wafer whose contents were described cryptically on the website as "FDA approved ingredients". Whatever the material, and despite being blown into three ragged pieces, the picture of a smiling golden retriever was impressively clear.

With a start, the woman slumped against the wall, underneath a slowly descending top tier of the cake, awoke. She shook her head, dazed, and looked around dejectedly at the state of the room. She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead, only to find a sizable glop of icing entangled in her hair. Her hand found the stopwatch that hung around neck, and clicked it to stopping without checking the time.

It seemed that, regardless of FDA approval, or the clarity of their patented edible dye system, Tasty FotoArt's edible adhesive reacted negatively to charcoal white buttercream frosting topped with saltpeter sugar roses . Negatively, the woman mused, was a poor synonym for "explosively."  The committee would notice that.  She sighed and stood up, combing out more of the icing.  Briefly incinerated, it was sugary viscous stuff.  She unclipped her walkie-talkie from her belt and called for the clean-up crew.

"Bring in the German chocolate this time. I'm gonna take a shower."

She glanced around for her clipboard to find it had skidded a few feet away and was rather prettily dusted with an obliterated sugar rose. She brushed it off without sentiment and pulled the pen from behind her ear. She ran her finger down the list, to the word "Yellow". She checked the box marked simply "FAIL" and slid her pen back behind her ear.

"Look, Ma," she muttered. "That Ivy League education being used, right before your eyes."

She pulled one more handful of icing from her hair, letting it fall to the floor with a soft plop.  The door swung open, spilling the clean-up crew into the room quick like ants.  She stood primly to the side while the helmeted team filed in and readied their portable pressure washers.

"Thanks, boys. Merry Christmas."

She shut the door behind her, as the roar of chemical sterility followed her down the hall, through the locker room and was finally dulled by the hot spatter of the shower.