SHORT STORIES - ENJOY!
The Baker by KT Sweet
In a quick burst, the baker lit the gas. Soon, the roaring heat of the ten-foot-high brick oven sent sweat pouring down his long face, soaking his apron. Almost better than the sauna, he joked to himself as he stepped back. Time to get to work. His precious princesses deserved only the best.
∞ ∞ ∞
He’d been in the kitchen since 3 a.m., cracking eggs, creaming butter, weighing sugar and flour, adding spices, measuring liquids and mixing, mixing, mixing. How sore his arms were from paddling vast quantities of batter, scooping it into cake pans and muffin tins, dropping it onto cookie sheets and icing the thousand petit fours he’d made yesterday. The aromas made him smile and he laughed out loud remembering the princesses last food fight. Oh, what a day this would be!
His father had said his baking would never amount to anything. Well, he’d proved him and everyone else wrong. His bakery served the King, scores of nobles, and the land’s people, poor and rich, alike. Orders rose exponentially every year. Ah, to follow his joy had served him well.
Six hours later, he carefully removed his ultimate creation from the ice box. He bit his lip at it’s deep, dark sheen. Had he gone too far? Would the princesses be pleased with the addition of the Belgian dark chocolate and the sweet whipped cream? He hoped updating their favorite dessert didn’t disappoint. Setting it on a cooling brick, he considered his next steps.
Time to check on the Gnome Ladies Brigade. Had they finished setting the tables and beautifying the Grand Hall? Everything must be just so. Princess Emily’s and Princess Sarah’s parents, the court and the kingdom’s subjects visited just once a year. He had great trust in the Brigade, but his birthday celebration preparations always made him ever so anxious with anticipation.
The table and wall decorations were perfect. The ladies were guiding the magnificent phoenix ice carving into place next to the royal throne. The Brigade’s efforts surpassed his wildest dreams. And, their Happy Birthday serenade brought him to tears. They were such a help at his big parties. The gnome ladies were known for their strength and for their love of desserts, so the teamwork was mutually beneficial. Five hundred petit fours would be going home to their families after the party.
Delighted with their efforts, the baker bowed his thanks. Then he dashed off to his own quarters to clean up.
Tossing his apron on the floor, he stepped into the shower. Darn, he’d forgotten the loofa and the gentian body wash he wore only for these special occasions. Swinging his long tail out of the shower stall, he snagged the items off the bathroom counter. Leaning down, he clutched them in his long talons, humming merrily.
The hot springs water loosened his tired muscles. He sighed with relief and scrubbed under both wings. Long hours by the oven sure did make him stinky. Today was his 125th birthday and he must be sweet smelling for the company.
Someone pounded at his bedroom door. Wrapping himself in a towel, the baker called out. “Yes, who is it?”
“Sir Blue Dragon, the princesses have sent you an early gift.”
He tromped out and opened the door. Before him stood the tiniest, oldest lady gnome. She squeaked, eyeing his towel.
“Sir Blue, I’m so sorry to interrupt your bathing!” She pointed to the wide, extra-long box on the trolley beside her.
“Thank you, Lady Lavia, kind of you to deliver it.” Gripping his towel with one hand he reached for the box.
“You must wear it around your neck to your party” Before he could take it, she opened the lid. “I’ve never seen so many of this rare species.”
The baker looked down at the gentian garland, the trumpet shaped flowers alternating white and blue for what seemed like miles. He did have a big neck.
“You know Princesses Emily and Sarah love you!” Lady Lavia smiled up at him, her ancient face a thousand crinkles.
“Don’t you think they also like being my chocolate cheesecake testers?” He boomed out a laugh, aiming it well above the lady’s head to avoid sending her flying down the corridor.
She curtsied and smiled. “They love you for yourself, Sir Blue. We all do.” She winked up at him. “However, we maybe love you a tiny bit more when you make us dessert.” She raced off down the hall, the trolley flying behind her. “The carriages are arriving. Do hurry and get dressed!”
The baker closed the door, placing the box on his bed before returning to the bathroom. The garland would be a magnificent addition to his tuxedo. This was going to be his best birthday, ever. If his princesses liked his cheesecake.
In a quick burst, the baker lit the gas. Soon, the roaring heat of the ten-foot-high brick oven sent sweat pouring down his long face, soaking his apron. Almost better than the sauna, he joked to himself as he stepped back. Time to get to work. His precious princesses deserved only the best.
∞ ∞ ∞
He’d been in the kitchen since 3 a.m., cracking eggs, creaming butter, weighing sugar and flour, adding spices, measuring liquids and mixing, mixing, mixing. How sore his arms were from paddling vast quantities of batter, scooping it into cake pans and muffin tins, dropping it onto cookie sheets and icing the thousand petit fours he’d made yesterday. The aromas made him smile and he laughed out loud remembering the princesses last food fight. Oh, what a day this would be!
His father had said his baking would never amount to anything. Well, he’d proved him and everyone else wrong. His bakery served the King, scores of nobles, and the land’s people, poor and rich, alike. Orders rose exponentially every year. Ah, to follow his joy had served him well.
Six hours later, he carefully removed his ultimate creation from the ice box. He bit his lip at it’s deep, dark sheen. Had he gone too far? Would the princesses be pleased with the addition of the Belgian dark chocolate and the sweet whipped cream? He hoped updating their favorite dessert didn’t disappoint. Setting it on a cooling brick, he considered his next steps.
Time to check on the Gnome Ladies Brigade. Had they finished setting the tables and beautifying the Grand Hall? Everything must be just so. Princess Emily’s and Princess Sarah’s parents, the court and the kingdom’s subjects visited just once a year. He had great trust in the Brigade, but his birthday celebration preparations always made him ever so anxious with anticipation.
The table and wall decorations were perfect. The ladies were guiding the magnificent phoenix ice carving into place next to the royal throne. The Brigade’s efforts surpassed his wildest dreams. And, their Happy Birthday serenade brought him to tears. They were such a help at his big parties. The gnome ladies were known for their strength and for their love of desserts, so the teamwork was mutually beneficial. Five hundred petit fours would be going home to their families after the party.
Delighted with their efforts, the baker bowed his thanks. Then he dashed off to his own quarters to clean up.
Tossing his apron on the floor, he stepped into the shower. Darn, he’d forgotten the loofa and the gentian body wash he wore only for these special occasions. Swinging his long tail out of the shower stall, he snagged the items off the bathroom counter. Leaning down, he clutched them in his long talons, humming merrily.
The hot springs water loosened his tired muscles. He sighed with relief and scrubbed under both wings. Long hours by the oven sure did make him stinky. Today was his 125th birthday and he must be sweet smelling for the company.
Someone pounded at his bedroom door. Wrapping himself in a towel, the baker called out. “Yes, who is it?”
“Sir Blue Dragon, the princesses have sent you an early gift.”
He tromped out and opened the door. Before him stood the tiniest, oldest lady gnome. She squeaked, eyeing his towel.
“Sir Blue, I’m so sorry to interrupt your bathing!” She pointed to the wide, extra-long box on the trolley beside her.
“Thank you, Lady Lavia, kind of you to deliver it.” Gripping his towel with one hand he reached for the box.
“You must wear it around your neck to your party” Before he could take it, she opened the lid. “I’ve never seen so many of this rare species.”
The baker looked down at the gentian garland, the trumpet shaped flowers alternating white and blue for what seemed like miles. He did have a big neck.
“You know Princesses Emily and Sarah love you!” Lady Lavia smiled up at him, her ancient face a thousand crinkles.
“Don’t you think they also like being my chocolate cheesecake testers?” He boomed out a laugh, aiming it well above the lady’s head to avoid sending her flying down the corridor.
She curtsied and smiled. “They love you for yourself, Sir Blue. We all do.” She winked up at him. “However, we maybe love you a tiny bit more when you make us dessert.” She raced off down the hall, the trolley flying behind her. “The carriages are arriving. Do hurry and get dressed!”
The baker closed the door, placing the box on his bed before returning to the bathroom. The garland would be a magnificent addition to his tuxedo. This was going to be his best birthday, ever. If his princesses liked his cheesecake.
This short story by KT Sweet is based on the image to the left, from the Writing Challenge in Wonderbook by Jeff Vandemeer, pg. 25
The Audition
Mr. Spencer, that annoying Spotted Singing Sailfish, has returned. Despite being thrown back in the sea, metaphorically of course, via an Aquarium Taxi three months ago. At least this time he’s chosen Papageno’s Song from the Magic Flute, not La Dona e mobile, that disgusting Rigoletto drivel.
Tuneful, sweet, almost on key. But at 6 am? Before my coffee, before I’ve even scanned the headlines, before Cook’s delectable bagel with cream cheese, lox and a splash of cognac passes my lips? This isn’t to be tolerated!
From her customary place on my right shoulder, Deidre tells me it’s the curse of my desirable position, Master Director of the Zoological Opera and Symphony. My delightful sparrow hawk assistant applies her years of experience to taming my more virulent outbursts since my appointment six months ago. She says my great aptitude means I will last far longer than previous incumbents.
I know she’s right. Certainly, a Spotted Singing Sailfish is nowhere near as deadly as the Beheading Gryphon who inconveniently, although indirectly, ended the fourteenth Master Director’s tenure.
It’s all in how you turn them down, she says. Gently, suggesting this or that glorious vocal coach for that tiny improvement that will gain them the coveted role they seek. Then, barring the door after they leave and setting the “Oh No, Look Out!” spell that warns you when they return. So, you’re aware and out the backdoor, rather than deceased.
To be fair to Master Director XIV, he had run out the back door. The spell overlooked the Beheading Gryphon’s ability to fly. That nasty, rare, not-so-mythical winged beast tried to part the Master from his head, but the carriage driver, a flunkout of the Magick Academy, attempted to conjure he and the Master to safety. Unfortunately, he only managed to flick all three of them into the worst offenders’ cells at Creature Bedlam Prison. It didn’t go well. And, so I became Master Director XV. Gladly inheriting the left behind carriage horse, a lovely, gray Belgium. Too heavy for that third-class magician to transport. But I digress.
The lack of warning about Mr. Spencer’s unscheduled audition is entirely Winky’s fault. I also inherited the pirate’s parrot who occupies my left shoulder. He is supposed to set spells, make sure the garbage gets out, the stables get mucked and manage all the other unpleasant but key tasks of the Master’s life. When he isn’t in his cups after frequenting every tavern in town, he’s still unreliable. He forgot to set the “Oh No, Look Out!” spell. I’ll deal with him later.
What to do about the Spotted Singing Sailfish? He’s here, in my study! And, that ridiculous, giant flipflop he had some mermaid attach to his tailfin will never appear on my stage. I must be polite and diplomatic.
I make my way down the stairs, exquisitely dressed in my best tux and morning coat of black velvet. Winky descends on my shoulder and whispers searing words in my ear. He’s mad at me? The turnip brain! He says I encouraged the Sailfish too much last time. I was new! I wasn’t sure if Sailfish ate people! It’s not my fault!
Just as I’m about to blast him, Deidre coos sweet kindness in my other ear, reminding me that Winky is a dirty dog and that Mr. Spencer will need extra special handling, THIS TIME.
“My dear Deidre, what do you mean?” I ask.
“Master Director, he has FRIENDS,” she reminds me, tut-tutting softly, as if my sleepy morning brain is an embarrassment to the world of opera.
“Please, Deidre, a little more information. You know I don’t think before coffee.”
She preens and resettles herself on my shoulder. Such a lovely creature, who likes to be of help. Unlike that foul mouth Winky.
“Master Director, Mr. Spencer has little ones on the way. He’s desperate for a role! And, he supports the SHARKS! Who know the BOYS who do bad things to, well to anyone the SHARKS don’t like!” She nips at my ear. “You do understand?”
Maybe. Only now, I’m trying to remember why I took this position-for-life. As a matter of principle, I understand, I shouldn’t have been so arrogant to think my life would last any longer than the former fourteen of my kind. Fourteen in eight years. Thankfully, it only takes a moment for my giant ego to reassert itself in all its glory. I will handle this well. And, not see any of the BOYS or SHARKS, whoever or whatever they are.
“Thank, you, Deidre. You are a lifesaver.”
She coos and sings a few notes. What would I do without her? She manages all the music and the books I read. The ones I pile all over the study floor. And, never complains!
Winky’s breath smells like cheap rum. He mutters about some parrot barmaid at Piccolo Tavern. The best I can make out is he struck out with her and he’s going back for a second try. It was all the fault of last night’s terrible floor show.
Mumbling nonsense, I pretend I care.
Winky visits the Piccolo often. From what I’ve heard, it’s the best little tavern on the green. And, he does pick up a great deal of gossip useful to me. I shouldn’t be so surly about the forgotten “Oh No, Look Out!” spell. After all, how could I have blackmailed the Crown’s Treasurer for a bigger budget if Winky hadn’t let me know about the family man’s Piccolo-employed lady friend. One hint to the Treasurer and The Zoological Opera and Symphony budget number gained a zero at the end. Winky has his strengths.
We enter the study, to hear Mr. Spencer exercising his tonsils. I didn’t know Spotted Singing Sailfish had tonsils. At my job interview, I pretended more zoological knowledge than I have. That’s why Deidre is so vital.
“Good morning, my dear Mr. Spencer, what a touching song!” I boom like fireworks exploding. It always startles them and puts me on the higher ground.
Mr. Spencer jumps, his mouth gaping. He’s surprised into filling his bellows to sing again. Please, dear Angel of Music, stop him. For all our sakes.
“No, no! That’s quite enough! Mr. Spencer, you’ve done so well, improving your range and tone.” It’s true, infinitesimally true. I don’t like lying. “Now we haven’t quite arranged funding for The Magic Flute. May be months, in fact. But I’m sure you’re seeking employment right away, good sire?”
I contort myself into my serious pose, hunching, leaning back a bit, staring at him astutely, my hand covering my mouth. The halo above my head comes with the job. It’s not about my character.
Mr. Spencer’s mouth opens and closes, several times. He’s squeezing oxygen particles through his adaptive gills. His way of breathing on land, Deidre explained. He smiles.
“Yes! Yes! Got that right, Master Director! The Missus just laid a hundred eggs! Lots of baby Spotted Sailfish on the way! Some may even be singers, like their dad!” The windows shake as his baritone rattles them.
Winky squawks, whether at the sailfish’s deep notes or the possibility of more off-key Sailfish, I’m not sure. Loud noises really hurt his hungover noggin.
When I see we’re in for a session of Mr. Spencer’s reproductive braggadocio, I’m beginning to resent that missing “Oh No, Look Out!” spell. My sludgy brain forms a little revenge against my wayward parrot.
I stare at Mr. Spencer in what I’m told is a terrifying, basilisk-like glare, but Deidre does one better. My sparrow hawk flutters her wings, directing the dust from my piles of ancient music books, right at the Sailfish. He starts coughing. I nearly feel guilty, but he’s a tiresome braggart about his thousands of offspring and I don’t have all day.
“Oh, Mr. Spencer, I apologize for this dust storm,” I say. “Let’s get you into the fresh air. On your behalf, I will ring the Piccolo Tavern on Leeward St. I hear they’re looking for a singer with just your mix of operatic skills.” Still holding my contorted position, I back him into the doorway. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy performing there!”
And, the dirt I have on the tavern owner means he’ll hire Mr. Spencer, who is better than the average Sailfish. I’m not completely cruel.
Winky grips my shoulder pad, his talons piercing down to my skin. We will have words later about his culpability in this whole disaster.
Sputtering, struggling to speak, Mr. Spencer flaps his sailfish wings as he hops on his kelp-covered flip flop. Once he is down the front steps, inhaling dust-free air, he chortles.
“Master Director, thank you! I’m off to feed the family! And, will be back for the next audition!”
“Angel of Mercy, no,” I say under my breath, waving before turning to go inside. I shudder at the insane sound of flapping reverberating in the early morning quiet. Some things should never pass one’s ears. Flip flops flopping is one of them.
Bolting the front door, I stand there while Deidre repeats the Invisible spell. I am now free for the next two hours or so that spell lasts. No one will find the door. Free to drink coffee, eat a bagel, sit down and see what terrible things the new government is doing.
Winky glares at me from the stack of music books. A challenge alight in his beady eyes, he grumbles non-stop.
My auditory nerves frazzled, I snap at him. “Stop complaining. This is all your fault. And you know it.”
He ducks his head low, adding choice, tavern-only words.
I turn to Deidre. “What have I done wrong? It seems fitting to the crime.”
Her beak turned away from us both, Deidre is giggling. She takes a deep breath and looks at me.
“Master Director, for all his cussing and drinking, you know Winky has a fine ear for music. Now he’s stuck listening to Mr. Spotted Singing Sailfish while he tries to woo his little barmaid. Perhaps that was a bit harsh a reprimand?” She chokes on the last part, to keep from guffawing.
Well, she is right. I’m a blockhead sometimes. Like to get my own way, always. I was a little hard on the parrot. And, I really need the dirt he hears. How to make amends? Easy.
“Winky, you know I’ve taught you to use your best manners in taverns, right?”
Winky looks at me, brows bunching.
“If you’re very discreet, you have my permission to rate his singing in whatever style you deem appropriate. Only, you’re not to tell anyone I said it was all right. Do you understand?”
Winky screeches, chomps off a huge leaf from the philodendron, then jumps into the air. Chewing at a frantic pace, he flies up to our sky-high ceiling and darts around the fluffy clouds. He descends and hovers over my favorite spittoon, eyes on me.
I watch. A disgusting green glob shoots out. The spittoon rings. Spot on.
We understand each other.
“You be fair and accurate! And, no splattering complaints coming back to me!” I say.
I leave the room before I burst out laughing. It’s important not to encourage Winky.
All this, before coffee. My job is challenging and I’m the best Master Director they’ve ever seen. Deidre agrees.
Mr. Spencer will be fine for the typical Piccolo customer. In Winky’s case, though, the Sailfish had better help him serenade his new girl. If he fails, Winky won’t be aiming at a Piccolo spittoon.
---written by KT Sweet, January 2020, Copyright Protected