Black Velvet

Le gâteau. It looked delicious. Or rather he, for he was as masculine in the ways with which dark chocolate had been in him infused, and atop his skin with icing slathered. He was brought into this life however, unknowing of his delicacy, unaware of his handsomeness. He simply had been removed from the kiln where his components were warmed and roused.

Alas, our cake, Black Velvet he had been named, was born without a limb to escape the perils he inevitably would endure, of which he would have no choice but watch in agonising terror, nor would he possess a tongue with which to scream. Indeed, our endangered pastry did watch, as envious eyes lit with desire, of the ravenous faces of bakers and buyers alike, whose mouths no less frothed at first glance of him in undue gluttony.

Black Velvet had been displayed atop a vivacious spinning tray named Susan, and with her help, he saw the lay of the land of the pâtisserie. About this sweet-smelling world, which was a mask to the stench of impending death, seeming at first only evident to Black Velvet, were more baked goods, as mute and legless as he. They however, lay behind tempered glass, and were brightly illuminated by some unseen fluorescence.

Meanwhile, Black Velvet sat alone on the counter, nearest to the eager eyes, and snouts and hoofs of prospective pastry pigs. He was the allure. The enticement. And everyone looked, and everyone foamed, few even placed their hands on the glass shell which protected Black Velvet in tempted delight. Yet all advances, all who encroached, were halted when they saw the price tag. When they realised how rich and moist he looked, and how creamy and decadent was he.

Hours passed, and though many came into the bakery, and lusted after him to extremity, he was passed over each and every time. And every time, he was filled with relief, and then the sinking sensation, that as he was so gorgeous, there was no chance he could survive in the long term. Yet if he did, what life was it, to be trapped and immobile for as long as one could live, and these thoughts made him dark and depressed.

The following day, he was removed from his transparent cask. Had the day come? thought Black Velvet? Was this the day his vile vilifiers would vainly devour? No thought he, when he was passed over for another cake, placed in his stead, one of more vibrant colours, who would be tortured as much or more so, by creeping thoughts of being bitten. Sinister teeth pressing into their flesh.

No! Black Velvet would have screamed if he had had a voice to shout it, when suddenly he was cleaved. It was instantaneous, but if one ever cared to look, the baker birthday celebrators would have noticed the life in his eyes flicker and fade away, or that in death, he had involuntarily shit himself.

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Admittedly, this is a very short story. Written as a boy many years ago, for a school exercise. SO, it is as I say, short. Much shorter than the minimum word limit for most stories on this platform. I also previously omitted the word "shit" in school, and replaced the word with asterisks, for which I was docked marks.

I consider myself to be an open-minded man, and often envision myself in the shoes of other people shoes. Even if I steadfastly disagree with the point of view of another. However I think it would be difficult for anyone, myself included, to imagine themselves in this position. Cake, and pastries simply do not have sentience.

Enjoy.