Here's my fiction for Three Word Wednesday, inspired by California's bake sale ban. The words are blush, quiver and tenderness.
Thank God that Ralph the janitor was on their side.
Every Thursday night Ralph left the key to the school at the pick-up/drop-off point and set up the folding tables in the dank basement room. If it wasn't for him the kids wouldn't have that new set of Fancy Nancy books, nor would they know the crumbly goodness of a fat-filled treat.
Grandma Betty and Aunt Myrtle set out the plates of merchandise -- chocolate chip bars, coconut bars, pumpkin bars, peanut butter cookies, apple bars.
Aunt Myrtle looked over the goods. "This is quite a stash."
Grandma Betty’s cheeks flamed. “You’re making me blush!”
A knock at the door. They shut up.
Aunt Myrtle went to the peephole. “What’s the secret ingredient?”
A middle-aged female voice whispered, “Molasses.”
“Let her in,” Grandma Betty said. “Get that barricade away from the door. Hurry, hurry. Did anyone follow you?”
“I don’t think so,” Henrietta said.
“Did you bring the stuff?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Henrietta pulled a bag of freshly baked cinnamon rolls out of her quilted bandanna-print purse. The rolls promised to melt with tenderness.
“Good,” Grandma Betty said, taking the rolls from Henrietta. She bumped the corner of the folding table, causing her enormous polyester-clad thigh to quiver. “This is better than the stuff you brought last time.”
“Yeah, and I been handing out free samples so we’ll sell more this week!”
Grandma Betty slapped Henrietta in the mouth. “You dumb bitch! You’re gonna get us caught!”
Henrietta touched her fingers to her mouth and they came away bloody. She spat on the floor. “Relax, Grandma. I got it under control.”
Suddenly, the door burst open. Three federal agents in black suits jumped through the doorway, guns drawn.
“Everyone down on the floor!” One of the feds yelled. “Drop the spatula, lady!”
“Here they are,” Agent One said. “Cinnamon rolls! The fat content's got to be near 100 percent!”
“Let go of my buns, you sick bastard!”
Aunt Myrtle began to cry. “Those aren’t ours! We’re holding on to them for someone! We didn’t know what they were!”
Agent Two wrestled Grandma Betty to the linoleum floor. “What’s this, huh?” He pulled a butter knife out of her apron pocket.
“Well, I don’t know how that got in there.”
"Come with us, Grandma. You're not gonna be baking anything for quite a while."