A Degree Of Freak
The devotion of creative sweetmeat sport and slender chocolate confection was a freak, an unusual rarity in the precedent of fixings and deserts that delicious, ferocious performances of tasty confession secure.
He sighed as he broke the reflex to devour the sugary beauty. A conscious etiquette told him to throw the patchwork quilt over the top of the oatmeal and sugar sculpture. He contemplated his masterpiece and listening, he heard angels sing and the evasive fairy gasp of settling oatmeal. The pot bubbled on the stove and the scents were tantalizing, brown sugar and oatmeal, syrup and fresh honey. He wallowed in his genius and the gossamer webs of beauty, illusion, in amazement. An embrace that defined passion and flourishes of mad indulgence.
He wiped his hands on the starched white apron and the shallows of his eyes shone in dark shadow, confederate possession and cozy flawless conclusion, "Oatmeal, oatmeal and sugar dreams,
Oatmeal and more oatmeal as real
As a dream. As real as a dream."
He sang as he chewed and chewed then gulped a guzzle of oatmeal and syrup in tender sated union with his vision. For just a brief moment he stumbled close to the reality of his obsession and he shivered. Gently he tugged the patchwork cloak for an appreciative glace at his master work. There she was... his wife coated in oatmeal and sugar. He sighed again and ran his finger along her foot, it came away in a gob of sticky oatmeal. "Yummy!" he grinned.
submitted at 9:14am
10 June 2011