The Wonderful Pennington Cake Shop

Art by Jasmine Nguyen

Agatha Pennington wiped a layer of sugared violet frosting from her pink trimmed apron in a secluded corner of the kitchen. The cake shop must be in tip-top shape for the arrival of the Volunteer. 

Constance Pennington, the frontman of the sisters’ business, poked her head of frizzy grey and black hair into the kitchen. She donned the same frilly apron, this one trimmed with blue. There was a speck of a red stain on her shoulder, but there was no time to change. 

“Aggie, he’s here,” she said, eyes glistening. 

Kalliste Pennington, Agatha’s sous chef, was simpering in the fur-carpet lobby over a stout young man with a buzzed head, folding his camel coat under her arm. Her blonde hair was braided into a woven pattern that made her a full head taller than he. 

“I’ve been dreaming of this day for years,” he squealed, squinting his eyes rather unattractively, “Ever since I was eligible to enter the contest to volunteer.”

“And a fine Volunteer you are,” Constance said warmly, “As you know, all Volunteers are welcome to sample our cakes the day of their arrival. However many you’d like before we begin, of course.”

The Volunteer gave another sharp gasp of excitement. Kalliste’s lip curled in disgust. The Pennington Cake shop was world-renowned for their glamorous cakes, and she’d hoped their yearly raffle would draw in a Volunteer of more… humanity. She had hoped for someone younger who was filled with love and dreams, maybe a handsome young man with seafoam eyes. But this one would do, she thought decisively, think of all those feelings of desire and loneliness hand mixed into burnt marshmallow cream pies. 

“Let us cut you a piece of our latest work,” Kalliste offered, “We call it Heartbreak.”

Agatha cut a slice of the canary yellow confection, and presented it on a lacy pink plate to the Volunteer. 

He took a piggishly large bite and his eyes began to cloud with tears. Constance knew exactly what he was tasting- sour lemon mascarpone and tangy orange curd wrapped in bitter dark chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt. The volunteer closed his eyes in wonder. 

He was just as enamored by Jealousy, a biting green cake made with passionfruit curd encased in a sticky kiwi-strawberry frosting that stung of regret. 

He almost collapsed in delight when he tasted Lethargy, a smoky slice of earl grey cream and a milk custard center swirled with melancholy. 

But his favorite bite, and most patrons’ favorite cake was Love. 

Champagne batter, white chocolate strawberries and frosting that tasted like a kiss tinged with the smoke of a cigarette- a flavor Constance had worked tirelessly to create. 

The Volunteer placed a reverent hand over his heart. 

“This was all I have ever needed,” he said giddily. 

Constance stood, towering over him, “Does this mean you are ready to begin?” 

He nodded, his snout-like nose quivering with excitement. 

“Excellent. Agatha?”

One whistle of a blade, and Agatha’s best kitchen knife was buried in his throat. The look of disturbed wonder never left his face as foamy bubbles of blood collected in the corners of his mouth .

“This is all I ever needed!” He shouted hysterically before the light left his eyes and his severed head spattered to the floor. 

Kalliste wrenched the knife from his neck and dug her lithe hand into his sternum, her fingers delicately searching as his body writhed in agony beneath them. She pulled out a heart, still crimson and beating. 

“Oh! It’s gorgeous,” Agatha said softly, watching it twist.

They were methodical, almost surgical while they dismembered it. One by one, they excised every memory, every feeling. Yes, hearts were always so full.

Agatha twisted his heartache into spun sugar, letting bloodred splatters hit the floor in a melancholy symphony. Constance tenderly wove his lust into a thick frosting, devilishly sweet and metallic. Kalliste whisked his desire into meringue, voluminous and empty. 

“Girls, I’m thinking of a new cake flavor,” Constance said suddenly, stopping their assembly line “Call it insanity.”

The sisters laughed like a trio of colorful parrots. 

The next day customers raved over the new flavors, gushing to each other shrilly like school children. They did not care about the lonely camel coat that hung in the corner as they dug into their plates of buttercream. 

They were too consumed with how they were feeling. 

Ella Song