Bad Parenting

Brandon is so excited he can barely speak. "So Pain Cake climbs onto the top rope when the ref isn't looking and drops onto Big Beef with his patented Jagged Edge."

"Pain Cake?"

"Yeah. He flattens you like a pancake, and it's extremely painful."

"I see."

"Then Captain Atomic runs out of the locker rooms with a German Shepherd and chases everyone out of the ring. And guess what happens next..."

"Mm-hm."

"Mom, you aren't listening!"

"I'm listening. I'm just driving. Go on."

"This is literally the greatest thing that's happened in my entire life and you don't even care."

Baldwin

“Do you have it, Fred?”

“Got it.”

“And how about you, Lou?”

“Trust me. I've got it.”

“And Mel?”

Ed was head of the crew. They needed to take Mrs. Franzberg's piano up to the second floor. Ed repeated the question.

“Hey, you, Mel?”

“Piece ‘a cake, Ed.”

So now they were ready to lift the grand piano up the staircase.

“Okay… Here we go. One, two…”

“Wait a min…”

That was Mel.

“Three.”

Damn, Mel didn't have it again. There's always a weak link in piano transport. It was too bad, because it had been a very fine Baldwin.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

In The Stir Of A Hand

Robots Contest Entry

“Squeal! Crunch!”

“What’s that sound?” questioned Susan.

Tom ran into the kitchen to check. AngelCakes attempted to blend soup with the batter, including the tin can.

“Darn, instructions weren’t clear,” Tom fretted, making necessary adjustments.

With a replacement of ingredients, the smell of spicy tomato soup cake soon filled their house.

“Hmmm...crunchy!” Susan commented, spitting out bits of cake.

“Yuck!” Tom balked, taking a bite. “Should’ve written: Put egg into mixing bowl. Throw out shell.”

He made another note in the recipe.

“I’ll have our baking robot ready in time to make you a birthday cake, hon.”

Susan grimaced.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

The Fourth Of July

Pig, of brick house fame, smelled something burning. Was it a weasel? Then he heard cursing coming from next door. Witch again! After countless warnings from the city, she’d refused to clean up the candy bits and cake that littered her yard, refused to cease and desist in the eating of children. But what if she was on fire? What about the Good Samaritan Law? A law that he and his two brothers scoffed at years before, when they thought taunting a wolf caught in a trap was amusing, almost as enjoyable as the fireworks on the Fourth of July.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

A Broken Glass

Flour, salt and baking powder. Margaret whips up a cake recipe as familiar as her own name. The whirring of the stand mixer comforts her.

Her mind drifts to Karl. They were late to an appointment. Brakes squeal. An impact. Karl’s head shatters the windshield.

As she pours the batter, a glass rises off the counter, picked up by an unseen hand. It hovers suspended in the air, the ceiling light fixture reflected inside.

Or is it Karl’s face?

Margaret does not move or breathe. The glass falls.

Broken shards cover the tile floor.

The glass, like Karl, is gone.

From Guest Contributor Heather Santo

Shame

I take a bite of the chocolate cheesecake, stolen from a remote corner of the refrigerator and want to savor with closed eyes, but I don’t dare. Mom can come anytime. I gobble it up, throwing the carton in the trash.

She descends the stairs and frowns at the cake crumbs on the floor. I hate her for that.

I look at the book I’m supposed to be reading and try to hide my shame, my secret. The same secret that’s hers when she introduces her teenage daughter to her friends, her eyes apologizing for the girth of my thighs.

From Guest Contributor Anuradha Dev

Caramel Sauce

“Sweet,” Dad said, licking his lips.

“Different,” Mom added.

We were seated in the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner. Mysixteen-year-old brother wanted to showcase the skills he had masteredin a culinary arts course.

“Wait!” he exclaimed.

The rest of us watched him taste the meal before him. An expression ofbewilderment spread across his face. He ran back to the kitchen andreturned.

“I emptied out the wrong pot,” he conceded. ‘The caramel sauce wasmeant for apple cake.”

“So what is left for the cake now?” Dad asked while Mom and Irefrained from laughing.

“Turkey gravy.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

They Worked Together, In New York

"Most people are Virgos - know why?" I do. Nine months before September is commonly cold; nowhere to go but bed. The I.T. guy thinks he’s flirting but now I’m just picturing my parents.

We are so many, they economize. One cake only - sheet, naturally - with plastic balloons and red and blue frosting. Children’s cake. We begin to reveal our birth dates around the break room, and I fade away.

Later, the liquor store clerk pity-frowns at my I.D. "Man,” he says, “bet your birthday sucks.” I got nothing to add, except at least I’m around to celebrate it.

From Guest Contributor Vera Duffy

Vera is a semi-retired Mexican wrestler living in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in Puppet Terror magazine and the L.A. Alternative Press.