Have you seen the latest release? It's good, really. Here's one that I think was really witty. I'd like to remind you that this is not my work, and I'm not claiming any of these. I am merely sharing with you what great piece Miss Yap made.
Eggshells
by Isabel Yap
Simon's bakery has a knack for attracting every female in town.
The smell of fresh bread, the candy-colored roofing, and Simon himself, sitting cozily at the bakeshop window, rolling his pin over an endless stretch of dough, an eerie smile on his face, brings an endless mass of giggles, frocks and fancy shoes stepping outside and pushing around inside and by the end of the day everything is sold out.
Simon takes his time choosing his ingredients. He picks out the purest, sweetest lamb in the throng of bleating sheep that approach him. He captures her by the hand, gestures to the kitchen. She is usually a-flutter and overwhelmed. She is not always the prettiest, and hardly ever is she the most shapely. Usually she is the youngest, but that's only coincidence--the one discriminating factor is that she is not hardened, that she does not wear a frown. He sees the right one and stands, sets the rolling pin aside, pushes through the crowd which parts like a wave over his charm, and touches her gently on the shoulder, or her cheek if position allows.
Her face bright red, she lets herself be led away, and other girls seethe with envy.
Maybe that why they don't realize--the chosen ones never come back.
The kitchen smells wonderful, and it has the dusted look of sweet bread. Simon himself, perhaps with a smidgen of flour on his nose or a thin crust of sugar on his lips, all toppings to the cream of his face and the indulgent chocolate of his eyes, is more than a treat for an already ravenous lady. He sits her down and tells her, very quietly, the importance of producing the finest baked goods in town, and the sacrifice it entails. She listens and nods. She doesn't notice how bare the back room is, and she doesn't wonder where his assistants are. She doesn't notice that his refrigerator is half-empty. There is a carton of milk on the table and a bowl and a stirring rod, and she muses, dreamlike, oh isn't he wonderful. All her mind can think is that he is heaven, and all their little children will be angels.
He tells her in a voice cold as frozen icing that she is special. He tells her he loves her.
The glare in his eyes shines somewhat when he says this.
It's a tried and tested speech. He is used to it, but he wishes sometimes there were easier ways to do things--simpler and less devious ways. Then his stomach rumbles and he forgets all this empathy. He squeezes her hands between his palms, kisses her forehead, and asks her to give him her heart.
And she does.
He takes it in its simple form, not the bleeding mass some other evils prefer.
The little apple-shape is delicate in his hand. She remains on the stool with closed eyes and protruding lips.
He holds her hear against the bowl and cracks it, lightly, and all the love inside flow out. It is a beautiful color, not like egg at all. The white is more pink, the yolk deep red.
He has stopped hoping long ago, but is a little disheartened just the same when he finds that this one won't fill him either. It's never enough.
He tosses the shell into the growing pile in the corner and whisks around the heart's contents a bit. He adds some milk. After some thought, he adds a dash of sugar as well. He dusts his hands on the clean apron around his waist, sighing. He doesn't want to be a villainm but that's just what he is. He doesn't want to be so gluttonous, but there is no way he'd willingly starve. He stands and piles the ingredients to a bowl, mixes in some flour and yeast, pops it into the oven and thinks that tomorrow, he might try marzipan squares or egg tarts. But today he'll make sponge cake.
He will be satisfied someday, surely. He will appease the hunger in time. Still, for now, he has to keep being patient.
Presently the oven lights stop burning yellow. He pulls the cake out and cuts himself a slice.
At least, he tells himself, with what might be a rum-bitter remorse, at least when I say it's made with love, I'm telling the truth.
*
Nice, right? Galing ng words and all. It kinda reminds me of Sweeney Todd but of a lighter, less dark version. And it's kinda sweet. HAH.
You can have my eggshell, and drink the yolk to the last drop even.
