Desserts · family · Flash Fiction · How to be British · Language


Friday, June 23, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.



A cookie or cracker. (Of the sweet treat variety, not of the breakfast kind.)

"She is knackered and in desperate need of a kip, but her happiness keeps her moving. She flits round the kitchen like a madwoman hyped up on adrenaline after a spectacular chase from the bobbies. Not that she would know such a comparison, she amends with a smirk and turns off a mixer to sample almond flavoured icing.

'Excellent as always,' she concludes with a firm nod.

With a twirl that flashes back to ballet classes long forgotten, she moves toward ovens to unload three trays of delights. The biscuits tray needs to cook for at least twelve minutes, the muffins oughtn't require any additional steps seeing as they're cinnamon-apple, and that mouthwatering batch of scones reminds her breakfast was skipped again.

'Damn,' she exhales in surprise. 'No time yet, sunshine.' She continues without qualm and glances at the clock on the far right wall. 'Fifteen minutes until opening.'

The morning progresses in a similar flourishing fashion, though there's less dancing and cursing once the closed sign is flipped over. Her employees have accepted her eccentricity and plenty of them participate in complementary movements, so long as, you know, customers aren't around. Life as a bakery owner is never dull.

Half ten, once the morning rush has plateaued, she's wiping down the front counter when the door opens and the overhead bell clangs. She smiles as she looks up and discovers her older brother crowding the entry.

'Dear brother,' she greets and doesn't bother hiding her astoundment. 'Come to sample my shop's sweets?'

The man with greying locks and posh trousers smiles, stepping inside farther. 'Hello, Gabby,' she fights to cover up her scowl at his tone and the use of her childhood moniker, 'are your delights fresh?'

Now she doesn't bother disguising her displeasure. 'We're open all day, Freddy.' She snaps. 'Of course everything is fresh.' She forces a sanguine expression. 'What can I get for you? I have new raspberry and plain scones,' she offers.

He hums and paces before the counter as if cross examining her baked goods. 'No biscuits?'

She tosses the flannel over her shoulder and plants fists on hips. 'You deign to stop into my bakery,' she hisses, 'for the oh I dunno third time perhaps in the six years I've been running it and the first time you're actually requesting something and you want a bloody biscuit?!'

There's a pregnant pause, tension crackling between the statue-still siblings.

'Please,' he quips.

She throws her arms up in frustration, but spins around to pull out all of her best biscuits."


7 thoughts on “Biscuit

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