White Icing

At the end of last year I did a flash fiction workshop at the wonderful Chocolate Factory in Wood Green. We were invited to wander round the galleries and write a piece inspired by one of the artworks.

I fell for Kielle Rutland‘s portrait called Happy Days and managed to turn it into a sad little tale called…


White Icing

I had plenty of other offers, mind. Albert down the bookies. Tom at the coal yard. But I’d told Sam I’d wait. So when he came back and I saw him get off the boat down the docks and my body turned to run away I told it not to.

His mother said she’d do the cake. That clinched it, really. Her icing was known all over Cardiff. She had a secret sugar supply and I had a very sweet tooth.

After he came home Sam didn’t say a lot. Except I love you. He said that. And he said sorry, which didn’t make sense till the day before the wedding when they came and told me he was in the canal, frozen white to his fingers.

Funny thing, I couldn’t look at cake after that. I put my sugar in my tea instead.

Oh it’s alright, you weren’t to know. Pass it round them in the TV lounge, will you? Highlight of their day, that’ll be. All they can remember of the last 75 years is their weddings.

No love, I never did find anyone else. Turns out he must’ve been the one after all.