Raising the steaks

BEFORE reading please be warned that it is a satirical piece about the merits / demerits of cannibalism so may not be to everyone's taste [ahem]. Hopefully I won't offend anyone but I thought I better get the disclaimer in. Also, please note that this is what is known as a free write so very little editing has been done. It is dialogue but I have deliberately left off the quotation marks as I reckon they're not required. What do you think?

Good morning. As the population ages, how are we to cope with rising pressures on world food supplies? Some think the answer is to start consuming insects in the west, others argue that a vegan diet is necessary; that farms barely able to cope with the pressure to rear animals would be put to better use growing vegetables. With me today is Brandon Foley, Foods Minister who is here to discuss the government's latest controversial policy suggestion: that cannibalism is our only true hope for the future. Mr Foley, you're having us on, aren't you? Surely this is just attention seeking?

Not at all, Zack. The world is in a food crisis and the simple fact is that bodies are being buried every day that could be better used as food.

Oh come on, you're surely not suggesting that when granny dies the family tuck into her on a Sunday afternoon, are you?

No of course not... Look, when someone's coffin is sent through the curtain at the crematorium do you really care what happens? I mean, really? Look, all we're advocating here is that when she goes through the curtain instead of being burnt to a cinder, her body be diverted to an abattoir type facility where the meat can be stripped off, sliced, minced, canned, or whatever, but ultimately can end up on supermarket shelf where it can provide nutritional value to someone else. Think about it, Zack... It's far better that we feed ourselves than reduce ourselves to a small pile of soot - a process, incidentally, that contributes massive amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere each year – for feeding a few plants, worms, or fish.

Sorry. Are you seriously saying you'd be prepared, once you’re dead, to be minced into a Bolognese sauce?

Absolutely Zach, of course I would. Why not? It’s not like I need my body any more at that stage.

OK… Ok…, let's suppose, just for a moment, that the principle is sound, what about the realities of disease... HIV, Hepatitis, CJD, for goodness sakes... those sorts of things?

Well, clearly there will need to be a screening program put in place but this is just process, Zach. Look, most of us, bar the odd sandal wearing hippie folkie, love to tuck into meat. All we're doing here is providing a way to feed an ever increasing population.

Isn't this just a type of ponzi scheme? All very well in the beginning but after a while, then what? Won't the flow of dead bodies dry up?

Well, not really. First of all, we mustn’t overlook the fact that people are dying every day. In fact, people are dying all day every day. And that's just here in England. We could, if we needed, also import people from around the world. Let's not forget, too, that trading in dead meat also opens up more commerce between us and, say, Russia and China. This not only sorts out the problem of how to feed people but also helps to stimulate the economy.

Russia and China?

Yes, if you think about it Zack, millions of people die every year in Russia and China, two of the largest economies in the world.

…arguably also two of the more corrupt nations, and how do you know that, say in the example of China, that you're not buying people who have been executed by the state?

Look, we've had discussions with the governments of both countries and also the USA, and in all cases we've had assurances...

Guarantees?

Well no, because, look, they have assured us and, you know, it's very time consuming to get written guarantees, and treaties and such, and these people are, you know, well I've met them, and they' people at the end of the day and, as such, they deserve our respect and trust.

So, under the new rules can everyone expect to be eaten when they die?

Oh no. We are proposing certain exceptions. Obviously people with communicable diseases, people under 18, men who have had gay sex, and anyone who buys an opt-out card, will be exempted

An opt out card?

Yes, we’ll be making these available at a very reasonable rate of around £18,000, which is about how much it costs to source a body wholesale from abroad.

Minister, I’m afraid we’re out of time so we'll have to leave it there. Thank you.

Thank you.

In other news, today saw the launch by Amnesty International of their latest report into child trafficking across Europe. We have a special report, coming up.

Two views, one tube

The man on the tube (his view)
There she sat opposite me, soft, young - late twenties, maybe - long dark hair, slightly unkempt, with an exquisite beauty, except you could see that she didn't believe in herself, that she felt somehow ugly.
What was going on behind those beautiful dark green eyes? Eyes that looked for all-the-world as though they might cry any moment, like they were brimming, the tears just holding off for a few more moments.
She was frail too, a frailty defined by her bones, her contours, the skin she'd chewed, and was chewing now, from round her delicate, slender, fingers. Thin, yet not too thin, she wore a plain skirt the pleat of which rested tastefully halfway down her thigh, with the most lovely legs. Her feet, encased in stylish leather boots with turned over flaps that came over her calf muscles, were turned in to face each other, locking the world out and her fears in.
I wanted to tap her, no to grab her, shake her and say, ' don't be afraid. I was like you once. Life's too short to spend so much time being nervous and afraid', but I knew that would frighten her more so with sadness beating its heavy drum in my heart I moved off and continued about my business, growing a bit older with each footstep.

The woman on the tube (her view)
It doesn't make sense. We were happy, I know we were. I invested so much in this relationship I can't just let it go... no, no, don't cry, not here, not in front of all these people... got to.. got to keep it together... but why? I just want to know why? I know there was another woman, I could forgive that... I could learn to live with it, if it was just sex, OK, but it was us, why throw away what we both worked so hard to build? And now what? Tonight? An empty flat, an empty bed? No one to watch telly with, no one to cook with, no one to laugh and cry with? Oh, God, I will be on my own, crying on my own? Just the thought terrifies me... no one to reach out to, no one to hold on to, to break my fall.
Was it inevitable? We always used to say how we'd conquered our fears, how nothing could stop us, how we were the ultimate team. And I believed her as I lay in her arms. I never thought this would happen. Never. It's just not fair... life, are you listening? Do you hear me life? You've let me down? I had faith in you.. .in her. and now what? Rejected, that's what... Rejected by Rachel, rejected by my parents, rejected by most of my old school friends... and rejected by you... life.. I just want to scream, to cry and scream and rant and... oh God, I'm so tired. I wish that man would stop looking at me like he's my father... what's up freak, never seen a lesbian before? Oh thank goodness, he's going... why did she have to go?

Benjamin and the goblin

Benjamin had never seen anything quite so big and gnarly; so wrong way up, before. It was all brown and green with branches at one end and giant spiky splinters at the other. There was no doubt, it was a whole tree: bark and moss; slimy yet firm; broken, yet solid; roots in the ground... trunk on it.

Inspector Ben knew exacly what had happened: a really nasty, mean, elf with a face carved out of bark had broken the tree because at its base there were toadstools and everybody knows that elves live under toadstools.

The elf was very strong because the break in the tree stretched all the way from his knees to his nose. Then he remembered that elves were nice so he must have pushed the tree down to make a bridge over the dark green forest swamp to escape from the nasty goblin that was chasing him with an axe. He decided to walk across the bridge, and save the elf. Then he would get a medal from the Elf King and be a hero.

Climbing on to the trunk was hard. He had to use part of the broken stump as a kind of stepping stool, taking extra special care not to jab his feet on the wooden stalagmites, even wearing his new sandals. He managed to hook his left hand onto a knobbly bit of trunk and haul himself up.

Benjamin was clever: he knew that tightrope walkers always put their arms straight out and pigeon-stepped one foot in front of the other between really tall buildings. He'd even seen Sylvester doing it across a washing line trying to get Tweetie Pie so he knew exactly what to do. However, when he got to the top he saw that it was much higher than a tightrope and he congratulated himself on making a very grown-up decision: tightrope walking must wait until after the medal ceremony.

It occurred to him that maybe the goblin was still about and that hugging the trunk, as he now was, was an excellent idea because he knew that if he lay very flat whilst he crawled then, well, he was invisible and wouldn't be seen by the goblin.

Stretching his arms right up to his fingertips and making sure his legs were pressed against the trunk, he "caterpillared" his way along the tree. As he zigged and zagged he used his magical caterpillar eyes to study the very small creatures who were tracking haphazard paths across the elf bridge: tiny beetles carrying bits of leaf this way and that; an army of ants who refused to acknowledge him as they marched past; and a spider that crawled so close to his nose it made him sneeze, before scuttling below the trunk.

Soon he came upon a knot next to which was a hole that was all slimy round the edges. Maybe the elf was hiding in it. Summoning his courage, he peeked inside... very quickly, just in case. He thought for a moment and then, his curiosity pulling him forward, peeked again. To his equal disappointment and relief, there was no sign of the elf, just a hole with lots of strange creatures wriggling and squirming around on gooey bits of brown this and black that. It was very stinky and as there was no elf he slunk on.

After a very long time, he came to where the branches began to fan out from the trunk. He knew that the elf would have gone along the biggest one because it had more hiding leaves and it's important not to be found if a goblin is chasing you with an axe. The branch jutted slightly upwards as it rose from the tree and he was just wriggling on to it when he slipped and dropped on to the soft, wet, forest floor.

He knew right away what had happened. The goblin had found him and pushed him off, so he ran as fast as he could back to his parents, who were picnicking in the clearing next to the tree, not once looking back in case the goblin turned him to stone.

***

'Oh Benjamin', sighed his mum, 'Look at you. You're so grubby'. He tried to tell her about the elf and the goblin as she wiped him down but she just kept saying 'there, there, pet'. Grown-ups, decided Benjamin: they were all broken. He was determined he would never become one.

The last of the gang

Bas waited as the others gathered themselves off to the waiting cars and headed off. When he was quite sure they had all gone, he walked the few steps to the path and read the inscription on the pristine new bench:

In loving memory. Joe Lijkenhuis. 1923 – 2011. Much loved father and grandfather.

“Nice”, he thought and sat down.

After a short while he opened the bag he’d been carrying, retrieved two bottles and began speaking, addressing his words to the weather-worn tombstone that now bore the engraving of his friend’s details neatly etched next to those of his beloved wife.

“Chose a great day for it. Couldn’t have been better if you’d had a word with the big fella yourself. Did you, Joe? Is that how it works? Maybe you show me the ropes, eh?”

Bas unscrewed the caps from a bottle of pills and a bottle of whisky. “You don’t mind do you Joe”, he said. “Gotta wash ‘em down or the damn things’ll stick in me throat and we wouldn’t want me choking to death now, eh”, and with that he threw a couple of the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a generous glug.

“You know, it’s a strange feeling with everyone gone, Joe. I don’t quite know what to make of it”. He took a long draw from the bottle and continued, “doesn’t seem fair; you up there with the others, me here with nothing but a load of stones for company”.

Presently he began to slur his speech: “Thesh days”, he stumbled, “they all wans to live to bees old ash poss’ble but you don’t get no prize, no congratu-la-thingummies. Wanna know why?”, he continued, “‘cos thersh no fucker to give it to you”, and he chuckled as he ate another couple of tablets, rinsing them down with a clumsy swig on the whisky.

“Nysh bit a stone Joe”, said Bas. “Nysh bit a stone – reminds me of the paving slabs in me garden”. He swigged heartily from the bottle and a smile came to his face as he reflected on life. A tired drunkenness was creeping over him, making him appreciate the dusk as the night clawed its way into the day.

He lay down on the bench, pressing himself into its cold strips of metal and wood, and drained the last dregs from the bottle. He felt himself drifting off and said aloud “at leasht you had family. Who’sh gonna come for me, eh?”. Then he allowed his eyelids to close and fancied he could still see the fading light as he drifted off.

“Mr Zelfmoord. Mr Zelfmoord.”

“Welcome back, Mr Zelfmoord”, said Dr Weil. “My goodness, would you believe the luck of some people? You know, if Mrs Smithson hadn’t been visiting her father you wouldn’t be here now”.

Bas blinked. “I know”, he thought. The doctor was right, and as a solitary a tear rolled down his cheek he couldn’t believe his luck.

The Closet

This is an allegorical story I wrote earlier in the year for another course. An abridged version also appears on Flash fiction world. The story itsefl was inspired by the outing of Anthony Weiner (gotta  love the name), a Congressman for New York, for sending pictures of his privates to women on Twitter and Facebook, a process that took several days to properly unfold and involved him making all sorts bizarre claims.

"It's not fair", whined a voice in the darkness. "It's my turn".

"Newbie. Newbie", chanted several voices in a slow rattling disharmonic.

"Silence", shrilled another voice. "You'll get another chance soon enough Amelia... Spotlight".

A cranking sound echoed through the darkness. He was lit.

"Welcome to Ivory Tower", said the shrill voice, amidst a rustle of paper. "We've been expecting you... you're slightly earlier than anticipated. No matter".

He looked round trying to recall how he'd got there but all that came into his skull was something about a school, a business park, and $500,000; whatever that meant.

"Don't worry. You're disoriented. It's perfectly normal", said the voice, "you'll soon adjust. Now, the main lights will come on". He paused and clacked, "house lights up, thank you".

"Bzzzt". A couple of wiry strip-lights hummed into life. He saw that he was in a sparse, tall yet narrow, musky, room. Around three sides, stretching up as far as he could see, were columns of dark shelves on which were large blobs of whiteness. Except for a round knob and coat hook, the fourth wall was bare.

In front of him was a small figure wearing a black cloak with a hood and holding a scythe. "I'm the Director", it said, "though you may call me Gareth. My pleasure", and so saying, extended an arm. He reciprocated and as the two shook phalanges and metacarpi, Gareth said: "Allow me to put some meat on the bones. Whilst you've been on the horizon a while, prediction's a messy business, and besides, rehearsals can't be made to wait for a 'maybe'. Arrival, Revelation, Death... the only valid excuses". He disengaged before continuing, "rules are simple: wait on your shelf - er... DCLXVI, that's you - and when it's your time Tusen here will fetch you", he said pointing at a small figure in a red cloak in the darkness beneath the first shelf. He continued, “I try to fit in as many Rehearsals each as possible but I'm afraid I can only guarantee the one per week. When not rehearsing watch the stage and listen. The Director's very good", and though he could not see a face, he could’ve sworn he detected a wink. "Finally, think of as many questions about yourself as you can; at the moment of Revelation it's your job to plant them. Oh, and more thing", said Gareth looking at his papers, "I see your full name is Bribed Senator Wilcox. I can’t be doing with pretentions; for now we’ll call you Nigel and be done".

Nigel looked round staring at the vast columns and pondering the influx of information when Gareth called out, "Tusen Skär", and the small figure under the first shelf scurried over. "DCLXVI, there's a fellow". Tusen Skär grabbed Nigel's left humerus and hoisted him high into Ivory Tower, depositing him on the appointed shelf. Sitting there, confused, Nigel could hear Gareth giving directions far below.

"...harder questions, dear..."

"...no, no. Relevance. It's crucial, nay vital, to success..."

As he listened someone whispered an introduction in his left ear. "Hi. Affair with First Intern, though they call me Nicole. Good to meet you".

Nicole taught him how things worked: Rehearsals, Friday Chattering, Revelations. As time passed, Nigel settled in: he loved rehearsals but his favourite activity was the Friday Chattering where he could mix with others and hear snippets of their stories. The session always ended with the Tinkling of The Ivories; Gareth would roll out a grand piano and play a tune that called time on proceedings.

Occasionally a flash of light came from the door as it swung open for a moment closing to a rattling chorus of "Newbie, Newbie" until Gareth let out a high pitch shriek of "Silence" and welcomed the newcomer, tasking Tusen Skär with whooshing them to the prescribed shelf.

It was at one of the Chatterings that Nigel learnt there were only two ways out: Revelation and Death, which everyone feared though none knew why. He also learned that if Gareth thought a story too weak they would be despatched by The Cut: Gareth would pass the scythe to Tusen Skär who would slice through their neck, reducing them to dust. According to legend, if the total number of cuts surpassed a thousand Death was possible at any moment. Only Gareth had count of the cuts.

Revelation, Nigel learned, was more likely than Death and whilst Death was only possible once, a single Revelation made more likely.

A year passed. New arrivals came but neither Revelation nor Death occurred. Then, fifteen months after he arrived, the door swung open; there was a piercing light, and a loud whooshing noise. Looking up, Nigel saw Tusen Skär throwing someone out of the door. It was quite the talk at that week's Chattering where he learned it was someone called Prostitute in Vegas (Helen).

A day later, the door opened once more, and another left. This time it was Nicole. Something stirred just below Nigel's sternum. Was it hope? There been a Revelation and his shelf neighbour was gone. He could feel the possibility.

Almost daily someone was departed, sometimes more than one. Then, one day the door opened and the light seemed to be pulling Nigel towards it, a beautiful sound calling his name. He felt something on his shoulder blade and realised that Tusen Skär had hold of him. Then he was falling, falling through the light. After what seemed an eternity, the white began to turn blue, then other colours split from the white and gradually Nigel could see forms, and hear noises, taking shape.

"Congressman Stollen", said a voice. "I have here an affidavit, signed by the Senator Wilcox's personal assistant stating he saw you hand over a half-million dollars in return to develop on a school playground, transgressing local planning regulations. In light of recent revelations about your private life, sir, do you have anything you wish to say?"

Congressman Stollen sat, pale and drawn, facing several dozen journalists. He was confused: where was this coming from?

Nigel knew that it was time for him to perform. He joined Nicole and the others as they flew round the room invisibly planting questions, opening the door, releasing more skeletons from the closet.

The Congressman winced; denying this, refuting that, and all the while the avalanche of questions grew, bringing more skeletons.

As the questions reached fever pitch, Congressman Hubert Stollen III knew what he had to do. With an alacrity found only when at the concave corner of intersecting walls, he stood up and cried out: "Stop". The room feel silent: humans and skeletons stood rooted to the spot.

"It's true", he said. "I did bribe Senator Wilcox. I did sleep with a prostitute in Vegas, andI seduce my first intern.". A tearful confession commenced and a deathly hush transcended a spellbound room.

Looking at Nicole, Nigel could hear the unmistakable sound of the Tinkling of the Ivories. Then, in a flash, Gareth was among them slicing through cervical vertebrae, reducing them to pillars of salt in the aether.

Congressman Hubert Stollen III was unburdened.