Short short story: Two Bros, A Bar and a Babe

Lou slammed his shot glass on the bar and stared at Thom. That piece of crap was pawing his girlfriend like he wasn’t even around to see it. He marched to the pool table and puffed out his chest. “Bru, looks like you’re getting handy with my girlfriend.”

Thom didn’t look round. He nuzzled Flem’s neck.

“Dude, the hell?” He shoved Thom, sending multicoloured balls skidding across the felt, like mice running for cover. A glass shattered.

Thom’s leather waistcoat was taut over the undulation of his muscles. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and inspected it for blood. Flem was sprawled on the pool table, tugging at her miniskirt to limit the number of sneak previews the guys at the bar got. Thom turned to face Lou. He grabbed the collar of his Ralph Lauren shirt. Lou’s mouth dehydrated.

“Bru, that’s my girl—” was all Lou managed before Thom’s fist shattered his cheek, slid across his nose, causing the cartilage to crack and splinter, and jammed into the top of his eye socket. He fell backwards, seeing stars, tasting blood and bone and feeling the hollow sound of his pelvis on the flagstones reverberate down his spine.

Thom shook his wrist, and inspected the knuckleduster. Only a slight dent over the index finger; not bad. He’d have it buffed out in the morning.

Short short story: Malmesbury Jane

The detective’s report said her body had been found behind the Malmesbury grain silos. When the workers complained about a smell, they’d discovered her, naked and rotting, in a black bag. Thus far, the cause of death was unknown. The yellow tag on her toe said “Malmesbury Jane”. Nobody had reported her missing and it would seem maggots had made a feast of her features; she reminded him of a shrunken head he’d seen on a trip to Ecuador. His wife Laney had been fascinated: she’d even updated her Facebook cover photo with a whole row of them. He shuddered and adjusted his goggles. Her body, apart from the obvious decay, was intact. That was surprising. No trauma to the skull. No obvious bruising and no sign of self-defence. He positioned foam blocks under her pelvis and strapped her legs into the stirrups. The smell reminded him of a description he’d read in The Physician’s Guide to Venereal Diseases in Victorian England. The doctor recalled needing laudanum to dull his senses after spending his days treating “commoners afflicted with ailments that foamed green and yeasty, leaving putrid trails in the surgery”. Malmesbury Jane was a textbook case. He flicked on his headlamp and leant forward to inspect her vagina. Forceps widened the entryway. He jumped back. He could’ve sworn there had been two eyes reflecting in the lamplight. His breathing matched his pulse. Berating himself, he stepped away from the examination table and went to have a sip of water from the bottle on his desk. Eyes? He’d been reading too many novels. That was all. The cold water tickled his throat and made him cough. He lifted his goggles. There was a strange buzz. He looked at the overhead light and made a mental note to have maintenance come and fix the noise. He returned his attention to Malmesbury Jane and lowered his goggles. The buzz became a hiss. He stepped closer. Her pelvis was moving. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Two tentacles emerged from her vagina. Everything went black.

Short short story: The Heat in the Kitchen

Monsieur Reynard surveyed his kitchen: rows of novices had paid twenty thousand Euros each to learn the art of French cooking from him. They eyed him, sweating in their whites, as he allowed the silence to swell like a soufflé. At his elbow, his assistant, Jacqueline, waited for his signal. Perhaps one of these scullery maids could come within striking distance of her talents – and even that was still far removed from his own brilliance, though he said so himself.

“You will find, on your benches...” He enjoyed the theatricality of pausing during instructions. “...the tools you need. You have three minutes to separate a dozen eggs.”

The novices sprang into action. He stalked between the benches. At least some of them had been practising. Except the runt at the end of the second row, who was flaking egg shell into the egg white.

“How difficult can it be to separate eggs?” The announcement brought the frenzy to a halt. The novice quivered.

“Have you not understood the basic techniques, boy?”

“Monsieur Reynard, perhaps if you would demonstrate to Pierre how he can improve?” He had almost forgotten about Jacqueline.

“I will not demonstrate! This is basic work. Any cook worth their salt can separate an egg.”

“Agreed, Monsieur, but since some are not used to separating with only their hands and the shell, perhaps you could give some pointers?”

“Jacqueline, they are separating eggs! Not deconstructing the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling!” There was a titter. Jacqueline took his arm and steered him towards the door.

“Monsieur, you must remember these are novices. They came to learn from you – the Master. Teach them.”

He balled his fists. With a sniff, he turned to the room. “Let’s begin again. Step by step this time.”

Short Story Sunday: Crossing Mrs Hardy

I dreaded speaking to Mrs Hardy. She never seemed to be able to look at any of my ideas without lacerating it with her red pen and telling me what she would have done or what she would have liked to see. There was so much riding on this writing project – my hopes for getting into Oxford depended on her approval. It was an open secret that because her son was the head of the faculty, he took all recommendations from her seriously. So far, I had failed to impress her. She didn’t like me. I had no idea why. I tried everything: handing in drafts for her to proof, asking for extra reading homework, volunteering as a peer tutor. Nothing seemed to change her opinion of me. She’d just look at me over the top of her spectacles with that smarmy expression at the corners of her mouth while she decimated yet another of my attempts.

“Ma’am? I have a question about our assignment.”

She was erasing poetry analysis from the whiteboard. “Speak.”

I looked at her back. “I have an idea I wanted to discuss with you. For question three? I’m thinking of submitting an essay on horses in World War I.”

Her erasing complete, she turned, her eyes on her desk. “Go on.” She began stacking papers and neatening the piles of books.

“I think I’d like to look at the equestrian side of war, ma’am. Ten million horses died and I wonder how the war would have been different without them.”

“What a pointless essay topic. If they didn’t use horses then it probably would’ve been oxen, mules or donkeys. Have you given this any thought at all, Eliza?”

She never looked at me. Not once. Bitch. “Ma’am, I think it would make for an interesting...”
“You keep saying ‘I think’, but there’s little evidence to support that. Honestly, you overestimate your chances of being a success in life unless you start.”

I began to shake and felt my nails piercing the leather of my binder. “With all due respect, I think you are wrong.”

That did it. She looked up, her stacked tyre neck tinged red.

“Might I remind you that my status in this school and in the intellectual community at large suggests otherwise?” Froth gathered on her lip.

“Yes, because you bully them.” The words were out before I could stop myself. “You’re not brilliant and people are too afraid to tell you so. You squash dreams and limit potential so that you can keep telling yourself that you’re the best.” Sweat gathered along my hairline and I was sure my binder looked as though it’d been scratched by a werewolf.

Two hard lines appeared in the tyre neck. “You insolent child. Who do you think you are to insult me? You’ve been alive for five minutes and suddenly you’re an expert on what makes good writing.” She shook her head at me. “You have no say here. Get out and come back with an apology and a better topic.”

“No. This topic is the one I want.”

She reached for a pile of papers on her desk and fanned through them before retrieving one. “‘Dear Mr Hardy’ – that’s the name of the faculty head at Oxford – ‘I should like to bring to your attention the application of Miss Eliza Frostrup. Miss Frostrup is, in my opinion, an excellent candidate for Oxford...’” She paused to see my reaction and then crumpled up the letter. The paper fell into her wastebasket along with my dreams.

“Come back with an apology and another topic.”

Poetry Post

Lifejacket

The canoe is beached,
Its yellow underbelly
A warm and soft plastic
Moulding around bodies.
The river exhales waves
On the shore and algae
Billows in the currents
That shudder along the
Surface -- running, running.
Two men approach, eyes
Soaking up the view of skin
And tanlines -- nature's finest.
It's hard to see the trees with
The sudden arrival of wood.
One man suggests a lifejacket
To rescue the awkward
Interaction of students and staff.
Behind sunglasses, eyes flit
And roll to the mental tempo
Of a sarcastic comeback
To distinguish the widening gap
Between the very old and the young.

Poetry Post

Ode to an Underaged Gentleman


They start up again: a symphony of sarcasm
Intent on derailing the scholastic atmosphere.
He works the muscles in his jaw, fists in lap
And resists the urge to slap a deserving offender.

The Gentleman possesses a multitude of talents,
Showcasing his wit and comic timing to few,
With a neat and precise approach to work,
Life and even his highschool love, concealing
Frustration he feels for the Injustice Crew.

While right now he's forced to socialise
With these inferior youths, I rest assured
That, with time, he'll come to forget all this:
He is, after all, an Underaged Gentleman.

Short Story Sunday: Svetlana

It had started as a joke, an idea for a prank to send Horace into married life with a funny, yet embarrassing story to tell. The website had promised Svetlana, a dark Russian beauty whose lineage could be traced to the Tsars. Only, Reginald hadn't actually expected to fall in love with her and her surprisingly good English over email. He adjusted his collar, which seem to stiffen against his neck with each passing minute. She had promised to be there, in a red dress like the Chris de Burgh song. She had promised.

The other diners seemed oblivious to his presence; he was relieved. He hardly felt like explaining himself to some nosy acquaintance, which is why this place, La Traviata, seemed perfect. A waiter hovered at the kitchen door. Three old timers grunted around a table, the ice tinkling against the tumblers as they slurped on whiskey. A playboy leant against the bar and smirked his way through a conversation with Imelda, the barmaid. Some kind of symphony rose in a crescendo of violins in the background. Behind him, the
Maître d' swooped on all the new arrivals. No sign of her yet. He toyed with a breadstick while he waited. The concept of fashionable lateness had never quite appealed to him and he couldn't fathom why on earth women took so long to preen and fluff and paint in front of mirrors. The Maître d' moved to the door again. Still not her. 

The past few weeks had been the happiest in his life. Ever since he'd decided to give Horace a fright by setting him up with a mail order bride two weeks before his actual wedding, Reginald had been secretly planning the grand reveal. Obviously he couldn't just invite some random woman into their lives. He'd needed to do research, to find out what all this entailed. After trawling a variety of sites, some of which promised things he'd never actually heard of, he firstly decided he would never again do that kind of research at work and secondly that he would go for the more discreet, more professional sites. A few charges to the credit card later and he was in. The money didn't bother him so much. Edmund and Stewie had promised to reimburse him the full cost of the prank. Well, a third each, anyway. So it hadn't seemed all that exorbitant when his bill swelled into thousands. He'd only be paying a third.

Besides, she was beautiful. And classy. She'd asked him about opera, fine wines and even recommended a Dostoyevsky he hadn't known existed. Despite the horror stories he'd read in the The Morning Post, she was eloquent and erudite -- a far cry from those Eastern European scallywags who preyed on men of a certain age. She was too perfect. He found himself dreaming of her, imagining her warm body next to his. Except he'd have to banish the image because he wasn't doing it for himself. It was for Horace. For Horace. How they would laugh when the story came out. The Maître d' approached his table. He looked up at the businesslike smile and felt a shadow fall over his evening.

"Signor Thistlethwaite? I deeply apologise, sir. These men here wish to speak with you." He stood back and two trench coats stepped forward. 
"I will leave you to it, signore." The Maître d' retreated.
Reginald swallowed. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"
"You are Reginald Thistlethwaite?"
"Yes."
"Mr Thistlethwaite, we have reason to believe that you have been conducting business of a clandestine nature. We should like you to accompany us to the police station."
"Business? What business? There must be some mistake." Reginald's collar threatened to choke him.
"Sir, we would prefer not to discuss this here," said the second trench coat.
"Now see here," he steeled himself, "I have no idea who you are and I have a right to know what I am being accused of. I am a decent tax-paying citizen and I'm not going with you."
The trench coats exchanged looks. The first spoke again. "Might we sit down, sir?"
Reginald gestured at the seats opposite him. 
"We understand you are meeting a young woman here tonight, Mr Thistlethwaite."
Reginald paled.
"Svetlana Aranov. Is that correct?"
He nodded.
"Are you aware, Mr Thistlethwaite, that she is a sixteen year old student at Crawley High School?"
He slumped in his chair. The world was a blur.
"We believe, Mr Thistlethwaite, that you have fallen prey to an organised crime syndicate. Did you provide any details, such as your credit card, to her?"
His head lolled.
"Can you explain to us, please, why you were interacting with an underaged girl on the internet?"
His mouth tasted of parchment. "It was a joke. All a joke."
The second trench coat snickered. "A joke, sir?"
"My friend Horace is getting married. We were going to set him up with her as a joke."
"Now there's one I haven't heard."
The first trench coat glared at him. "So, why the contact and the meeting here, sir? This is quite a drive from where you live." 
"Neutral territory. I wanted to make sure she was who she said she was."
"In a restaurant like La Traviata? Good god, man! You could have met her at a post office or a parking lot."
"Sounds to me like he likes her, Bill."
"I think you may be right, Fred."
"So do you think he planned on wooing her tonight?"
"Most definitely. I'm sure he ordered the meal in advance. Oysters and such. For wooing."
Reginald felt himself burning up. "It wasn't like that."
"With all due respect, sir, that's what they all say."
"Come on, Reggie. The game is up. Svetlana isn't coming. But you're coming with us. How does ten to fifteen sound to you? Mind you, Bill, I don't think orange suits his pallor."
"Lord no! We'll put in a request to get him the white and grey stripes."

He felt disjointed as they shuffled him out of the restaurant, the glares of the other diners and the Maître d' trailing him, Bill and Fred. There was no Svetlana, only shame.