12/21/12

Master

By: Lee Thomas Penn

-Son of-

Thomas Lee Penn

            I am an orange-cranberry scone.

            I was born in an oven from flour, sugar, baking powder, kosher salt, orange zest, unsalted butter, eggs, heavy cream, cranberries, milk, trace amounts of cyanide, and freshly squeezed orange juice.

            Inside, the oven was very warm. Then, my master pulled me into the cool air and set me on a cold metal tray.

            “What is my purpose, Master?” I asked her.

            She picked up another scone, opened her mouth, and ate it.

            “Ah-ha,” I said.

            I am an orange-cranberry scone.

            I was taken to a teashop in an airport by my master, along with cookies, crumpets, Danishes, croissants, and other scones. A young man with glasses, a nasal infection, and an apron placed my brethren and I in a display case.

            Inside, the display case was warm. My master left from the teashop and returned wearing a new coat and sunglasses. The young man with the glasses, a nasal infection, and an apron did not seem to notice her, but I did. She held a newspaper up while staring at me, anticipating the time when I am eaten.

            “I will not let you down, Master,” I said.

            I am an orange-cranberry scone.

            I was bumped off of the cold metal tray while the young man with glasses, a nasal infection, and an apron was pulling out a croissant.

            Outside, the floor was very cold and hard. My body broke into two pieces when I fell. I was then picked up and thrown into the garbage. The last thing that I saw was my master, standing up to leave.

            “I am sorry, my master.”

           

            I am a broken orange-cranberry scone.

            I am in a trashcan can with cups, napkins, tealeaves, filters, sugar packets, and wrappers. It is dark, and my master is not here.

Inside the garbage can, it is cold and wet. I can hear the man with the glasses, nasal infection, and apron working and my brethren being sold. My master has left. Everything continues.

“I am sorry that I have disappointed you, Master. I am sorry that I am broken, not good enough, and ugly. I am sorry that I did not achieve my purpose. I am sorry that love is conditional.”

            I suppose that I will go on to feed the roaches and mice and seagulls and bacteria at the landfill. I suppose that that will have to be enough.