The Wedding Cake

It wasn’t my idea to put the wedding cake in the middle of the road. It just sorta ended up there by accident. See, we were driving too fast, and the back was open, and…

Whoops. Wrong story. This one’s far more comical, and ten times as cynical. But don’t take my word for it. Just keep reading. You’ll either be amused, or abused, or perhaps off put. It’s hard to say sometimes. Life’s just crazy like that.

The wedding started at sundown. The rain was coming down, the clouds were piling up, and all the guests were crowded in the middle of the house like a bunch of sardines in a tin can. Wait, that’s a little too cliched. They were packed like crushed tuna in water. Same taste, really, but the smell’s slightly different, like rotten eggs and gas leaks. Anyways.

Jason was groom number one. Fin was groom number two. I was the honorary bridesmaid (the term “groomsman” didn’t seem fitting for groom number one’s younger sister, but whatever, I didn’t really care). They were adamant to uphold the tradition of not seeing each other on the wedding day, and that placed me right in the middle of the mess: On top of the weather, I had to play telephone. I’m shaking my head right now, even if you can’t see it. I’m just like that.

This is a boring story at first. I try my best, but I’m no storyteller. You’d have to go to Fin for that. He’s won a few literary contests, got a local poetry prize a few years back. I don’t think he’s that good, but I’m not his arguable fanbase, so it’s a biased opinion. Anyways, where was I? Yeah, I was playing telephone. No need to go through all that again. Let’s just skip to the fun part, shall we? It’s easier that way. Take out the details, leave the fun stuff. Heh. It works for the movies.

The hot tub overflowed. My lovely little cousin-to-be (he’s seven, the brat) decided to grab the laundry soap and pour the box in. I could’ve killed him. If not for the house of witnesses, I probably would have. Mom told me not to be angry, he’s just a little kid, but I could see the evil in him since I met him last Christmas (Fin’s family’s Catholic; ours isn’t even Christian; that’s another story just waiting to happen–I can’t decide yet if it’ll be a comedy or something a bit more Shakespearean). I think his parents–my cousin’s, I mean; his name’s Avery–believe in possession or something, because he certainly seems possessed to me. Once, in the kitchen, I saw him drinking out of the carton, and his normally hazel eyes glowed the eeriest green I have ever seen in the light of the frigerator. It was disgusting, yet equally intriguing. A dash of enigma usually does that.

Then the dash became overseasoned (and forgive my mixing metaphors; I never was a good English student, though I’m starting to think I’m hungry–first the fish and now this?). The wedding cake, that’s where I’m going with this. I’m trying very hard not to forget, but I’m a bit clumsy sometimes, and I’m still trying to think of a way to exorcise Avery without, number one, killing him, or number two, ruining whatever’s left of the wedding that hasn’t been washed away in the rain already.

This really is going nowhere, isn’t it?

Let’s skip the hot tub and get straight to the point, shall we? With nothing better to do, we had our pastor/preacher/ordainable person stand on the window sill so everyone could press themselves against the walls of the living room and form something of an aisle. Lovely little Avery was the honorary flower boy (the surprising thing here isn’t that he enjoyed it, but that the grooms had to preface every position with the word “honorary” like some restaurant’s house special–it’s only special because they say it is, not because of some inherent quality or anything). Anyways: flower boy. Wedding cake. Gotcha.

Apparently, the one marrying them (as in: making them married) was allergic to the flowers (see, told you Avery’s evil) and when the lovely little wretched monster tossed some petals in his general direction, he sneezed, losing his balance and flying backwards, through the window, through the wind, through the rain, finally landing on his back in the mud and grass.

No one said a word. You could’ve cut the silence with a knife. Or perhaps with an enraged groom rushing down the aisle, leaning out the window to see if the marry-er was alright, and then falling out himself. The two screams and grunts of pain that followed could’ve won ten thousand on America’s Funniest.

The ambulance came. Avery was crying in his mother’s lap, pretending like it had all been an accident, and I was stuck helping my father move the wedding cake back into the van to hopefully preserve it for Fin to get out of the hospital in a few days so we could finish the wedding. The rain had stopped by now, but unfortunately two things hadn’t: The road was still slick, and did I mention I got my clumsiness from my father?

I need not say more, I suppose. And that’s how the wedding cake ended up in the middle of the road.

Date: March 2010
Prompt: Write a short story using the image “the wedding cake in the middle of the road” (About.com February 2010 Creative Writing Prompt).

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