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: A Plastic Surgeon, A Diner and A Star

With unfocused eyes, Franklin stared down at the puce-coloured envelope on the Formica table. Behind him the neon sign of The Greasy Spoon intermittently buzzed to life, reflecting on the chrome napkin-holder to his left. He had his back to the room -- fewer people with whom to make eye-contact -- but took note of the noises that illustrated the other diners to him. He hoped the slurper behind him, who he supposed was a rotund truck driver, complete with a sweaty check shirt, stained jeans, branded baseball cap and toothpick, would leave soon. So far, it seemed, neither the slurper nor the envelope was going anywhere.