Photo prompt courtesy of © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
The cake was frosted in white icing that would stick to your molars. It sat in its splendor waiting for the pop of champagne. Perfectly French manicured nails tore a chunk out of the bottom layer. The confection slowly slides into itself, a collapsing balloon. The bride and groom are buried in the snow drift, somewhere between cream filling and vanilla sponge. She lifts the veil she’d borrowed earlier, before the first hit had smacked the bride’s face with the red paint of her own blood. Then the best man, the white flag of his speech fluttering in his hand.
Word Count: 100