I’m standing transfixed in the gaze of the cake. It has thick
Fondant tendrils that pulse. When we opened
The box that the bakery sent we stood ready
To cut with a knife but we didn’t know what.
What we expected was spongy and soft
A placid shape still in the frosting so thick
And painfully sweet, that sticks to your fingers whatever
You do. If only we knew.
“There must have been some sort of bakery mix-up”,
Said our boss, Ms. Totalentodt. She grabbed
For the phone but those moving dull eyes
With the dye that wept ‘round the iris stared at her and then she just
Stood very still. Young Sal, with the butcher-knife
Still in her hand shining ready to carve
Into yielding confection
But the swift blade just bounced from a thick sweet protrusion,
A tendril of nasty fondant. It was all the wrong colors:
Some green, swirled grey, and a dead-flesh maroon.
All in rings in some places were little white spikes
Inexpertly sculpted, that proved to be fangs. A tentacle
Stretched for her hand and it wrapped ‘round her wrist
And it brought her in close for a bite.
Such a bite! First the one, and then many, the little mouths gaped
So wide you could see all the chocolate inside
And maybe a layer of jelly. Brian and Z
Dove to save her but it was too late. The sticky mouths
Eagerly sucked off the meat from her bones
As easy as frosting from fingers. They ate
Just enough, and moved on to her heroes.
She was cast all aside in a heap, mushed and sloppy
Gone mostly to waste. It was a shame. I almost tried helping
But those eyes fell on me as well. It was me and Ms. T
In the fluorescent lighting, we stood on coarse carpet
With a pattern picked out for the hiding of stains.
The windows looked out at a bright sunny day
Several stories beneath, and in
To an office that waited for all its pets back.
Brian and Z were pulled in. There were squelches and screams
And quite a few cracks but none
In the fondant that should have grown soggy
With blood or crumbly with motion. Instead it just grew.
This poem was a winning entry at 2016’s Creepypasta Cookoff at bogleech.com
Jenne Kaivo finds a paradoxical comfort in horror, sleeps in the daytime, and cringes back from the hot and blinding sun. She’s one of those.