A story told from the point of view of a cake.
Le gâteau. It looked delicious. Or rather he, for he was as masculine in the ways with which chocolate had been in him infused, and atop his skin with icing slathered. He was brought into this life however, unknowing of his delicacy, unaware he would have handsomeness. He simply had been removed from the kiln where his components were warmed and roused.
Alas, our cake, Black Velvet he had been named, was born without a limb to escape the perils he inevitably would endure, of which he would have no choice but watch in terror, nor a tongue with which to scream. Indeed, our endangered pastry did watch, as envious eyes lit with desire, of the faces of bakers and buyers alike, whose mouths no less frothed at first glance of him in gluttony.
Black Velvet had been displayed atop a vivacious spinning tray named Susan, and with her help, he saw the lay of the land of the pâtisserie. About this sweet-smelling world, which was a mask to the stench of impending death, seeming at first only evident to Black Velvet, were more baked goods, as mute and legless as he. They however, lay behind tempered glass, and were brightly illuminated by some unseen fluorescence.
Black Velvet sat alone on the counter, nearest to the eyes, and snouts and hooves of prospective pastry pigs. He was the enticement. And everyone looked, and everyone foamed, few even placed their hands on the glass shell which protected Black Velvet in tempted delight. Yet all advances were halted when they discovered how rich and moist he looked, how creamy and decadent and expensive was he.
Hours passed, and though many came into the bakery, and lusted after him to extremity, he was passed over each and every time. And every time, he was filled with relief, and then the sinking sensation, that as he was so gorgeous, there was no chance he could survive in the long term. Yet if he did, what life was it, to be trapped and immobile for as long as one could live? and these thoughts made him dark and depressed.
The following day, he was removed from his transparent cask. Had the day come? thought Black Velvet. Was this the day his vile vilifiers would vainly devour? No thought he, when he was passed over for another cake, placed in his stead, one of a more vibrant colour, who would be tortured as much or more so, by creeping thoughts of being bitten.
NO! Black Velvet would have screamed if he had had a voice to shout it, when suddenly he was cleaved. Then he at last realised, this had always been his fate, and his only means of escape from this hateful fear which had in him pervaded. It was instantaneous, but if one ever cared to look, his amoral creators, enlivened by the celebration of anniversary of one among their herd would have noticed the life in his now happy eyes fade away, or that he had involuntarily **** himself. But how would they know, for it was as black and velvet as he.