Eating Cake by the Cake Eating Committee

From a 10 minute exercise describing how to eat a piece of cake. While eating a piece of cake. At Not For the Faint Hearted 4.

Eating cake
by the Cake Eating Committee

Oh and there is the first taste of icing.

“Oh” said Eyes, “That was unexpected because I really didn’t see any icing there.”

“Oh eyes, you really do think you know it all don’t you. This is not about you. Close yourselves, eyes, let’s get to the taste.”

“Errm”, said a nasally voice “, can I have a good smell of this?”

“Biscuity. not cakey at all. I’m not even sure this is a cake. I’m definitely getting biscuit here. But you know I don’t think I’ve ever smelt a cake before. Cooking in the oven with the delicious odour wafting, but not exactly deeply sniffing a piece of cake. “

“Stop waffling, smell. Taste’s turn.”

“Point of order! To get to the taste, it’s going to pass the lips, and that about touch, texture. So, I want to have a say before taste waffles on about thing and that.”

“Oh okay. Lips, touch, what are you getting”

“Firm but crumbly edges. a bit dry in places. not a lot of lip action here. Clean but crumbly. Now, teeth, what do you make of it.”

“A little bite and it breaks, I can’t chew on this. No molar action either. all front teeth. Pleasant enough. Very suitable for wolfing down. Is there any more?”

They all looked over to taste. Taste took her time and then began to speak ecstatically, rapidly.

“Oh my, there’s sugar, definite cakeiness. This is no biscuit. It crumbles, it goes past-y, I roll around with particles of cake each one sweet and bready, bringing the saliva and I’m getting lemon and sugar and wheat and what is that flavour, it sure works for me. Ah, c’mon you lot, let’s get more of this…”

The party

From a 3 minute writing exercise at Not for the Faint Hearted 4 while looking at this picture:

the floor was sticky
but no more than usual
the broken bottles littered
the walls scrawled on
in expensive lipstick, mind you

a carousel of memories
both vague and embarassing
flickered through their minds
and stilted conversations confirmed
half forgotten details as they
started to clean up

but then the questions rose;
who was the host of this party;
and how had it come loose and
found itself roaming the streets
of brighton without a collar or
a tag or even a party microchip?

(image from flickr by AndyWilson)

My stick

This is my stick. A dry stick. To lift the electric fence.

It insulates me from the live wire.

In my mind I gracefully duck beneath the wire pushed up but in this actual universe I duck in an ungainly way and very nearly brush the wire with my back.

My fingers tingle as I raise the stick to the wire. Is this electricity in my fingers or anticipation in my nerves?

Rainbow over stone circle, Dartmoor