 JD Langert is pursuing her Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Full Sail University in Orlando, Florida. She has been published in John Hopkins Imagine Magazine, Fiction on the Web, Down in the Dirt, Scarlet Leaf Review, and other publications. You're more than welcomed to connect with her on LinkedIn or Facebook. HELL’S CONFECTIONARIES Melissa blinked up at the two men who had abruptly come into the bakery and threatened her as she stirred melting chocolate in the kitchen. They brandished a gun at her, the dull metal of the weapon paling in contrast to the shining silver that made up a majority of her kitchen.
“So, why don’t you just save us any trouble and just fork over the cash, sweetie?” The two men themselves were also very contrary to the current environment. The first man was bald and a bit on the portly side, wearing a long black coat as if that would hide his obesity. The second man, on the flip side, towered above them both with long, greasy hair and a crooked smile that spoke of nothing good. Melissa glanced over to the apple spice cake cooking in the oven before walking towards the front of the kitchen. “Ha!” said the taller man. “What’d I tell you, Hershel? This will be a cinch!” “Eh, thought that the owner of a shop named liked this would have a bit more ‘bite’ to them, ya know? But this isn’t the time to relax, Carmello, make sure she gets the cash.” “You worry too much. There’s two of us and we have a gun. Besides, can’t you see she’s as meek as a mouse? What she going to do?” Carmello shrugged, pausing in front of a metal table where she had been using a mixer to beat egg whites with a lemon pie beside it. She flicked the mixer on and yanked the second robber’s long hair into the gooey mixture. The dark strands immediately tangled with the metal whisk and, with its industrial grade strength, brutally brought Carmello’s face to the unforgiving counter. Carmello shrieked as he fought against the mixer’s strength, causing Hershel to look over. Before he could so much as react to his partner’s plight, Melissa picked up the lemon pie and hurled it into the latter’s face, pie crust and cream splattering everywhere. He stumbled backwards, colliding with a wall, and was attempting to wipe the stinging mixture from his eyes when Melissa stabbed a knife through his coat, effectively pinning him to the jellybean-printed wall. Behind her, Carmello had finally turned off the mixer and freed himself from its terror. He screamed in anger, fluffy foam-like pieces all over his face and his hair a tangled mess, and rushed her. She sidestepped and opened the door to the stove, heat pouring from it. Carmello, who had not seen the splatter of pie at his feet, slipped forward towards the hot oven. He screamed as his hands caught upon the red-hot metal, the smell of burning flesh and apples filling the air. He quickly tried to retreat from the fiery pain, but found his escape halted as Melissa slammed the oven closed upon his hands, another high-pitch cry forcing its way from his mouth. A cry that quickly made an encore as the store owner took the chance to grab the melting chocolate from the store, pour it over his eyes, and give him a solid whack across the face for good measure. “Hold it you devil woman!” She flung the metal pot in her hand at Hershel who had freed himself from his coat; the cloth hanging from the knife. The copper-lined pot successfully collided with just below the man’s sternum, predictably knocking the wind from him and making him drop the gun as she stalked over. She kicked the gun beneath one of the metal tables, reaching up to her shelf of spices. When he looked up at her, gasping for air, she mercilessly threw the red chili powder she used for Spicy Mexican Hot Chocolate Cookies into his eyes. He yelled in pain, his already abused eyes unable to handle the scorching heat, and, as a result, was unable to do anything as Melissa pushed him backwards into a round trash can filled with raw eggs and other ruined creations. His hands and feet flailed from just above the trash lid, but there was no escaping. She turned around at the sound of groaning. The second robber was trying, in vain, to feel at his surroundings with his visibly reddened hands from when she had slammed them into the oven. He had no chance to see, his entire head covered in already cooling chocolate, but was still attempting to escape. Melissa bent down and picked up a 50-lb bag of unopened flour beside her refrigerator, dropping it upon the back of the blind man who collapsed beneath its weight to the tiled floor. He sobbed in distress and she frowned. For good measure, she lifted the bag once more, a little higher this time, before dropping it again. This time, he didn’t make a sound. Visibly nodding, she picked up the bag of flour, now ruined with tiny holes spilling white powder, and went over to where the first robber continued to struggle within the round trash can. As she appeared above him, he noticeably froze, no doubt able to see her through stinging eyes. Impassively, she lifted the heavy bag and dropped it within without hesitation. Any sound that Hershel could have made was muffled. She breathed out, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “Thank you for visiting Hell’s Confectionaries, please don’t come again.”
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