Feb 20th – Jellied geniuses

February 20th – Jellied geniuses


When she made Einstein, she broke the mould.


Nothing would ever be so perfect again: the jelly was just the right consistency, flawless, the perfect shade of red. She looked at Einstein’s head, quivering on the pure-white plate, and made her decision. It was not a hard decision. She took the plastic mould, sourced from eBay for an insignificant sum, in the grand scheme of things, and hit it. Hard. Twice, with the wooden rolling-pin from the kitchen drawer. It cracked across the middle with the first hit, then shattered into pieces with the second. She smiled to herself as she swept up the pieces and brushed them into the kitchen bin, the lid hinging up with a satisfied sigh.

She did this once a week, on a Tuesday, the same time. Her children were at school, her husband at work. They had no idea.

Evidence removed, she sat at the table and polished her best dessert spoon with a fresh cloth. She held the spoon up, breathed on it, rubbed it again and, discarding the cloth, plunged the spoon into Einstein’s eye. She loved the sucking sound as the spoon pierced the semi-solid face and withdrew, a chunk of genius eye sucked up and shaking.

She liked to suck the genius pieces off the spoon, rather than opening her mouth wide and welcoming it in. She liked the sound, the slabber of cold sweetness opening her lips and filling her mouth. She would push her tongue into the gelatinous mass, piercing it, splitting it in two with the pressure, letting her taste buds dance to what they found. Einstein tasted of strawberry, and Einstein tasted good.

Last week it had been Marie Curie, in lime; the week before a blue raspberry Darwin, beard quaking as she worked her way through. Again, their moulds had been dispatched, in the same manner, with two sharp blows from the kitchen rolling-pin.

She was careful to take out the rubbish each Tuesday, before anyone put anything else inside the aluminium cylinder beside the back door, and asked questions that she didn’t want to answer.

Because there were no answers. Why did she make a genius out of jelly each Tuesday, once only, and then smash the mould? Why did she give up almost an hour of her day to slowly devouring the faces of the most notable men and women from human history? She wouldn’t have been able to answer you, even if you had asked. It was just what she did.

She had just put the pure-white plate in the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. She walked down the hall, opened the door and signed for the brown cardboard box in the delivery driver’s hands. Her own hands trembling, but only slightly, she opened it and lifted out the face of Shakespeare.

Next Tuesday, then. In orange.


Inspired by a prompt from here.


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