Cookies

• Nisma Abu-Shawish, Grade 12, Islamic College Of Brisbane
• Short Story
• 2016

Excellence Award in the 'Top Secret 2016' competition

Ever since Maya could remember, her house had smelt of cookies. She had grown up with the smell, and wouldn’t have it any other way. It greeted her after school and lulled her to sleep, comforted her when sad and celebrated her victories. Brought her joy like nothing else could.
But better than the smell, was the taste, each time different then the last. Sometimes, her mother added little chocolate pieces, ignoring Maya as she nipped a few for herself. Other times it was cinnamon, cloves and all the other delicious spices that made Maya sneeze if a pinch was too generous. Her favourite cookie, however, the one she got only on birthdays and super special occasions, was her mother’s sandwich cookies; melt-in-your-mouth shortbread stuck together by a generous amount of delicious homemade jam that burst tartly against your tongue.
Maya knew nothing better than the taste and smell of those cookies. But then, on the day she turned 9, her mother had bought her a soft pink apron and matching spatula. She’d never been happier than that day, when she had pulled out her first batch of chocolate chip cookies.
Maya grew confident quickly, and once she had perfected every biscuit, she turned to cakes, then cupcakes, then tarts, expanding her baking knowledge until even the local baker was asking for tips. Maya knew, from the very second she tied the apron around her waist that this was what she wanted to do.
Nothing mattered to her the way baking did. She wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by the heavenly smell of cooking dough and fresh jams for the rest of her life. She imagined how her bakery would look; bright and happy, filled to the brim with beaming customers.
But then, at 15, came the day her parents sat her down and spoke to her of the future. Maya was a high achiever, she needed to pick a profession to showcase this.
“But mum, I want to cook!” she pleaded, motioning to the oven and her baking cookies.
“Anyone can open a bakery, Maya. You need to think about income! Medicine! Law! That’s where your mind should be!”
Maya, utterly miserable, ran up to her room and locked the door, closing her eyes. She vanished her bakery from her mind, trying to replace it with the smell of antiseptic and blood, replacing her counter with an operation table and her cakes with surgical equipment. Her happy customers turned to weeping family, yelling at her and blaming her for the loss of their son, husband, father.
Maya’s flesh raised with goose bumps, and the room became a court. She was surrounded by emotionless strangers, trying to tune out a woman’s crying as Maya defended defend her attacker, ignore her furious husband as the disgusting man walks free.
Maya can’t stop the flow of tears, can’t stop her throat from tightening painfully and her heart from seizing with grief.
Downstairs, the smell of burning cookies began to spread.