Throughout the years, Antonio had experienced the disaster of too much flour or too little baking powder, of dough that didn’t proof when they set it to rise, or rose too high and fell when they baked it, of soggy crusts and burnt cookies and muffins that his Mama makes it look so easy to make. It’s always rather stressful, sometimes even wringing his too emotional heart till he squeezes out frustrated tears but his Papa told him that mistakes are never failures if he learnt from them.
So every time he falls, Antonio allows himself to cry before he wipes his eye and stands back up. Baking is one of the few things that he feels genuine joy over the accomplishments, where he feels like there’s something that even a nervous wreck like him can do with almost technical perfection. His limited vision isn’t a handicap; in fact, he uses it as a motivator to work even harder. This is what he must do if he wants to claim worth over something in his life.
Mama and Papa taught him the basics, and once he mastered them, he finds freedom in variation; exchanging Pecha berries for Mago berries, the bright zing of lime instead of lemon, subtle changes that made each recipe new every time. Antonio enjoys his experimentation, though he also knows the importance of sticking with the classics.
Sweet Dreams Bakery is built on the relationships of their customers, some dating back to when his Papa and Mama first open doors some twenty years ago. The customers of then return with their own children or grandchildren, so having a spot of familiarity even as their selection changes with the passing times shows just how much his family cares for them.
Antonio first started out at the counter while he learns the tools of the trade on the side. When his Papa deems him worthy, he’s allowed to do the more technical side of baking. Measuring the ingredients, checking the timer on the ovens, all that fun stuff that eventually teaches him how to make these different baked items on his own.
It’s only when he reached twenty that Antonio is allowed to work on custom orders. The ones for large events like weddings are left to his parents, but he’s given the liberty to spearhead orders for smaller celebrations like birthdays or anniversaries. Antonio honestly would have done any job given, though he takes a certain amount of pride when he’s working on these orders.
The decorations needed to be more precise or out of the norm of what they usually do. When it calls for piping, this is where his talent truly shines. He finds the act strangely calming where his hands, usually shaking from one thing or another, remains perfectly steady as the pattern slowly comes to life.
This is what he feels when he’s piping the side of a custom cake that he’s in charge of. It’s for some kind of celebration for a writing group’s anniversary. All he knows that this is something that he needs to do well on. A lot is riding on his shoulders, and yet he feels strangely at ease. Antonio simply does what he’s good at until he finally steps back to take it all in.
A three layer cake of chocolate with vanilla icing and scallop borders made from buttercream. On each layer, the words are piped on till it forms Happy 7th Anniversary WE! The designs isn’t all that fancy but Antonio still find himself proud over this creation.
Satisfied with the look, he puts on the finishing touches. The deadline is near and he needs to ensure that this is nothing less than perfect!
‘...we’re all so captivated by her success, her abilities to transcend media and to inspire us to create and flourish within our unique abilities... to test our own limits...to discover what we may dream impossible... is actually tangible...’
The thin curtain is but the only thing sectioning Shauntal off from the main stage, a veil shielding her from the many eyes that dot along the audience. Even with the layer of fabric serving as partition, camera flashes drown the venue in white light, so bright that it seeps even into the stage’s nether regions. Percolating bubbles that shoot rushes of adrenaline, one after the other, throughout her petite frame.
Her fingers feel tingly, Shauntal’s clammy grip upon her latest bestseller doing little to prevent gravity from stealing the book right from under her. Between breaths, she listens. Intently, conspicuously.
‘... she’s certainly prided us, both here in Unova, and abroad...’
These... descriptors. In no way does she feel justified in owning any of them; she is feeling the anticipation of the moment she faces the captivated audience, feeling the weight crushing her shoulders and overcoming her. Deeper breaths, eyes shut. She’s earned this — why such cynicism? Of all days?
‘...again and again, she’s reinvigorated what it means to imagine...’
Just yesterday it seems, that Shauntal was stumbling about the outskirts of Ecruteak, spelunkering throughout the Dark Cave’s tunneling system, and finding herself amidst the shadows of Johto’s (and Kanto’s) storied past. That rich history, encapsulated within the pages of Ruin Maniac’s Dilemma. The book she had been writing since the moment she first picked up a quill. A story, as old as her own imagination. That plight, of both love and death. Of squalor, of luxury.
Oh, how it mirrored one bespectacled orphan, but disposable to the world.
And, yet:
‘...but, perhaps what we’ve grown to admire the most, is that tenacity to navigate through the ugliest parts of life... the times we’d do best to forget... no... our speaker tonight dares us to face those ugliest parts of ourselves, of each other...’
‘...to find exactly what makes life worth navigating in the first place... to fill that void, with love... with understanding... with mystery and nuance...’
Audience members begin rallying behind the speaker, much to the surprise of Shauntal. She feels a numbness overcoming her, but not before her eyes begin filling with teardrops ready for a release.
“Do people really view my work this way?”
The numbness gives way to a scene set still within time: a dilapidated library, books disheveled in towers, caked by dust. Neglected, forgotten, forlorn. It was upon reaching for the first atop the tower, that her journey through countless pages began. How, one after the other, they each found their companionship in the lonely, little girl. How their stories could, once again, breathe new life into another... how they weren’t neglected after all.
Or forgotten.
Or forlorn.
Clutching her chest, adrenaline doing it’s best to keep her upright, Shauntal listens. Intently, conspicuously.
‘...she measures life’s events in a way that many of us can’t... with a sense of bravery and pride...with of which, only so many of us can aspire...’
Wiping away each tear in their attempts to cascade across her cheeks, Shauntal holds tighter the book within her grasp. Her own offering, to that lonely, little girl. Who, upon the first lines of the first page, will find that she is no longer neglected. Or forgotten. Or forlorn.
But understood.
And, above all else, loved.
‘...without further introduction... may I present... Shauntal!’
