By Redha Rubaie & Willliam Shaw
He fell from the platform with a dull thud, as the red smear on his suit grew larger.
There was a strange glory in being assassinated. The annual Yorkshire Bake-off wasn’t exactly the grassy knoll, but you couldn’t have everything.
The attendants were panicking, like they were important enough to be assassinated too. Idiots.
This day would be remembered: death among the fruitcakes. He’d always been told not to call his voters that. He wheezed, and eviscerated, his vision turning black.
Next to him, the baker of Yorkshire’s best Stollen collapsed.
The runner-up pocketed his weapon, and quietly left the tent.
I don’t know…this story just feels a little half-baked : D . Just kidding, it’s good stuff, like the idea and the title is perfect.
The last sentence is a minor masterpiece. Wonderful job.