I nearly burst out crying but I was too short scared to. I’d been frozen to hit with fright.

‘Whatever are you going to do?’ Flicka asked in a quavery voice.

‘I am going to get killed, that’s what,’ I quavered back.

We stared at the disaster area in front of us. Bits of icing lay like snow over half the dining-room, the little bride and groom had nosedived onto the carpet and the columns that had supported the top two tiers had rolled under the table.

The front door bell went again but I could only flap my hands and make squeaky panic noises.

‘What shall we do?’ Flicka asked urgently. ‘Try to pick it up and stick it together?’

‘Don’t… don’t know…’ I stammered.From upstairs came a yell from Gillian demanding that I go and answer the door.

Story by Vincent Omondi

Copyright © 2020 Vincent Omondi

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