"The Thin Baker"

Continuing in my efforts to write more. It's nice to be able to do shorter works that I can turn out in less than an hour, a good balance to the longer projects I do at work and for myself. I do sometimes have a hard time restricting myself it terms of how many words I use, so it's good practice.
For this one, I used a prompt generator. This one, in fact: https://thestoryshack.com/tools/writing-prompt-generator/
I like generators a lot. I've never actually used them much for anything aside from getting inspiration for names, though. Maybe this is my chance to play with them more.
If you like what I'm doing here, please please check back for more soon. You can also find me on Facebook. My page is www.facebook.com/authoremilyblue/
And on Twitter, I'm @Miss_Emily_Blue
With that out of the way, here's my most recent story. "The Thin Baker." Enjoy!

Harold looked thinner than ever. Once a bright and chubby boy, adulthood had consumed his excess and left him wasted. Emaciated. Not the best look for a man who had culinary talents galore, enough to keep the family business afloat after the deaths of his parents, but he couldn’t help it.

Dipping the tip of his little finger into a bowl, he tasted the batter. Sweet and subtly spicy, with cheerful notes of citrus and ginger. 

His expression held still except for the thinning line of his lips as they pressed together. He grimaced and picked up the bowl and held it over a pan, and poured the batter in. The last bit he scraped out with a spatula. Still wielding his spatula, he smoothed out the surface of the batter and turned to the oven.

A man stood there, in the kitchen where he wasn’t supposed to be. He was skeletal, the lines of his bones and muscles standing against taut skin. He looked like Father Christmas himself after a terrible liposuction accident, with his festive ugly sweater, and a Santa hat perched on top of dirty gray locks of hair. A musty elderly-man reek of urine hung around him like bad perfume. 

Harold flinched, the spatula flicking. Drops of batter speckled the old man’s face; he blinked and looked startled in a vague way, seeming to lack the energy to express more emotion.

“I’m sorry!” Harold squeaked. He spun, more batter flying. “Let me get you a towel. I…”

“Is this the poisoned stuff?” the old man asked. 

Surprise weakened Harold’s hands and he dropped the pan and spatula on top of the nearest counter. He turned back to the old man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” 

Funny how natural I sound. I’ve turned into quite the liar.

The old man sighed and closed his eyes. One hand drifted up by his head, as of its own accord, and fiddled with the white pompom end of his hat. “My name’s Joe. I need to make a special order. I was told you could help me.”

“What do you need done?” Harold asked.

There was no use pretending, no use denying his alchemical heritage even as much as he hated it. It was in his blood to do this. His senses heightened with interest and his heart beat more intensely than before. His mind readied itself, years of information crowding at the front of his thoughts.

“I need to kill my brother,” Joe said. “He…”

Harold held up his hand. Not knowing hurt worse than knowing, but knowing weighed the heaviest on his conscience. “$5,000 upfront now. Cash. $5,000 after it’s done, dropped off in the box in the back alley behind the dumpster. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. Clean-up and covering your own ass is up to you.”

Joe reached into his pocket and produced a stack of Benjamins. Harold tucked the money into the front pouch on his apron. No use counting. It was the right amount. It always was.

“How do you want it to look?”

Joe blinked rapidly, his eyes shining with moisture. “Fast. He’s had a stroke before. Um, can it be cookies?”

“Come back in a few hours. Back entrance this time.”

Harold turned away and picked up the pan and stuck it in the oven, as if the conversation hadn’t happened. Strokes are easy. Glass spidersilk and murrecit essence, sleepleaf…

“Do you enjoy hurting people?”

Harold flinched again and clutched the counter. He hadn’t realized the old man was still in the kitchen. “He won’t hurt,” he muttered. “I promise.”

Spidersilk would cut the mouth. Just a little sting, like biting your cheek. The sleepleaf would numb the senses and the murrecit would do the rest, clotting blood as it raced through the veins. It would be over too fast for Joe’s brother to understand.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Yeah,” Harold whispered. He turned away again. “Yeah, I know.”

The End

©2018 Emily Blue