Cookies (A Short Story)

The following story isn't necessarily shitposting or low-quality, I just wrote it a while ago and it's not 100% up to my current standards. But it's a fun story I loved writing, so I thought why not share it? Maybe someone gets a good laugh out of it

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_pixabay.com

She had put an enormous plate of cookies in front of him and then just left.

"I’ll be back in a minute!", she had said. With a deep sigh, he took a cookie. Obviously, she had made it herself, the cookies from the supermarket shelf all had about the same size. This one almost was as big as his hand, had a dark-brown color and a lot of little chocolate pieces in it, which were, strangely, not completely melted. Carefully, he took a bite.

Why did homemade cookies always taste a little bit burned? The cookie looked, in his eyes, completely ordinary. No black spots, no sign that it might have been too long inside the oven. Never the less, the taste of smoke was penetrating. What the hell did she do when baking it? Or was it just his imagination?

He took another bite. No, he didn’t just imagine this; the taste was still there, a mixture of burned pizza dough and caramelized sugar. Actually, that cookie tasted really, really terrible. But he couldn’t put it back now. Half a cookie on the plate, how would that look to her? Inconspicuously he looked around for a trashcan, but he didn’t see anything useful, except a dying potted plant. For a moment he seriously considered crumbling the cookie and putting it into the flower soil. But no, the poor plant already looked tortured enough._@suesa

Again, a deep sigh came out of his throat as he took another bite and slowly chewed it, as if he had a one hundred years old chewing gum in his mouth. Was it possible to die because of a cookie, if it wasn’t poisoned? Probably not. Maybe he would get sick because of salmonella, although he considered that unlikely. These cookies had to have been in the oven for an eternity, even when he wasn’t able to see it at the first look. Maybe the dark brown color didn’t come from the chocolate. Maybe the cookies should be white and not brown when following the recipe.

There was also the possibility that those weren’t originally cookies but muffins. He could imagine very well how that could have happened. She had taken the wrong recipe, made dough for muffins and then put the dough on the baking sheet like cookies. Absolutely logical.

Another bite found the way into his mouth. This cookie was way too big. Who on earth would make such big cookies? Also, it crumbled terribly. His whole shirt was full of those little crumbs. With a fast gesture, he swiped them onto the floor. Carpeted floor really could be a relief. If it was wood, his misdoing would be easy to see, but the carpet took the crumbs thankfully. Who knows, maybe he got such pastries very often.

Maybe there were colonies of really small creatures in this carpet, which depended on disgusted visitors, who gave them the crumbs of these muffin-cookies. Maybe, he now was their new god. He smiled, that thought was great. Or maybe, the girl grew something inside the carpet. On the second look, it seemed very grey. Strange. That could be the reason, why she baked all these awful cookies. Those which remained were fed to the creatures in the carpet – or maybe the carpet itself?

Another bite. Almost done. His mouth felt very dry and he now wished, that she would have brought the coffee BEFORE she brought the cookies. Now, she probably stood in the kitchen and waited for the hot water to run through the coffee filter. In one minute, she wanted to be back. That minute had to be over for some time now. A little drop of sweat run down his forehead and he quickly took a look at his watch. Even if it was unbelievable, only thirty seconds had passed since she had left the living room.

Something had to be inside the cookies, something that changed his perception, he felt it clearly. A second never seemed this long to him. Not during a presentation in grade eight in front of his class, not while he was waiting for a job interview, not during the pregnancy test of his ex-girlfriend.

The last bite. His throat narrowed as that last piece of cookie, that last piece abused muffin, hovered only millimeters in front of his mouth, held by his shaking hand. He couldn’t do it. It was physically impossible to him.

This cookie never was meant to be eaten, he was sure. She had to have made a mistake, this surely hadn’t even been a muffin recipe. Maybe a manual on producing asbestos. She definitely had mistaken a manual for heat insulation as her cookbook. In fact, with a very old manual. Because of the cookies not becoming hard, she had turned the heat up as much as it was possible. That was the reason for the burned taste. Asbestos doesn’t burn, so there were no burnt spots on the surface of the cookie.

However, he couldn’t just give up now, it would be a total disgrace. With a defiance of death, he opened his mouth and put that ghastly piece of pastry into it. It crunched between his teeth, he would have to go to the dentist soon. Slowly, very slowly he chewed the cookie, hoping, it would get better in the last few seconds. It was hopeless.

Finally, he heard her steps again. She opened the door and put a cup of coffee in front of him, which he drank filled with relief and gratitude.

"So, do you like the cookies?", she asked.

"They are wonderful", he answered and took another one.