Chapter 6 – The Stillness Beneath
- G.P. Torte
- Sep 17
- 2 min read
“Some desserts rise through heat. Others are shaped by stillness.”
High above Pastrypolis, nestled in the frostbitten peaks of the Glazebite Mountains, sat the Monastery of Quiet Bakes — a serene, snow-covered sanctuary of silence, balance, and pastry perfection.
At its highest perch, atop a stone meditation platform, sat a figure unmoving. He was round but powerful, still but immense. A cheesecake, cool and composed, topped with meticulously placed blueberries that glistened like frozen sapphires.
He was Blue Bulk.
Wrapped in a soft caramel robe, Blue Bulk had been meditating for six hours and fourteen minutes — exactly. The winds howled, snow whispered across the mountainside, but he did not budge. His crust was firm. His center chilled to optimal balance.
Inside the monastery, caramel-robed dessert monks stirred batter in silence. Ovens warmed at precise intervals. No whisks clattered. No timers beeped. It was harmony.
One young monk peered out the frosted window.
"He’s been like that all day again," the young sponge cake whispered.
"He listens," said the elder, adjusting his powdered sugar glasses. "Not with ears. With presence. The world always speaks before it crumbles."
Outside, Blue Bulk opened his eyes.
A pulse.
Faint. Far below. A flash of syrup and fire — like a voice not spoken but felt.
He did not smile. He simply stood. The snow melted around his base as he rose, slow and solid.
He walked to the edge of the platform. Far beneath him, the city of Pastrypolis sparkled like spun sugar.
“I felt him.”
The breeze caught his robe.
And with no more than a nod to the horizon, Blue Bulk began his descent.
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