The Gothic Flapjack

A tale of desire, obsession and submission. Not all gothic is shock and horror.

Written in conjunction to our gothic module for English lit: A casual challenge, taken too far. Contains elements of parody.


There is no mould on this flapjack. There are no cobwebs, no mites, no virulent flares of soft black upon the oat. It lies, so innocently upon that delicately cut doily, so oblivious of its own seduction, basking lasciviously under that tempting sheen of syrup that covers it like a carefull propped veil.

Rich. Golden. I feel myself reaching out, a crooked handshake grasping for the idol – a straining rope of desire that drags me to its sweet, oaty doom. It feels as if I should fear it… its power… delicious power…

It is, yes, hard to resist, and I must bite my fingers until the veins rush beneath my skin, and the knuckles whiten. I must wait, but for how long?

I can smell it –oh god oh god- the torturous ecstasyof that sweet fragrance, until breath comes out of me in uncontrolled bursts. My head pulses, and I know: I can anticipate it: it has been too long.

It happens before my eyes can swim to the scene, but I feel it: - crumbing beneath my grasping fingers – the rough texture over these eager teeth – the guttural wail of a stranger – the rich oaty richness that hammers my tastebuds into happy subservience!

And I chew and I chew and I chew.