Wedding Day: The Bride

Oh my god. What a beautiful cake. What an incredibly beautiful cake. It's pink. I'm soooooo excited for this. I'm married! I hope I made the right choice in Bradley. He's cute and all, but we did kind of rush into this. I couldn't say no when he proposed though! Then I was going to tell him I maybe wasn't ready to get married, but I never got around to it. I'm sure everything will be fine. He's a great guy. With his grace, charm, and sophisticated beauty. Plus his great taste in jewelry. And cakes! It's magnificent. I wonder what it's like to be a cake. Probably boring. Yep, really boring. And dead. Cakes are dead. Oh, but here's the first dance! Aw, look at Bradley, he's nervous. Actually, I'm pretty nervous too. These high heels are so hard to walk in, I hope my hair looks okay. Oh, but here we go. We dance, we twirl, we fly, to the beautiful jazzy rhythms of the band Bradley liked. Actually, he was kind of domineering while we planned our wedding. But no matter, I'm sure it's not a sign of anything. It's just the stress. I love him so much. At least I think I do. Oh my! They're bringing out the cake! That beautiful, pink and white cake that Bradley liked.
"Oh Bradley, don't lead me to the cake so fast, or I shall trip on my heels!"
"Not to worry dearest. They look lovely. As do you."
"I love you ,Bradley."
"I love you , dearest. Pass me the knife, Dearest, I'm going to cut the cake now."
"Yes, Bradley."
And he cut the cake. Past the pink and white frosting, into the rich, lovely white interior. That must hurt if you're the cake. Like having a chunk of your leg carved out of you. But I sha'n't think such thoughts. Oh, he's feeding me cake. It's good cake. Bradley was right. He's always right, he tells me so. Oh, now they're taking the top layer off the cake. That must hurt if you're the cake. Like having one's head plucked off one's body with a giant hand. It would kill you too. Now that cake is very much dead. Oh bother, Bradley tells me never to think that way. He says it's unhealthy. And Bradley is always right, he told me so........

A Wedding Story

Born from heat, from fire, my segments are left to cool. I am put together, one part on another, until my complete body is clothed decadently with white, pink, clothing that sticks to my flesh. It covers me entirely, my sight obscured, I can only hear sounds; running, smashes, stressed voices shouting. I smell nothing but sweet stickiness, now I hear nothing. I sit, wait, anticipating something. Or anticipating nothing. Is this my existence, to sit, to wait, to ponder? No, voices come, I am moving (what am I on, how do I move?) toward sound. Melodies, exciting, bold, joyful. Loud. For once I am thankful for my clothes, muffling the noise. Others, too. Talking, moving, (with the music?) singing. I feel looks, taking me in, looking at my clothes that someone put on me. Music stops, people group around me. Voices talking, people pressing in, closer. Temperature rises, what is happening? There is excitement, tension, joy, lots of joy, hope, and something else, deep, boundless, new, exciting. What is it? There is plenty of it, and it is the source of the joy, the hope, the excitement. I can't sense it, can't articulate it. And I can't feel it myself, though I am aware of it. But I'll leave it for now, I can feel a small group of people nearing me, full of this indescribable feeling. Pouring it out to each other, giving it, receiving it in plenty. How long can two people keep it up, this relentless outpouring of emotions, freely pouring out this thing to each other.
Everything is quiet. Mysterious clicks accompanying painful flashes out light, even through my clothes. The two people are next to me, next to each other. More clicks, more painful flashes, then my world is turned over. An incredible, indescribable agony on my bottom segment. Like a piece of my body is being carved from my whole. Something cutting through clothes, through my flesh. Then scooped cleanly away. It is over, this pain, though it lingers, helped along by a multitude of loud clicks, pops, claps, and flashes of light. More people come, smelling like my clothes. They talk, they gather around me. Next, with an almighty wrench, they are trying to pluck my head cleanly off my body. They fail, my head falls with a squelch and a plop, back onto its resting place. But they grip me again, and with a painful wrench they-