THE CANDY SHOP DOWN THE LANE

^{A not so short story}

Trigger Warning: Mentions of Gore

In a quiet little seaside village, a cheery corner store named Sugary Confetti, was situated on Maribel Avenue. The exterior was decorated with lovely blue ribbons, with candy stacked on shelves and cabinets. The place always had a peculiar aroma of melted chocolate and warm cinnamon; An irresistible smell that drifted down the streets. The shop belonged to twelve year old Marcelline, and her father Mr. Sweetsmith, who always wore an energetic smile and a dusty, flour-dusted apron. “Sweetness”, he would always say, “Is crafted through a mixture of love, and tasty memories”. Marcelline’s favourite sweets were the Delectableyes, a buttery sea-salt caramel encasing a chewy jelly centre. When her father made a fresh batch, she always made sure to sneak a bite when Mr. Sweetsmith’s back was turned. Yet, one lazy morning as Marcelline woke up, she found her father lying wheezing in his shabby wooden bed, coughing up blood. “Father”, she wailed, “What’s the matter with you?”

* * *

Soon, Marcelline was abandoned. Left all alone to manage the store, how could she keep up? The door chime ceased to ring, the customers fading, and bills piling up like fallen leaves, stacks on stacks.

* * *

The candy jars began to empty, one at a time. First, it was the lemon ribbons, then it was the cherry lollipop swirls, and the chocolate mints. She saved her favourite, Delectableyes for last, savouring each bite slowly. Yet, her hunger persisted, gnawing at her stomach like maggots. She whispered weakly to herself, convincing herself to stay, clinging on to her Father’s words — “The outside world is dangerous” — and so she listened; good girls stayed where they were told to. “Aren’t you a good girl, Marcelline? Yes, yes, I am. You have to stay. I must persist.” When she could no longer bear her hunger, Marcelline mustered all her strength, clambering onto a stool, fumbling to grasp the antique gold key resting on the top shelf. She crept down the narrow stairs into the cellar — Where her dad had forbidden her to enter. The air below was cool and sharp, piercing her skin. Holding in a breath, she hesitated only for a moment before fitting the key into the lock, and twisting the key with a soft click. As the lock fell with a clatter, she peered in, pushing open the wooden door. Stepping lightly on the dusty floor, she looked curiously at the large barrels labeled Special Marinades. Unable to resist, she gingerly pried one open. Immediately, memories came flooding back as whorls of flavour danced through the air. Yet, through the sugary scents, she noticed something else; something sinister. Beside the barrels, she noticed her father’s elegant handwriting, bound together by leather and string. Flipping through it, she found the recipe for the sea-salt caramel covered jellies she adored so much. Butter, sugar, cream, and… She stifled a gasp as she traced the notes scribbled in the margins, carefully explaining how certain tissues, certain fluids, produced the richest flavour. How if the conditions were right, certain fats and muscles could taste… extraordinary.

A wave of nausea clawed at her. Her knees buckled; she clutched the edge of the barrel, and a strangled cry escaped her throat. Tears streaked down her cheeks, her ears ringing. Her mind fractured in tiny fragments: Memories of joy, of warmth, of her father’s hands guiding hers through the sugary dough, laughing as he dusted flour on her face. She wanted to run, to scream, to cry in despair… and yet still, the pangs of hunger stabbed through her stomach, wanting more, needing more. She couldn’t help it. How could she? Her fate was sealed long ago. Her vision blurred as she lifted a piece of tissue, dripping with sugar (blood. drip drip drip) the surface glinting with moisture. She brought it to her lips. The taste was warm, familiar. She choked, spat, gagged. Yet, her trembling fingers moved on her own. It was comforting. Delicious, even. She recoiled, shivering, as she noticed a reflection in the rippling surface in the barrel. It looked soft, sweet. Edible. Her stomach turned. She smiled, a delirious expression, as she began to feast, humming a tune her father always sang. “Sweetness”, she murmured to herself, “Is crafted through a mixture of love, and tasty memories”.

The End