CAKE, a story by D. F. Lewis

I’ve never been able to make cake. My father, however, was a dab hand at it. He always called it Welsh cake, with him being Welsh, I guess. He has passed on now to where cakes welcome new tenants onto Heaven’s hillside, cakes forever made, forever eaten, a constant cake, a cake cake, in fact. Let them eat cake, sing the angels. And God has let it be so. And there I leave him.

But others of us pass onto a different hillside, a different lower case heaven, but still it’s one with constant cake, and most after-lives are tantamount to *being* cake, a perceived spirituality, one based on the faith in cake-ism. Each of us an ingredient in the great big mixing-bowl, trickled down into it as a would-be trickle-treat that some mistakenly believe is upper case Heaven. This being the place where a version of angels with no known gender mix and mingle within the flow of eggs, flour and whatever else entails growing a cake, but each passer-on brings one ingredient to the so-called cake, a cake that often seems impossible for us to eat and even eats us! A cake of no known gender, sifting our eggs, grating our tubes, into one composite cake of angels. Layers of battenburg with soul fluids between, a wondrous massive mix, with skin peel and lots of loving. 

I suddenly stopped day-dreaming. It is peculiar what the word ‘cake’ has evoked in my mind. Told to write about cake, this is what I have written. I had been forced to write about cake by some duplicitous writer’s group to write quickly, smartly, without prior thought, using the upper case title of Cake. A proper Proustian cake, I hoped it would be. But parts of me, I am now starting to disown, the moving joints and other elbows of my body joining together as one, more a meatloaf than a cake, a dream of melted consistency and baked log, oozings of cream with pangs of sweetened dust or lust. A huge panoply of trussed existence that only being cooked by some power source of this lower case heaven, a culinary process triggered by death, a rationale for eerie ghosts as well as enviable spirits. Globs of jammy substance, yet still trickling down, that once corroded the living veins, hot-flush prostate tissuing, and interleaved with dark brown chocolate slabs or cushions, or at least I hoped it was chocolate. Bony ribs ground down for the meatier logs intended for those who prefer the savoury rather than the unsavoury, but somehow that does not sound quite right, and I wish to edit that bit if I ever live long enough to publish this snap-judgement flash creative work. Minced body-middles to make the consistency softer and more al dente at the same time. A lava bread, a loofah, a sponge, a trifle, even a proper fruit flan for the all night pudding party of the soul …. if only I could go back and change things and help everyone who are still alive trickle up instead of down. 

Yup yup, I can now see a mighty mountainous ever-lasting never-ending whoopee whopper of a, yup yup yup, superbly prehensile upper case Angel Cake like me.

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