Last night, [June 26th] I completed this novel for NaNoWritMo writing contest to write a novel of 50,000 words, minimun in thirty days. This is the first novel I have written in which all the main characters are women. I'm hoping that this novel/novella will form the basis of a full length novel or maybe even a trilogy of novels. Let me know if it "hits home"!
Martha Myles dusted the flour from her hands and wiped them on her apron. She found the beaters at the back of the kitchen drawer and pressed them into the electric mixer. Her new cookbook was propped open on the counter. With reading glasses perched on her nose, she stared at the recipe. Endless fine print ran across the page, obscuring what ought to be a simple task.
"Add two eggs," she muttered. "Mix them with the flour, butter and milk."
She cracked the eggs into the bowl, their yellow yolks staring up at her like blank, unseeing eyes. She stopped to pick out some shells. The mixer whirred making the yellowy eggs dive to the bottom. When the cake mixture spattered her glasses, she cleaned them off, and sighing, she returned to her task. With great concentration, she poured the mix into the pans and set them in the oven. Forty minutes to read, she calculated.
At the kitchen table, she reached for her glass of wine and opened a well-thumbed book. Studies in Philosophy, it read in tiny gold letters down its maroon coloured spine.
Could philosophy unravel the riddle? Was there life beyond this one? Within moments, she was seduced by racing rivers of thought. Like a twig caught in swirling currents, her mind paused to puzzle over an idea, then surged onward through the text. Did physical senses cloud other possibilities? Like capricious breezes, glimpses of unknown dimensions teased the fringes of her mind. The kitchen no longer existed. Martha no longer existed. Her mind soared to cool and delicious realms of pure thought.
The high kitchen window, blackened by the night, reflected her hunched form which resembled an apparition from a distant world. She did not look through the oven window to see the cake heaving with tiny volcanoes. Martha remained oblivious to the darkening mass slopping from the bake pans. Only when wisps of burnt smoke wafted through the stovetop did she look up.
In blind confusion, she sought her glasses. Sharp smells of charred ruins filled the kitchen. With uncomprehending eyes, she peered into the oven and saw the lava-like mixture spilling out. Snatching on oven mitts, she pulled the pan from the rack to the counter. In disbelief, she stared at the blackened, crusted cake as if it were a relic inexplicably unearthed from a lost world.
Martha knew to let the cake cool. She poured more wine and attempted to return to her text. But the physical evidence of failure would not let her escape to her world. Why had she tried to bake a cake? To prove herself to the church altar guild, she admitted. The sin of pride, she smiled to herself.
With determination, she approached the cake, knife in hand. She chipped off as much of the black crust as she could, then slathered the cake with icing. Gobs of glistening chocolate helped fill in the craters. It was a sorry job, but it would have to do. After placing the cake on a plate, she put on her coat and carried it outside into the dark street at ten thirty nine.
Martha Myles did not see the shadow of the racing bicycle. She did not hear the frantic bell and the cry of the cyclist as he tried to brake. The front wheel caught her straight on and her body flew upward like a graceless bird, only to thud down on the far sidewalk. The cyclist ran to her. She did not move. She had hit her head on a lamppost and now she was dead. The cake had splattered on the road.
"Mama's dead, Francine." Margaret's voice was a shocked, hoarse whisper on the phone.
"No, that can't be!" Francine clutched her bathrobe about her and sank into a chair. "What happened?"
