The Curious Case of Mr. Septimus Scribble and the Sentient Scone — a short story for English reading and speaking

Mr. Septimus Scribble was a man of meticulous habits and a profound love for afternoon tea. Every day, precisely at four o’clock, he would settle into his favourite armchair by the window with a freshly baked scone, a dollop of strawberry jam, and a generous spoonful of clotted cream. His scones were always sourced from Mrs. Higgins’ Heavenly Humbles bakery, an establishment renowned for its exceptionally light and fluffy creations.

One Tuesday, however, Mr. Scribble noticed something peculiar about his scone. As he reached for the jam pot, the scone seemed to wobble — just a tiny tremor, mind you, but enough to make Mr. Scribble, a man who prided himself on his unflappability, raise a quizzical eyebrow.

He peered closer. The scone, a golden-brown orb of crumbly delight, appeared to be breathing. Very faintly, almost imperceptibly, but breathing nonetheless. Mr. Scribble blinked, wondering if he’d perhaps added a touch too much sherry to his lunchtime trifle.

The next day, the scone was at it again. This time, as he buttered it, he distinctly felt a slight resistance, as if the scone were tensing. Mr. Scribble, a retired lexicographer with a penchant for the precise meaning of words, began to feel distinctly uneasy.

He decided to conduct an experiment. On Thursday, instead of his usual strawberry jam, he offered the scone a sliver of particularly pungent Stilton cheese. The scone recoiled. Not in a dramatic, rolling-off-the-plate sort of way, but with a subtle, almost imperceptible shrinking in size.

Mr. Scribble was now thoroughly intrigued. He began to treat his daily scone not as a mere baked good, but as a subject of intense scientific scrutiny. He offered it various delicacies: a sliver of smoked salmon (it quivered with what he could only describe as delight), a segment of pickled onion (it remained stubbornly inert), and a single, plump garden slug (the scone actually seemed to shudder).

He confided in his neighbour, Mrs. Periwinkle, a woman whose imagination was as wild and unruly as her prize-winning roses. Mrs. Periwinkle, far from dismissing his claims, declared that the scones at Heavenly Humbles had always had a certain je ne sais quoi. She recounted tales of a batch that had once sung a chorus of Happy Birthday to a bewildered customer.

Mr. Scribble, emboldened by Mrs. Periwinkle’s fantastical anecdotes, continued his observations. He discovered that his scone seemed to respond to his moods. When he was cheerful, it appeared plump and buoyant. When he was feeling glum, it would deflate slightly, its golden hue dimming.

One afternoon, feeling particularly lonely, Mr. Scribble began to talk to the scone. He told it about his day, his aches and pains, and his profound disappointment at the latest crossword puzzle in the Times. To his astonishment, the scone seemed to listen. It would subtly tilt in his direction when he raised his voice and remain perfectly still when he spoke softly.

A strange sort of companionship developed between the old lexicographer and the sentient scone. Mr. Scribble found himself looking forward to their daily tea ritual with an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in years. He even gave the scone a name: Sidney.

One Sunday, Mrs. Higgins, the formidable owner of Heavenly Humbles, paid Mr. Scribble a visit. She had heard rumours – whispers amongst her clientele – of a certain gentleman who was overly attached to his scones.

‘Mr. Scribble,’ she boomed, her voice like a foghorn in a teacup, ‘I understand you have been fraternising with my baked goods.’

Mr. Scribble, flustered, tried to explain Sidney’s sentience, his reactions to various foods, his apparent empathy. Mrs. Higgins listened, her face an impassive mask.

‘Nonsense!’ she declared finally. ‘Scones are for eating, not conversing with!’ She snatched Sidney from the plate. ‘I shall take this unruly scone back to my bakery for quality control.’

Mr. Scribble was distraught. He pleaded, he reasoned, but Mrs. Higgins was unmoved. She marched out of his cottage, Sidney clutched firmly in her hand.

The next day, Mr. Scribble returned to Heavenly Humbles, his heart heavy with loss. He approached the counter, where Mrs. Higgins stood, a smug look on her face.

‘Well, Mr. Scribble,’ she said, polishing a tray with a vigour that suggested she had thoroughly dealt with Sidney, ‘I have conducted my quality control. The scone was, as I suspected, perfectly ordinary. I ate it myself with a nice cup of Earl Grey.

Mr. Scribble felt a wave of despair wash over him. He had imagined it all. The wobbling, the breathing, the subtle responses – just the fanciful musings of a lonely old man.

He sighed and ordered a plain biscuit, the joy of afternoon tea now utterly diminished.

As Mrs. Higgins reached for a biscuit tin, he noticed something on the counter. A small, golden-brown crumb. An exceptionally light and fluffy crumb. And as he looked closer, he saw it wobble — just a tiny tremor.

Mrs. Higgins, meanwhile, let out a rather peculiar little burp. A burp that sounded, just for a fleeting moment, remarkably like a contented sigh. And then, she patted her stomach and said, in a voice that seemed to have gained a certain fluffiness, ‘My word, Mr. Scribble, these new biscuits are simply divine!’