Very short stories
Hot Chocolate Sauce - A story for Della

It was a solemn affair and the family were dressed formally, and wore long faces.  Matilda looked at Cornelius out of the corner of her eye - and saw him looking at their son Frederick who was, she noted with disgust, licking his lips.  Drusilla came into the room and glowered at her brother - Frederick ignored her and scowled at his plate.  The joint he thought was over cooked - almost charred.  But he liked the hot chocolate sauce that covered most of it.  There were no vegetables - he laughed.  Drusilla giggled.  But no one drooled - the saliva did not flow freely.  

Her Dad had always been strange, Matilda thought to herself, but she had never realised quite how strange. Yes, he was - or had been for most of his oddly eventful life - an eminent psychiatrist.  She shuddered - how embarrassing it all was.  The book about pigs had a good chapter on slaughtering and how to joint the beast; but it was very old, and she had found it difficult to follow.  What had made Dad think of such an idea?  He had been under the weather with a bad cold that is all, and she did not see the connection.  

Cornelius looked at her just then and raised his eyebrows quizzically.  Matilda nodded.  All at the same time they raised their knives and forks - and fiddled with their food.  Frederick suddenly ate a big mouthful and made a face at Drusilla - who screamed and ran out.  The doorbell rang and everyone froze.  No one usually rang at 3 am on a Monday morning.  It kept ringing. Cornelius slowly opened the door.  A policeman and a woman PC stood at the door.  “We are making enquiries about Dr Hiram Zee Binswanger - he has been missing for a week now - we understand some relatives may live here?”  Drusilla screamed again, and started to cry rather loudly.  Frederick laughed demonically - and said, in a strange high pitched voice “We are eating Granddad now - with hot chocolate sauce - it is what he wanted - he is very tasty though a bit tough - but the chocolate sauce is scrumptious”

The meal at an end, the six of them felt bloated but happy.  The Chilean Merlot had gone down very well.  Nothing was left - and they had certainly honoured the last Will and Testament of that unusual and philanthropic personage - Granddad - alias Dr Hiram Zee Binswanger MD and Master of Lunacy, University of Transylvania.

Sandy Burnfield
New Years Day 2005

For Liz and all my dog women friends....

“I stropped off in a strop - with the dogs”

Truffle allowed these words to reverberate around his domed shaped cranium before averting his eyes and responding “All men are bastards” which he thought might be expected by Becky Creighton -Smith.  She had pierced him through the heart with a laser-like stare and threatening smile.

Truffle had lived for over half a century and he was just beginning to understand women - or at least some of them.  He was also trying hard to be a bastard himself, and thought that he might eventually succeed if he kept practicing - but had failed again.

By saying “All men our bastards” and colluding with Becky with the electric blue eyes he had yet again failed to be a bastard himself.  Carl Jung had said something to the effect that nice people were people with nasty ideas - and Truffle thought that the opposite was also true - that bastards were men with nice ideas - and he wanted to be one very badly - to be like his friend Scrapps who referred to people who were not bastards as “motley fuckers”

Truffle did not want to be a motley fucker but he knew that the paranoid potter Scrapps had labelled him thus.  What would Scrapps have said to Becky if this had happened in the pottery class? Truffle could not think, but it didn't matter because at this point he felt a warm wet sensation on his left calf - and realised that one of Becky's dogs must have peed on him - what now - to ignore it like a nice person with increasingly nasty ideas or mention it.  Mention - hardly the right response - to complain - too wimpish - no he had to be a bastard!  

Truffle tried to look at the stunning Becky, and said under his breath “Your dog has peed on my leg.”  Becky pricked her ears, and growled “What did you say, you spineless jelly-bag - Truffle look at me - what did you say just now - speak up you silly little man!”

“Your dog - your dogs are very nice - all sugar and spice”

Becky curled her lip, and Truffle knew even more surely that, like most men, he was not a bastard but a motley fucker.

“Normal bollocks” barked Becky, and bared her canines menacingly.

Sandy, 4thJuly 2005