Archive for the ‘Short Story’ Category

Cannibal’s Home Recipes

Monday, March 16th, 2009

Hector smiled as the homeless man fell face forward into the soup.

The soup was heavy laden with arsenic.

Hector then dragged the man into his bathtub where he had a huge chainsaw and proceeded to cut the man up. The head, arms and torso he wrapped up in tiny packages and put downstairs in the freezer.

He was feeling like some thighs and legs tonight for dinner so that’s what he had.

Hector had been into cannibalism for some five years now.

It had started when he had been stranded in a log cabin in the woods during a snowstorm and the only books he had to read were Silence of The Lambs and Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris.

He had had nothing to eat during those 3 days he was stranded so when a rescue party arrived, he rewarded his rescuers by knocking them on the head and promptly eating them.

The first couple of years of his new found appetite had been difficult.

For Hector had made the mistake of knocking off and eating some of his acquaintances.

The police would then be around asking annoying questions about the disappeared.

But by concentrating on total strangers and knocking them off and eating them, he discovered no nosy police detectives would come to his house.

Hector cooked the homeless man’s thighs and legs in a garlic and olive oil sauce laced with a touch of paprika. It was absolutely delicious.

When he had finished eating, Hector belched loudly and decided to go for a walk to ease his digestion.

While walking through the neighbourhood, he happened to come across a new vegetarian restaurant. For some reason, despite the heavy meal he had eaten, Hector felt a sudden craving for vegetarian food.

He walked inside the restaurant and ordered a salad.

The restaurant was a small place and over the counter was a small TV set.

The Larry King Show was on.

Larry: So we are continuing our conversation with Gabby Mugabe the noted African voodoo witch doctor. Mr. Mugabe, will you be willing to give us a demonstration of your powers?

Gabby Mugabe: Certainly, in this city, I call on all murder victims who have been murdered in the past 24 hours to come back to life.

20 minutes later, a woman who had been sitting at the table by the window suddenly screamed.

There outside a headless torso and arms could be seen rolling down the street.

A frost covered head followed along.

The body parts stopped outside the door of the vegetarian restaurant.

Hector meanwhile was undergoing what he thought was the worst case of indigestion in his life.

It felt like his guts were literally being ripped open.

Which is what they were.

A pair of human legs ripped their way out of Hector’s stomach.

Hector naturally died as a result of this occuring.

The arms that were outside managed to get the door of the vegetarian restaurant open.

And soon head, torso, arms and legs were reunited and the walking dead man walked down the street.

Meanwhile Hector lay dead on the floor with his guts ripped open.

“Must have been something he ate,” the local newspaper’s restaurant reviewer and food critic stated.

That night, dozens of people who had been in that restaurant swore off the vegetarian lifestyle.

The End.

Posted in Horror story, Short Story | No Comments »

The Abominable Snowman

Monday, March 9th, 2009

Sir Hilary Edmund was climbing in the Himalayas.

He wasn’t seeking to climb Mount Everest.

Loads of people had already done that.

He was in search of the Abominable Snowman- that strange creature of Nepalese and Tibetan folklore- the creature called the Yeti.

Sir Hilary Edmund had spent his life searching for monsters and strange beasts.

He had spent time in northern Washington state and southern British Columbia searching for the Sasquatch.

He had spent time in Scotland searching for the Loch Ness monster.

And he had spent time in Hollywood searching for Paris Hilton’s singing voice.

But alas! It had all come to nought.

But this time it was different- he felt. This time he felt that he would come face to face with the Abominable Snowman.

Edmund turned the corner of the mountain trail…

… and there was the abominable snowman…

“Good God,” Edmund exclaimed.

 

The buttons on the snowman sort of resembled eyes kinda, the carrot on the snowman sort of resembled a nose kinda, and the black felt etching below the nose sort of resembled a mouth kinda, the corn cobs sticking out of the side of the head sort of resembled ears kinda, and the black top hat on the top of his head sort of resembled a black top hat kinda. The scarf tied around the neck of the snowman had colours that were sort of a cross between expressionism and cubism. At the feet of the snowman lay a Campbelll’s soup can personally autographed by Andy Warhol.

Sir Hilary Edmund’s Nepalese guide translated the inscription below the snowman into English for Edmund, “This snowman was made in 1965 by students of the New York School of Modern Art
and has stood perfectly preserved in these temperatures ever since.”

Sir Hilary Edmund trudged back down the mountain again.

He had some idea of how Clementine Churchill must have felt when a modern art sculptor unveiled a bust he had done of her husband Sir Winston Churchill.

Winnie himself had humourously and accurately quipped at the time, “A most remarkable example of… modern… art.” 

Clementine wasn’t so forgiving.

After Winston’s death, she ordered the sculpture destroyed.

How sad for the future of good taste in art, Sir Hilary Edmund reflected, that this world’s most abominable snowman hadn’t had a wife.

The End.

Posted in Humour, Short Story | No Comments »

Cupid

Friday, February 13th, 2009

Just another Valentine’s Day.

Just another Saturday night.

Except it was a Saturday night that was a Valentine’s Day.

And once again Cupid was working.

Valentine’s Day.

It was his one big day of the year.

Santa Claus had Christmas.

The Easter Bunny had Easter.

And Al Gore had April Fool’s Day.

But this, Cupid thought, this was his day.

This was his moment, this was his time.

To paraphrase Barack Obama.

Cupid set out for the nearest nightclub with his arrows.

After a short kerfuffle with the bouncer, he drew back an arrow and shot the bouncer in the heart.

Just as a male ballet dancer wearing pink tutus arrived on the scene.

The tattooed muscle bound bouncer ran after the pink tutued
male ballet dancer who shouted, “Help! “Help!”.

Cupid entered the nightclub.

He noticed a girl with pink hair sitting up at the bar.

“Hey Psyche,” the bartender said to the pink haired girl, “what will it be?”.

“A Pink Lady,” Psyche replied.

Cupid shot his arrow at Psyche.

“Now for the bartender,” he thought.

But he was having problems getting the arrow into his bow…

and he accidently shot himself in the heart.

Psyche gazed at Cupid.

And Cupid gazed at Psyche.

And after so many eons, Cupid himself now had a girlfriend.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, everyone!

Posted in Humour, Short Story, Valentine's Day | No Comments »

No One Knows Where The Circle Ends

Friday, February 6th, 2009

Bernie the Baker reached for four chocolate eclairs.

It was for the same kid who had been buying them every
Friday afternoon now for the past 2 years.

The kid didn’t say much. Just bought four
chocolate eclairs. And left the shop.

Bernie looked at the clock. Yep, just after
4 o’ clock- the same time every Friday
the kid bought them.

There was a late afternoon rush of business
people on their way home who stopped to buy 
his goods.

At 6 o’ clock, Bernie closed up shop.

He walked around the block to the little
deli where he ate every Friday night.

He couldn’t handle going back to his apartment
alone every Friday night.

Friday night had been his and Estelle’s night to go out-
have dinner, a glass of wine and then go to a movie,
a concert or a stage play.

How he missed those times.

He didn’t think Estelle would have been the first to go.

Then he thought.

That was selfish of him.

How did he think Estelle would have felt had he been
the first to go?

Living life without the one you truly love must be hard for
anyone male or female.

Being the one left behind is not easy for anyone no
matter who they are.

Of course these days there were plenty of husbands and wives
who felt quite relieved when their spouses die.

But that wasn’t true for him and Estelle.

His and Estelle’s had been a golden love story- one of those
rare and too unfrequent occasions when two soulmates actually met
and encountered one another in the right place at the right time-
the encounter that the rest of us can only dream about.

 

 

Some of us may even think that such a love does not exist.

Because it’s not part of our life, our experience.

Bernie ate his cold meat sandwich and thought back on his
life.

He thought of Richard’s Milkshake Bar.

Wow. Richard’s Milkshake Bar.

He hadn’t thought of that place in years.

A place he had visited when he was a kid.

Oh, how he had loved Richard’s Milk Shake Bar.

Chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, blueberry, raspberry and seemingly
every other flavour under the sun.

You know he had never tasted a milkshake as good before or since.

There was just something about Richard’s milkshakes that was different
and better than any other milkshake.

What was that secret ingredient?

Probably love, his romantic of a mother would have said.

Some people carry out their jobs with love
and it makes all the difference in the world his mother
told him.  Love. Passion. It’s what created excellence not greed or desire
for fame, his mother told him.

Funny, the time he had walked into Richard’s Milkshake Bar
and had been told the old man had died came as a stunning 
blow to him.

He had felt Richard would always be there. Always be there serving
his delicious milkshakes. But he was gone.

Still Bernie ordered a mikshake from the new
owner.

But it wasn’t the same.

And it would never be the same.

Funny, the day he walked away from
Richard’s Mikshake Bar the day Richard
had died, Bernie knew then that he would
look on this period of his life as a golden
age, a golden age as far as milkshakes were
concerned.

 

 

Bernie finished his sandwich and got
up to pay the bill.

As he did so, Bernie felt a sharp piercing
pain in his chest.

He fell to the floor gasping for breath.

Someone call an ambulance, the deli
manager shouted.

Bernie looked at the whirling images
of faces now around him.

The manager, the cashier, the waitress,
the paramedics as they came rushing
through the door.

Then he looked at the woman to his immediate
right.

Estelle.

It was Estelle.

How young and beautiful she looked.

Bernie looked up at her and smiled.

And then closed his mortal eyes for the last
time.

Paul entered the bakery promptly at
4 PM the next Friday afternoon.

He looked around for signs of old Bernie.

Where was old Bernie?

He looked at the chocolate eclairs.

What was up with the chocolate eclairs?

They didn’t look the same.

“Can I help you?” a gruff voice spoke to him.

“Um… where’s Bernie?” Paul asked.

“Bernie’s dead,” the voice answered very
unsympathetically, “he croaked last Friday
night.”

“Um…” Bernie looked at the chocolate eclairs,
“I’ll have… I’ll have… one chocolate eclair please.”

 

 

“One chocolate eclair?” the man answered, “is
that all?”.

“Yes,” Paul nodded.

As he walked down the street after
leaving the bakery, Paul bit into the solitary
chocolate eclair.

No, it wasn’t the same.

And even though young as Paul was, he
felt the voice of wisdom telling him that somehow
this was the end of the golden age as far as
chocolate eclairs were concerned.

He would never again taste a chocolate eclair
as good as Bernie’s had been.

15 years later as Paul sat on a bench
on a promenade overlooking the river
valley, he munched on a ham and cheese
sandwich and started thinking about
Bernie’s Bakery.

Funny, he hadn’t thought about Bernie’s Bakery
in ages. Bernie’s Bakery. And those yummy
mouthwatering out of this world chocolate
eclairs.

What was in it that made them so good?,
Paul wondered.

“Hi, is it all right if I sit here?” a soft gentle
feminine voice asked him.

Paul looked up. A beautiful woman in a multicoloured
spring dress stood there. 

“Sure,” Paul stammered somewhat.

Paul had always usually felt comfortable around pretty women
but this woman somehow felt different.

 

 

Not that Paul didn’t feel comfortable in her presence
but he felt extremely awkward as well for some reason.

Both extremely extremely extremely comfortable and at
the same time awkward. It was a strange sensation.

The more Paul and the young woman whose name was
Laura talked, the more comfortable he felt.

They got up and left the bench and walked on a
path along the river.

They were so busy looking at each other, of course
neither of them would notice the tiny plaque on the park
bench.

For the city encouraged people and businesses to donate
money to pay for these park benches.

And plaques would be put on the back of these
benches naming the people or business who
had sponsored this particular bench.

As Paul walked away with Laura, he thought to
himself, yes the golden age of chocolate eclairs
was long behind him but he couldn’t help thinking
to himself that some vaster greater golden age of
something far far more wonderful lay just ahead
of him.

As for the plaque on the very old but extremely well
kept-up park bench, it read,

Bernie and Estelle- two people who were very much
in love.

The End.

Posted in Short Story, Valentine's Day | 1 Comment »

If A Bollywood Movie Were Filmed In A Canadian Snowstorm

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

A friend of mine, Natalie from Sydney, Australia recently
posted a YouTube video in which she said her
favourite movie of all from 2008 was a film called
Slumdog Millionaire.

In last night’s newspaper here, they gave a write-up
on the film in which they noted Slumdog Millionaire
won 4 Golden Globe Awards including Best Motion
Picture Drama.

The Golden Globes of course are a good
predictor of the Oscar winners.

The plot of Slumdog Millionaire 
is about a teen-ager who lives in the
rougher districts of Mumbai who lands a
spot on the Indian equivalent of the quiz
show Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.

Anyways this started me thinking about an 
ezBlog post Soni Kudi wrote in the past week-
something to the effect about “If life were
like a Bollywood movie…”

One of the amusing things she
mentioned was about being stuck in 
a traffic jam in the middle of Mumbai
in the middle of the pouring rain
and jumping out of the taxi cab 
you’re in and breaking into song.

I found this highly amusing.

If anyone has actually done this in real life
and has taken a photo of this, please post it
so I can see. ;)

Anyhow this started me thinking what it
would be like if they filmed a Bollywood movie
here in Canada in the middle of winter in the
middle of a typical Canadian snowstorm.

Our hero would be stuck in a taxi in a traffic
jam in downtown not in the middle of the
pouring rain but in the middle of a blizzarding
snowstorm.

He would have trouble opening the door of the
back seat of the cab to break out in song in
the middle of the street because he would be
trying to open the door against 80 kilometre
an hour wind gusts.

 

The taxi driver would be shouting at him,
“Close the door you idiot. You’re letting snow
into the cab.”

When our hero finally succeeds in opening the cab
door against the 80 kilometre an hour winds,
he bursts into song as he’s pelted with rapidly
falling snow flakes.

As he’s singing, the taxi driver angrily gets out
of the cab, “You idiot. You let a ton of snow into
my cab” and proceeds to start strangling our hero
who never misses a note of the song he’s singing.

As our hero is bravely singing and bravely
being strangled at the same time in the midst
of the ferocious blizzard, Aishwarya Rai wearing
a multicoloured sari struggles in her spiked stiletto
high-heeled shoes through the 40 foot snow drifts
running down the middle of the snow covered street
and shouting, “God, it’s freezing cold out.”

A singing policeman who’s over here on a
Mumbai-Edmonton police exchange program
manages to get the fingers of the strangling
taxi cab driver off the throat of our hero.

Our hero and Aishwarya Rai are about to run
into each other’s arms when suddenly they are both
scooped up by different snow ploughs driving in 
opposing directions.

Our hero sings to Aishwarya Rai, “Don’t worry,
darling. I’ll find you in whatever snowpile you’re in.”

The entire city then bursts into a chorus of

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful
but the weather inside’s delightful,
let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”

The End.

Posted in Short Story | 5 Comments »