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A Delicious Revelation
A Delicious Revelation
Published by James
A Delicious Revelation

The prisoner would not be killed until after pudding was served. Such things had their natural order, and the grizzled officer was scrupulously particular when it came to matters of schedule. A long dinner table was laid out in aged yellow damask and perched on the sweep of turf coasting the foot of the emerald hillock. A gibbet loomed from the crest, allowing the prim guests a delightful view of the imminent execution. As the sun's rays lazily broke through the woolly clouds of the azure sky, the officer proposed a toast.

'To the glory and victory of our nation and if I may indulge myself further to my beautiful daughter on her birthday.'

Grace joined the others in quaffing a glass of heady wine and sank back into the velveteen, cushioned upholstery of her chair; her mock gilt crown twinkled a demure lambent shimmer. Today, thus far, had been a perfect dream. Her father's newly acquired castle, a sleek brocade dress with a high lace ruff, the beautiful weather and soon, quite soon, the felling of a troublesome beast. A faint balmy breeze wafted over her and somewhat dissipated the effects of the clammy humidity, though she would very much appreciate consuming a cooling dessert. Ice cream would be the perfect accompaniment to this fairy tale.

'Where is the pudding?' she trilled excitedly, though a querulous surly hint of a threat was permitted at the end. All in attendance knew that one of her black fog moods could surface if her requirements went unheeded, however pleasing the day had proven until that moment.

'Maurice, go and fetch the dessert,' came the peremptory order from the officer to the gaunt ludic French waiter in the felt hat, who smiled indulgently and sashayed back through the postern gate of the Schloss, threading its labyrinthine, darkling passages to the dingy pantry in search of the sumptuous cake.

As those at the table waited, Grace adjusted her crown with her slender alabaster arms and heard a slow scraping murmur from the distance. She turned around and flashed a beatific smile. 'It's here!' she shouted eagerly, clapping her hands.

A post-chaise rattled on under the creaking boughs of the dark woods, past the swaying reeds of the mere, between the banks of soil flanking the wrought iron gate of the bulwark and tottered unsteadily along the rolling lawns of the Schloss before finally breasting the hillock and depositing two of her father's myrmidons, who proceeded to coax the prisoner out of the vehicle at gunpoint.

The audience at the table, unsure how to react to this encroachment of strangers upon their intimate privacy, nevertheless burst into light applause, though they did not know precisely why.

The prisoner's lank, dark hair covered his features entirely. Upon realising this fact, the officer murmured a listless demand that the face be seen, and one of the carousing women's bandeaux was appropriated for the purpose. With his hair now held back in girlish fashion, an aquiline countenance was revealed; one whose blank indifference to the situation was belied by a seaming at the brow as he was summarily pushed up the wooden steps, and his hirsute neck was adorned with a hangman's noose.

Then he waited. Then they waited.

'I will not delay one whit longer,' cried the officer. 'Where is that blasted man?' The gloomy prospect of no pudding before and during the execution had greatly inflamed his temper.

The prisoner glanced keenly around him as the inscrutable, blurred and shadowy figures sat somewhere within the dazzling light of the blazing sun. He dimly tried to shape their outlines in his mind, craning his tormented face at a crooked angle. On either side of him the guards stood implacable and indifferent, weapons holstered complacently.

The audience and its prey paused in a long, hollow and slightly bored silence, which was only broken by Maurice the waiter announcing his return with dessert, bowing to his master with unctuous solemnity. He lifted the silver carapace to reveal the cake, then stood lasciviously caressing the bronze buttons of his waistcoat as he gazed at it.

'Sweets for the sweet!' he declared jovially, and, as he set down each person's cutlery, the way his spidery fingers rubbed the extremities of the spoons made Grace shudder with revulsion. He had once before imposed his raillery upon her by pinching her cheek, his barbed fingernails dimpling her foundation, but he would not dare be so impertinent now, not with her father in attendance.

The prisoner, forgotten by the party at this point, ceased trying to focus on those gathered to view his execution. His senses were vitiated from having languished unfed in the dungeon for days, and he assumed the young lady was in charge; for she wore a crown and the others did not. Her diadem now blazed like a monstrance and awakened in him long forgotten memories of the chancel...

Everything important in the prisoner's life had been preparing him for this moment, surely? Memories of choir, the long forgotten singing of boyhood friends, it seemed, now urging him on in Latin plainchant. He tried his best to prostrate himself before this newfound idol, not herself a mediatrix, but still a glyph of the divine; and yet the noose stifled his movement utterly. Worship was forbidden. He focused instead on a white mound in front of the noblewoman. He had decided he was already dead. It seemed the only way to cope with the situation. If he were already dead, there was nothing to fear, so why was that mound troubling him so?

'I am sorry for the delay, my lord,' the waiter declared, bowing profusely and displaying an inappropriately sanguine smile.

'I should think so,' the officer replied testily. 'Now let the fellow hang!'

One of the guards kicked out the wooden platform from beneath the prisoner, who then struggled in the air frantically, limbs surging sinuously and strangely with renewed life, in utter contrast to the previous insect stillness. Curiously, it was less like the survival of an unhinged man and resembled more some perfectly rehearsed dance of worship to a heathen rain god. The beautiful farce continued a long while: his neck had not been broken.

Grace had never seen anything so vivid and real as this death. Her flesh started tingling pleasantly at first, but kindling into something feverish. It started with a buzzing in her skin a low rumble of interference she found increasingly disconcerting and seemed, over the course of mere seconds, to transmute into thrilling flashes and painful pangs. It was true the man was a revulsion to the soul, yet it was this blasphemy and abortion against everything pleasant in nature that startled her into seeing the contrasting beautiful and unbearably wondrous truth and quiddity that had been singing thunderously in the background to every moment of her life. She hurtled through whirling convulsions of sickly ecstasy, of delirious exultation and deep, thundering guilt, sweating profusely as her face flushed and quickly curdled into a horrid purple as she watched the prisoner's life squeezed and freed from him.

As Grace's sensations soared well beyond the point of articulation, her purple face shuddered and contorted, her sparkling, stinging eyes drowning in the red effluvium from broken blood vessels. Both eyes continued swelling even as they were saturated, before bursting and falling back as empty sacks into the yawning hollows of her skull, a final eyeless expression of anguished joy climaxing in a thin heave of dissonant excitement from her rasping throat, right at the moment the heroic prisoner ceased his dance and slumped limply in the noose, finally choked to death by the inadequate length of rope.

A profligate uncle who, seconds earlier, was gobbling his pudding placidly while watching the prisoner, propelled himself backwards off his chair in shock at Grace's transmutation. Amidst other high irruptions of consternation and swooning among the officer and his guests, the waiter alone remained calm and unperturbed; for it was the waiter alone who noticed the two newly formed familiar figures of lovers on the cake, their huge bulbous puppet heads beaming as uncanny facsimiles of Grace and the executed prisoner, both elegantly dressed, and arched together in a relaxed embrace of serenity.

'What a delicious waste,' the waiter murmured solemnly as he snapped away the cake figures by the legs, wrenching them by the shins and devouring them, the two human forms melting and commingling together within his mouth into one delicious sugary sacrament. 'Simply and utterly delicious!' he crowed to the heavens before letting out a shrill crimson giggle and blowing a kiss to the cake and at the remaining, affectionately huddled feet of the newly manifested and newly lost bride and groom of icing.
6 Thanks From:
miguel1984 (01-11-2018), Mr. Veech (01-10-2018), Nirvana In Karma (01-10-2018), Patrick G.P (01-12-2018), Robert Adam Gilmour (01-10-2018), Zaharoff (01-10-2018)
By Robert Adam Gilmour on 01-10-2018
Re: A Delicious Revelation

Glad to finally see a piece of your writing.
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By Ibrahim on 01-10-2018
Re: A Delicious Revelation

Quote Originally Posted by Robert Adam Gilmour View Post
Glad to finally see a piece of your writing.
I agree & would like to add it did not disappoint.
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By Patrick G.P on 01-12-2018
Re: A Delicious Revelation

Excellent James, very nice to read some of your work, would love to read more.
Reply With Quote


delicious, revelation

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