Avaria in Exile

Avaria sat in her lounging chair. It was blue and soft, with a carpet-like texture. There were tears on the side, where the cat had gotten to it, and the seat was worn down by long use. Avaria remembered where they'd bought it, years ago, back in the ghetto. They'd been poor, even then, but Avaria had insisted on this chair - so soft and comfortable - and her parents reluctantly bought it. It had been hers, ever since, and she'd taken it with her... even in exile.

"But that's quite enough of that," Avaria said decisively. She rose to her feet. "If I am to be exiled, even for such stupid, inane reasons as those given, then I shall make the most of it."

She stopped and considered.

"What shall I make of it?"

She sat back into her chair to think.

"Revolution is quite the wrong idea. Counterproductive. Sedition, much the same. Knitting - a poor habit, too sedentary by far. I want a good omen, something transitory but pleasing -"

Avaria stood again as she had a realization. Pointing her finger toward the low ceiling, she declared: "I shall make cake!"

She began gathering ingredients at once. Flour, here. Baking powder. Icing, sugar - no coloring? This cake needs no coloring! - some lemon, a bit of cocoa - where? ah! There! - and she was ready to begin. Here, a platter, suitable for cake. Leavening and flour - lots of flour - sugar and lemon and cocoa all mixed in, and a fly - whoops, scoop out that bit - set to bake, and now to wait. Done - now the final firming and shaping, the icing and such on top, and done! A cake!

To her great surprise, Avalia saw words in her cake, natural striations of cocoa-and-lemon flavoring. "The Cake Is a Lie", it told her in cursive, flowing script.

Avalia was fairly certain that she hadn't done that.

Post-Script: She ate it anyway.

Post-Post-Script: It was tasty!

Post-Post-Post-Script: Perhaps images later.