Baked Goods
Josh Ahearne
I don’t know how many times I’ve scanned the cupboard, but I can’t find it. Maybe I’m simply too excited. Take a breath. Let it out slow. Now then, where is it? Ah, behind the wall of sugar bags. Of course.
“Everything okay, honey?” Mother’s lilting voice floats from the kitchen.
“Yup yup,” I say as I walk in from the pantry, brandishing the tub of cocoa powder.
Strong fingers clasp around it as icy cool baby blues pierce through me. She arches an impeccably plucked eyebrow. “Have we not discussed how we talk?”
I feel my cheeks flushing. “Sorry Mother. I’m just so excited to be part of the competition this year.”
The eyebrow descends. “Well of course you are. I am too. I have been looking forward to you joining me since you were born.” The perfectly sculpted woman leans down to eye level. “I never liked you being taken away with the others each year. Hopefully your brother has been able to adapt to your absence.”
With a smile that reaches her eyes she straightens up and proceeds to mix the ingredients. It’s the day of the competition and I still can’t believe I’m going to be standing with Mother, having our household’s baked good being judged for Him as something we did.
I hear a rustling outside. I think it’s coming from the window over the sink but by the time I’ve figured it out Mother is there. With the mixing bowl in the crook of her elbow and her arm muscles popping with athletic definition, she leans towards the window.
“Mildburg Haines, I know it’s you. I caught sight of that dreadful outfit before you so much as breached the perimeter.”
The bushes shake and emit obscenities. A vibrant ginger perm appears above the windowsill and speeds out of the garden. Mother watches it flee, never faltering in her whisking. In the morning sun she is stunningly lit, her short blonde hair expertly styled, her monochrome polka-dot sundress resting on a frame as capable of a suplex as whipping up a buttercream.
“I wonder what she’s planning,” she says with slowing rotations. “Mrs. Haines and I have never had much crossover.”
She looks at me with her lips slightly pursed. She shrugs and laughs and winks and I can’t wait to be more like her. The training has been going well but Mother has the confidence and grace that comes with experience. She’s been one of the best contenders for almost a decade now, which is why she’s so often targeted.
“Come along Calli, we can’t let the actions of lesser competitors slow us down. Start breaking up the Bournville.”
“Yes Mother.”
I’m already holding the two bars of chocolate. We’ve made this cake so many times the past week, since Father went to stay with the other men of the village and Hesiod went to be taken care of by His offspring. As I begin cracking pieces into a bowl, we hear the telltale chirping of someone stepping on the nightingale flooring upstairs. It was Father’s idea to install it a couple of years ago, after having read about temples in Japan using it to make sneaking around impossible.
I glance at Mother. Her eyes are following the chirps as they move across the ceiling. “Those contemptible Daubney sisters never let a year go by without trying to sabotage my bakes.” Mother looks at me, a glimmer of something mischievous, something malicious in her eyes. “Be a dear and greet her, would you?”
Edith Daubney clearly thinks she’s doing well after having used the distraction of Mrs. Haines to shimmy up the drainpipe and slip into my room’s open window. She must think she is the quietest creature in this chaotic world as her thick frame tiptoes down the stairs. I must admit, it is impressive in a childlike, first attempt kind of way.
When she treads on the penultimate step and it lets out an almighty, engineered creak, she looks up to see if she is caught. We lock eyes. I smile as nicely as I’m able. Not far behind me is the front door, flung wide. Her gaze flicks from me to the door to the cricket bat in my hand.
“Hi Edith,” I say with a little wave.
She makes to speak but thinks better of it.
Instead, she launches herself at me, no doubt hoping I will shy away from a direct assault, but we Brasher women are trained from as soon as we can make a fist. I turn to diminish my target area and raise my weapon. As Edith moves past, I bring the edge of the bat down on her arm. Bone cracks and skin tears and the interloper howls. I might not have the physique of my mother, but I’m getting there.
To Edith’s credit, she barely breaks step as she makes for the door, mangled arm pulled tightly under her hefty bosom. I could leave it at that I’m sure, but Mother and Gran always say He loves the spirit of competition and only those that want it most can win. So I race after her, swinging wildly and hooting to disorient her. I catch her in the back a couple of times, lightly bludgeon her head, bruise her rear, but the pièce de résistance is when I clip her heel as she vaults down the doorstep. The hit is good enough on its own to give her a limp, but it screws up her balance, sending her sprawling across the driveway in a series of grunts, groans and sobs.
I stab the bat into the welcome mat with a triumphant flourish and watch Edith limp away.
“Well done, honey.” Mother is standing behind me drying her hands on a red and white checkered tea towel, narrowed eyes studying the would-be saboteur. “Go get yourself cleaned up,” she says with a comforting pat on my shoulder.
I do as I’m told before I know why. It’s only as I’m at the stairs do I see the blood on my dress. Thank goodness Edith never made it to the kitchen. What a mess that could have been.
A scream sends an icy chill down my spine. I turn and see Godiva Falkner, her face twisted into a feral snarl, racing out of the downstairs loo towards me, slashing at the air with a pair of carving knives. I don’t have anything to protect myself with. Curse my foolishness – why did I put the bat down?
In a blur of motion, a tea towel wraps around Mrs. Falkner’s left wrist and pulls it forcefully backward. I see a fearful realisation in her eyes the moment before her wrinkled face is spun around. Mother brings the captured limb down onto her rising knee. The knife drops, Godiva roars. Mother doesn’t let her reorient. She delivers a powerful open-palm strike to the septuagenarian’s sternum, cracking bone. Then, in a single smooth motion, disarms her of the other knife and stabs it into her heart.
The woman stares hatefully at Mother. She tries to talk but all that comes out is a frankly disgusting gurgle. Then she hits the floor, dead.
Mother plants her fists on her hips, shakes her head and tuts. “It’s always the inferior bakers who choose such tactics,” she says. “You would never see the like of Mrs. Rowntree or Mrs. Yoxall debasing themselves like this.”
I feel stuck. I’ve always known the competition could get heated. I’ve been taught for years to expect things to escalate in the week leading up to the Day of Judgement, but here I am, alive but for the grace of Mother. I had no idea Godiva was there and I fear, had I been alone, it would be me making a dreadful mess on the floor.
“Hurry along dear,” Mother says as she picks up the old woman’s feet and begins dragging her through the hall. “Get changed, remind yourself we do this to bask in His glory and be rewarded, then come down to check on the cakes in the oven. I will need a short while to get Mrs. Falkner into the composter.”
*
I’m not sure if I’ve been entrusted with carrying the cake as some sort of honour or if Mother wanted to keep herself free to deal with any ne’er-do-wells. Either way the walk from the car park to the tent feels fraught with danger.
The air is filled with the sounds of boisterous conversations and raucous laughter from the men at the picnic tables. They were let out of the dormitory this morning and have been drinking steadily since, as they do every year. I wonder what it will be like for Hesiod when he’s grown and becomes one of them?
“Keep checking your blind spots, honey.” The edge in Mother’s voice cuts through my musings.
She’s a few steps in front. She scans our surroundings repeatedly but lingers each time she passes over Mrs. Truett a short distance away from us.
I do as she says but the scene is so distracting. I’ve not been here on the Day of Judgement before; until this year I only got a glimpse of things being set up as I was taken away with the other children. The tent is huge, taking up over half the field. For the most part it’s long and narrow, but at one end it gets much wider. It’s high and grand and brilliantly white. It makes me think of the palaces in the tales Father tells me and Hesiod at bedtime.
I sigh with relief when we get into the tent. The other ladies seem too focused on placing their entries on their assigned exhibition space to try anything. I follow Mother along the central aisle, glancing at the tables set in long lines against either side. I feel my confidence waver slightly at the sight of so many well-made baked goods but then we arrive at a table with a shimmering gold plaque engraved with both our names and I’m flying high again.
Every lady in the tent is all smiles and grace in elegant sundresses and chic sandals, but the stresses of the week are plain to see. For some it’s a grazed knee peeking from under a hem, for others it’s a black eye, a split lip or hastily stitched gashes. For Edith Daubney it’s a splint and a sling and a sheen of sweat as she sits at her table whilst her sister Ada stands guard over their blackberry tart.
“Why don’t we just put everything on the Judgement table?” I ask, looking at the robust slab of oak at the far end. Three chairs, thick, heavy and said to be made from the same tree as the table, are placed evenly along one edge, facing the hopefuls. Behind is a delicately embroidered pair of curtains, all summery and light, that, by the glory of His discord, I can’t believe I might get to go through later.
“Pride, darling.” Mother doesn’t miss a beat as she fusses over the placement of our cake on its stand. “We have made this fine baked good. We are proud of it and thus we will not shy away from the eyes of others.”
To nail the point home, Imogen Rowntree walks by, her pinched face caustically assessing me, Mother and cake. Mother has mentioned her a lot the last few months, determined to unseat last year’s winner.
“Rowntree,” Mother says, dripping with venom.
“Brasher,” she responds with equal hate.
Mother doesn’t break eye contact, waiting for her current nemesis to be forced to do so as she carries ever on. Then, with a satisfied hmph, she makes one final adjustment to our cake, steps back and, after a good few seconds’ assessment, looks to me with a smile.
“Right then, young lady,” she says with sparkling eyes. “I’m off to properly inspect the opposition.” She leans over the table, careful not to let her dress touch our most precious baked good. “This is all part of the dance. One must defend their own, yes, but to be unsociable is to be uncivilised. We shall be much better off this year with you here.”
She winks devilishly and leaves me on my own.
I am prepared, I know I am. I’m under no illusion that neither I nor the cake is safe until Judgement begins. I try to do as Mother does and scan. Each table either has its entrant standing near or keeping it within a clear line of sight as they do the dance, inspecting everyone else.
“Mrs. Haines, I thought you knew better.” Mother is peering at the plate of something I can’t quite see from this angle. “Is this not a baking competition? Nanaimo bars require zero baking.” I hear her tutting. “For shame.”
Mother does love to push the knife in and twist.
“Not all of us have helpers you know, Mrs. Brasher.” I can see Mildburg’s neon pink sundress in all its ample, eye-gouging glory, but her face is hidden behind the shoulders of another competitor.
“Well,” Mother says, already walking away, “if you spent more time baking and less spying perhaps you would have something to compete with.”
I know I’m distracted but Mother can be so deliciously biting when she wants and, until this week, I have rarely seen it. I hear a rustling behind me but assume it’s the breeze against the tent. I will never assume again.
For a split second I see hands either side of my head, then they disappear and all I know is the excruciating pain around my neck. My fingers fly to my throat as the air is choked out of me. There’s something there; rope but thinner. Shoelace maybe. It’s taut around my neck and as I claw at my flesh it pulls tighter. I try to gasp but can’t. I feel the pressure of a knee against my back, forcing the garrotte tighter still. My vision is becoming cloudy. Dark.
I claw and kick and stamp and rage but ensure I never touch our table. That would be worse than death. Everything is getting harder; pain is filling my mind, lack of oxygen is depriving me of thought. I have one more chance to do something or my first competition will be my last.
I swing a foot backward as far as I can. It doesn’t connect but my attacker needs to alter her stance to avoid it, and I use the opportunity to wrench us both forward. I feel a jawline against my shoulder. Yes! I let go of the garrotte and it pulls in more, sawing at my neck, but I have enough time. I reach at the face behind me, picture where my hands are in relation to the features and drive a sharp thumbnail into her eye.
The moment the garrotte slackens I drop into a spinning crouch then come up with an elbow to her abdomen. She bends down, coughing and retching. I see it’s Jocosa Knowles, whose son was my first kiss. What a pity he’ll never see her again.
I feel the growl coming from my throat as I launch myself at the staggering bank teller. We land on the grass and I start hitting her, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m still unsure how much damage I can do with my hands and I have no weapons. But what’s that? A stake sticking out of the ground next to her head, the tent material flapping about it. Must be how she got in.
Jocosa takes a few swipes at me, but she keeps coughing. The blood pouring down her throat is no doubt exacerbating the issue. With a grin that feels so good, I grab clumps of her once perfect hair, jerk her head up then thrust it against the stake with all my weight. There’s a sickeningly wet thud and Jocosa fights no more. Her glassy eyes stare into nothing as blood and brain ooze into the grass.
My breathing is heavy, my limbs are lead, but I force myself to stand. I take a step back from the corpse, but bump into someone else on the wrong side of my table. This time I’m ready. I whirl around and throw out a punishing neck strike, but a steel-fingered grip stops me in my tracks.
Mother quickly lets go and tries to smile but her eyes are fixed on the corpse. Her jaw muscles clench fiercely and the cold fury in her eyes is something new to me. She takes a sharp breath that seems to knock her head back, nods at me and tries again to smile.
The tent fills with the sound of a tolling bell. “Ladies, the time is upon you,” a male voice says loud and clear. “Please bring your offerings to the table.”
We turn as one to see Philippa Truett holding our cake, poised to throw it on the floor in one final act of sabotage. In a step, Mother digs her fingers into Mrs. Truett’s shoulder and slowly inserts her purse dagger into the doomed woman’s back. She freezes with a whimper.
“Do you really want to end the day piled in the corner with Jocosa?” Mother says as I dash over to rescue our cake. “Be gone.”
With a bitten back cry Mrs. Truett scampers away to her table. Mother looks to me and we take a slow breath to recentre. With nerves calmed she gestures for me to approach to the table. This time I know it’s an honour.
At the Judgement table, I place our cake in a free spot and step back to the painted white line. The rules are simple now. The Judges will come out, taste everything and make their decisions. If the Master of Ceremonies sees any indication of one of us trying to tip off a Judge that one baked good or another is theirs, there will be severe consequences.
“Presenting our most esteemed Judges for this, Tunwell-on-Acheron’s 339th annual offering to His Anarchic Excellency,” booms Dunstan Falkner, who doesn’t seem overly fussed that his wife is composting at this very moment.
Off to one side of the tent a flap lifts, and in walk this year’s Judges, sober and stoic. I don’t know a lot of the men in the village of course, but there is one face I know well. Father walks in as austere as the others, but he can’t help himself when he spots us. He flashes his winning smile and winks. I know Mother is probably annoyed at the impropriety, but I can’t help but smile back.
“Let us pray,” the middle Judge says, tightly weaving together thick fingers and holding them to his considerable paunch. We all do the same, men and women alike, and lock our eyes on the crest above the embroidered curtains that depicts a stampede of various animals. “We stand here today as we do every year, as did our fathers and forefathers before us. We celebrate in His name, we compete for His favour, and we make offerings for His wants; Deviousness, Discord and Delicacies.”
We all speak as one. “Deviousness, Discord and Delicacies.”
The Judge bows solemnly.
“Right!” the leftmost Judge with the gaunt face and calloused hands says with a loud clap. “Time for the tasting.”
Father and the other two Judges take their seats and wait. The first baked good is put before the leftmost Judge and with gleaming eyes he cuts into it with a fancy looking fork. We all watch as the Bakewell tart with drizzled icing is rolled around and chewed. A couple of bites later he passes the plate on, takes a quick sip of champagne and indicates he’s ready for the next.
I can see the order they’re choosing the offerings and work out there’s only five to go until Mother’s and mine. I must keep a straight face. I must. We’ve gone through too much for me to spoil our chances with an implication of tipping off Father.
I turn to look at Mother. Her face is impassive as stone. Until it isn’t.
I see the shock in her eyes before I take in the noises around me. The crowd begins to gasp and clutch their chests.
At the table, the leftmost Judge is making horrible choking sounds. By His grace, will someone help him? I think Mr. Falkner was about to, but blood foams greatly at the corners of the stricken man’s mouth. He lurches forward, claws at his neck which is fast turning purple, and with a horrible, muted grunt falls sideways off his chair.
“Poison!” someone shouts.
Could it be? How? It’s time for Judgment not Discord. This can’t be.
As the middle Judge pushes the apple and rhubarb crumble away with a sneer, the Master of Ceremonies checks the downed man.
“Who could have done this?” one of the ladies says.
“What did Osgar ever do to deserve this?” says another.
“I bet it was those contemptible Daubneys.” I know that voice. No mistaking the sharp tones of Mrs. Rowntree.
The crowd seems to agree with her. A rising chorus of accusations fills the tent.
“This is outrageous!” Ada Daubney, the spitting image of her sister, steps across the line and I feel my heart flip. “Why is no one accusing Gwendoline?”
Mrs. Yoxall leans as far as she dares over the thin white threshold to make baleful eye contact with Ada. Her deeply lined face is fighting to stay proper but the pinching of skin around her eyes and lips betrays her fury. “Why on His grand plain would I poison my own offering you stupid woman?” The crowd agrees. “Besides, it’s always you pair causing ructions so you shall always be the first suspects.”
“It is strange you have not yet learned that,” Mother adds with a sly little smirk.
The crowd gets angrier. There are calls for punishment. Of course there will be punishment, how could there not be? You just don’t kill a Judge!
“Ladies, ladies, ladies, please calm down.” Father is standing, his hands spread wide like His most famed apostle who blessed our village all those centuries ago. “I know this is shocking. And yes, it is very much against the rules. But let us not act like this is the first time a Judge has not made it to the end.” The crowd murmurs in the affirmative whilst I’m floored by the revelation. “Winfrith and I are more than able to finish the Judgment. Right old boy?”
Winfrith is eyeballing the other baked goods. “Ah, yes, quite right.”
“What about the Daubneys?” Mrs. Yoxall says.
Father fixes his gaze on the sisters. “Was it you?”
“Of course it wasn’t, why would we—”
“Give it up, Ada,” Edith Daubney says, swaying on her feet, her dress patchy with sweat. “It was a bad move.”
The crowd starts to heat up again but thank Him for making Father a Judge.
“Punishment must be meted out,” he says and the crowd becomes all smiles. “You shall be banned from Judgement this year. But, as your aptitude for going the extra mile is so pure, there will be no permanent ban.”
Winfrith has an idea, his eyes pop wide and his mighty moustache twitches before he gets the words out. “So long as you can guarantee no other offering has been molested.”
The strangest sound comes from Ada. A high-pitched whine that gets louder and fuller until she dramatically falls to her knees and wails, promising it was the only baked good she poisoned and begging not to face a permanent ban.
I get it. I don’t know how I would continue living under such a harsh punishment.
“What about me?” Mrs. Yoxall almost shouts. “I cannot compete through no fault of my own.”
Father and Winfrith exchange looks. They share a shrug.
“I propose a protective measure,” the Master of Ceremonies says, wiping his hands on a rag and throwing it onto Osgar’s corpse he has dumped in a corner. “Next year you may have a casing over your offering for which only you and I shall have a key.”
Father and Winfrith look relieved. Mrs. Yoxall is less so, but she wouldn’t dare argue.
Thankfully, once the Judges return to the task at hand, things proceed without issue. Although at one point Father coughs and I could cry in despair, but after a sip of champagne he is fine.
It is plainly obvious which baked goods are contenders as the moment either Judge grimaces it is over for that particular offering. Then, once all are tasted, they sit back to quietly confer.
“I would like to thank you all for another year of outstanding talent and righteous violence,” Father says as he and Winfrith stand. “But there can only be one winner. Only one deserving enough to treat Him.”
“This year’s winner is …” Winfrith pauses for effect and I love it and hate it all at once. “The chocolate and cherry cake!” Oh. My. God. “Those brandy snaps were just the right additional texture to make it the standout offering.”
I’m vibrating with euphoria, body and soul. I want to scream with joy, throw my hands in the air, laugh at Mrs. Haines and Mrs. Rowntree and those damn Daubneys. But I see Mother in all her composed glory, and I don’t dare ruin the moment.
She steps over the line and I follow. Father’s eyes go wide at the revelation, his face cracking into the widest, warmest smile. He gently lifts our cake by the non-descript stand and offers it to Mother.
“No,” she says and I feel lightning course through my body. “Callisto has done superbly throughout. She deserves this.”
“Couldn’t agree more, sweet cheeks,” Father says, and I see Mother give him a look I don’t understand as she bites her bottom lip.
I’m being given the cake. I’m being applauded. I’m being led to the curtains. Everything is snapshots as my heart thunders. I have to work at controlling my breathing lest I faint. Oh, how awful that would be.
The curtains part and I’m in a long twilight tunnel. I walk to the end, to a pair of heavier, darker curtains covered in ancient symbols that make me feel strange just looking at them. I could stand there all day, tracing them with my eyes.
“Everyone in?” Winfrith says and is met by an affirmative murmur. “Very good.”
He smiles at me as he pulls a curtain aside. I nod to him as I’m supposed to, then step through into a large room. There are no windows in this part of the tent but somehow the warming yellow tones of the sun make it through to bathe the place in soothing splendour.
Then I see Him.
Our Lord and Saviour Typhon sits upon an ornate throne large enough to accommodate His considerable size. Twice the height of any man I’ve seen and even broader. His face is human, but His eyes are nothing but contained fire. Long curls of black hair flow over His huge shoulders, weaving between the uncountable heads there: snakes, crocodiles, bulls, lions, wolves, leopards, boars, bears and more. They fill the room with a constant noise of bleats and roars and whines and barks, but it’s muted and takes concentration to discern the individual sounds. His upper body is muscular if home to a slight bit of extra padding, and from the legs down He is two thick snake tails: one a thousand shades of green, the other a thousand shades of orange.
He is glorious.
“Come to me,” He says in the voice of a God.
I walk with Mother and when close enough I hold up the cake. His blazing eyes study us. Study our offering. I hold my breath.
His perfectly chiselled features smile.
“I am most pleased with this year’s festivities,” the Lord of Pandemonium booms. “You have all done so well.”
Winfrith takes the stand from me and holds it up high to Typhon. Father appears at His side, holding a silver plate with a large golden fork resplendent on a locally made doily. Typhon picks up the fork, nods appreciatively at Father and takes a bite of our cake. My heart is in my throat as I watch Him chew. It begins to sing when He closes His fiery eyes and lets out a satisfied groan.
When His eyes open, He looks at us for long seconds. His hands come together and offer a gentle clap; the fork held lightly between His fingers. “Very good, my dears. You should be proud.”
I could shout, I could scream, I could swear. But I don’t. That would be unbecoming. Instead, I bask in His adoration as He enjoys every bite, every morsel of what Mother and I slaved over. Fought for.
*
“Very good, very good, but maybe a little bit closer?”
I do as the photographer says and move closer to Mother. He gives the thumbs up, counts down and I smile my most perfect smile.
“Marvellous,” he says, studying the camera’s screen. “That’s the one.”
I look to Mother and try to contain my excitement, but for the first time in a long time she is holding nothing back. Her smile is wide, her eyes are sparkling and she even gives a little wiggle of a dance when we watch Mrs. Rowntree glaring at her picture being taken down. The luxuriously carved frame is gently placed on a cloth and the previous year’s winner evicted.
I can’t wait until tomorrow. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep. In less than twenty-four hours our photo will be hanging in the village hall’s lobby for all to see.
Josh Ahearne is a stay-at-home dad with both feet planted firmly on the spectrum. He has been writing since he was a kid, having been forged in the fires of countless Stephen King books lifted from his mum’s bookshelves. Since those strange days of horror after horror after horror, he has fallen in love with science fiction, fantasy, comedy and the surreal, which has slowly forged his writing style.
More of Josh’s work can be found on his website (www.theahearne.com) where he posts a short story every month for free, the first year’s worth of which are now available as an anthology for a most modest amount of monies. He also maintains a Facebook page, cunningly named The Ahearne, featuring updates on new releases and the ever-widening scope of story-based projects he has brewing.
© 2026 Josh Ahearne. All rights reserved.
Without in any way limiting the authors’ and publisher’s exclusive rights, any unauthorised use of any part of this story to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, locations or general circumstances is entirely coincidental and/or used in a fictitious manner.
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