While randomly going through old files on my computer, I found a load of short (very short) stories that I wrote when I was about 15. They tickled me so much that I decided AGAINST writing the long complicated blog that I definitely would have written, and have instead decided to copy/paste some of these stories instead. Enjoy.
Dinner at La Madame
Frederick wiped his lips delicately with a napkin and glanced out of the window for the fifth time that evening.
“I’m going to help him,” he said resolutely, and took another sip of wine. (Chateu De Gauche ’49, an excellent year). Franz, sitting at the other side of the table, sighed and dipped a piece of bread into his stew.
“Fabian, stop being such a saint! Why bother? There are plenty of homeless people on the street. There’s lots of stew, old boy, just settle down and have another ladleful. Fabian! Another portion for Mr Hopkins here!”
The waiter sidled up and heaped another serving of stew onto Frederick’s plate. That was all that La Madame served; the stew. But what a stew it was! Although, at €1499 a pot, it was certainly pricy. Worth it, though. It was probably the only joint in Paris that served stew of this quality.
Frederick looked out the window again at the tramp sitting in the snow. Covered in newspapers, freezing, shivering, he was a pitiful sight. His heart bled for him.
“I’m sure that somebody should go and get him,” he murmured. “It doesn’t seem right to just leave him to die in the road. It’s… a waste.” He stood up, smoothed his designer trousers, put on his designer hat, picked up his designer cane, and slipped into his designer jacket. “I’m going to get him, bring him in.” He picked up a glass of wine as he got up. And some bread.
“Don’t bother!” sighed Franz whistfully, although he knew it was a lost cause. Frederick was always picking people up from the street; bums, the unemployed, lost children, and taking them home for dinner. It was probably why he enjoyed La Madame so much; it catered only for the rich, the charitable, those who could afford to look after the poor for a few months, feed them, put some meat on their bones. Very exclusive.
Frederick pushed open the heavy iron door of the restaurant, to the amusement of the other two diners, and wandered out into the dark, freezing, abandoned street. Franz watched idly, chewing on a lump of meat, as he crossed the road over to where the man was lying. He reached him, talked to him, gave him some wine. The bread. A little money. A cigarette. A crack on the head with his cane.
The tramp slumped over without a fight. There was a little applause from the diners, and waiter sprinted across the road to help Frederick carry him back into the restaurant. Carefully, like you would with a big piece of meat.
“Phew! A bit smelly, isn’t it?” said Franz jokingly.
“It will be deliceuse with a petite vin rouge, Monsieur!” called the waiter as they carried him into the kitchen.
A few seconds later, Frederick re-appeared, wiping his hands with a napkin.
“Well, that’s dinner for tomorrow sorted, then,” he said, and ate another forkful of stew.
The End
Over the years I must have written about 4 stories about cannibalistic restaurants. They always amuse me.
The Rat
“Honey, I’m home!” called George in his 1950’s American sitcommy way. Silence. The house was dark. Empty. Frowning, he put down his briefcase, hung up his hat, and strolled down the hall.
“Honey?”
Silence.
“Where’s my dinner?” George was a modern man; he allowed his wife independence, just so long as his steak was on the table when he got home. He sauntered past the thick wooden pantry door, and into the kitchen. If Mary were anywhere, she’d be in here.
She was. And she was crying; her mascara was running down her face. She ran to him with a cry.
“Oh, George!” He put his manly arms around her and sniffed.
“Honey, what’s wrong? I don’t smell anything cooking. What’s for dinner?”
“George!”
“What?”
“I can’t… I can’t get into the pantry. I locked it in there.”
“What?”
“The RAT! There was a rat! It was huge!”
George laughed in his manly way. Women! Can’t live with ‘em, can’t eat without ‘em.
“Deary me. A rat, eh?”
“A huge one!” Mary burst into tears. “I came back from the market, and it was in the pantry! I saw it and I locked the door before it could escape. Now I’m too scared to go in.”
“Why? It’s just a little rat.” He disentangled himself and walked over to the pantry door. He reached for the handle. Mary threw herself in front of him.
“No! George! It wasn’t a little rat! It was huge! I swear it nearly battered down the door! It’ll kill you!” She screamed hysterically.
George slapped her. She stopped.
“Don’t be stupid, woman. It’s a rat. I’m bigger than any rat, and I’m hungry. So I’m going to go in there and kill it.”
He thought for a moment.
“Fetch my gun.”
Meekly, Mary obeyed. George stroked the barrel lovingly.
"Now, don’t be afraid if you hear any loud noises. It will probably be the gun going off. I’m going to shoot that mean old rat and you can make me my dinner. Alright?”
“Yes, George. Be careful. It’s huge!”
“Mary, don’t be silly. Go upstairs and darn my socks, or something. The nightmare will be over soon.”
“It’s huge!”
“Mary.”
She obediently went. Right, now for the rat.
Bravely, he kicked open the door and ran in, waving his weapon. The door swung shut behind him. The rat was sitting on a stool, eating a potato. Mary had been right. It was HUGE! In fact, it was nine feet tall, looked to weigh about fifteen stone, heavily muscular, wearing an eye patch, and smoking a cigar. It fixed George with its one beady eye and growled menacingly.
Panting with fear, George raised his gun. He fumbled with the safety catch. The rat slowly reached forward and plucked it out of his hand with one scabrous paw. George squealed and ran for the door.
Mary heard the gunshot. She smiled. George was so brave! How silly she was, being scared of a rat! Although, it HAD been rather big…
The End
Beats me.
The Park
The paeophile and the child stared at the corpse of the mother. She was as dead as a doorbell – but you couldn’t tell. She could have been sleeping. The child looked at the corpse with emotionless eyes. The paedophile at the child and licked his lips. It was a good job he didn’t know what had just happened; the truth would have scared him off.
“So,” whispered the paedophile, “That your mummy?”
The child stared at him. Nothing. The paedophile coughed out a lump of brown phlegm and withdrew a bag from his anorak pocket.
“D’ya want some sweeties? I’ve more sweeties in my car if you wanna follow me.” He was anxious to get out of here. His mind flashed to the newspaper headlines. CANNIBAL MURDERS IN LONDON – MADMAN ON THE LOOSE. With all those grisly child murders in the area, the police were extra vigilant. Wouldn’t do to have a copper wandering past and looking too carefully at what was going on. The park was abandoned (nobody went out with kids with a cannibal-murderer on the loose), but you never knew.
The child took a sweet and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. Spat it out and tugged slowly at the corpse on the bench. Hurredly, the paedophile pulled his hand away, enclosed it in his own.
“Heh-heh,” he muttered in his paedophilic way, “Let’s not… wake… mummy, shall we? Let’s go for a walk.”
The child looked at the mother on the bench longingly, but was pulled away.
“Lets go to my car. I have nice sweets there.”
The child followed silently, unwillingly. He hadn’t seen (he was in the playground at the time) the sudden, brutal attack. The woman hadn’t had time to scream, to call for help, to warn. Nobody had seen what’d happened. Well, he had to forfill his urges, didn't he? The paedophile scratched at his acne-covered skin and glanced around. Why was he so nervous this time? This kid wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last. Anyway, he’d already gone way too far, he couldn’t go back. The mother wasn’t gonna be getting up from that bench any time soon. Still, leaving her there… seemed a little risky.
A newspaper blew past. He just caught the headline out the corner of his eye and shivered. He looked around again (STILL NO POLICE!), and led the child to his car, a maroon piece of rust that was filled with candy-wrappers and toy teletubbies.
“Here we are. What’s your name?” he said lustfully, drooling at the touch of the boy’s soft skin, his beautiful hair. The child looked up at him and grinned, revealing a mouth of razor sharp teeth. Suddenly, he didn’t look quite so attractive.
“That is not important, Earthman,” boomed the child in a baritone drawl, and bit off his face.
The End.
HAHAHAHAHA. That is called 'misdirection'.
I amuse myself far more than is appropriate.
| |
No comments:
Post a Comment