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The smell of chocolate chips in Canberra’s town hall was sweet.
Cloying.
Accusing.
Cookies marched to a precise line-up over long tables, their dark chocolate chips arranged in exact spaces in perfectly pressed dough.
That shaped the baker’s hearts in absolute symmetry – they HAD to get the taste of the cookies JUST SO.
A donation jar was a gracious sentient on a corner table,
greeted, then ignored.
Because the chocolate chip dough had to rise to yeast perfection.
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The judges’ eyes swept with laser exactness over the cookie lines, their nods synchronous- the cookies had to grace the sides of the moulds, with no hint of space.
The fingers of bakers pressed into dough with near-obsessive force, the thumps of their hearts orchestrating as they eradicate each offensive lump within.
Their eyes fell quickly on the donation jar.
That sighed, unnoticed.
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The day of the great chocolate chip bake-off dawned, grey clouds masking sunlight.
People entered Canberra Hall in droves, greeting the immaculate cookie lines with polite applause.
The sound of the claps fell hollowly on the floor.
The donation jar stood on a table in the corner, a consummate wallflower observing the proceedings.
The guests passed it without glance or greeting.
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The day ended, success resounding from the walls of the hall.
Dusk fell with discoloured red hues.
The cookies were gone.
The donation jar peered keenly from the shadows.
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