A Dinner to Die For

The inspector stepped out onto the glistening cobbles as the flashing lights on the authorities’ cars around him lit up the street in pulsing colours of blue and red. Glancing at the decrepit mansion he took in a deep breath and sighed with conte

mpt at human crime. Here, he was… again. Stepping into who knows what foul crime had been committed by the riffraff of the city. To make matters worse, the delinquents had decided to do it in some sagging and abandoned building. Life isn’t a Christie novel for crying out loud.

            The floorboards creaked under his feet he stepped through into the decrepit mansion. The stark illumination from search lights created an eerie contrasting brilliance within the usually darkened house, causing termites and cobwebs alike to shine. Broken windows and rotted walls allowed beams from the outside lights to steal into the central hall and consume the confronting scene.

Stopping short before walking into the main hall, the inspector spied an old ornate wooden table spanning the room under a dust-ridden and broken chandelier. Cups, knives and baskets of swollen food lay spilled across the table as the guests around it slumped with lifeless eyes staring beyond the table into the afterlife. It certainly was a meal to die for.

            ‘ ‘Scuse me Inspector Black but it seems we have a murder on our hands,’ piped a stout man in uniform beside the inspector who awoke from his musings about the scene with a start.

            ‘Well of course we do! What else would we have?’ he angrily retorted.

            With a grin spreading across his face, the little officer replied, ‘We ‘aven’t found the corpses yet but I ‘ave my suspicions… very unusual circumstances it being ‘ere and all.’

            ‘What do you mean haven’t found the corpses? They’re slumped at the table for crying out loud!’

            ‘Oh no sir, I do believe you’re mistaken. No corpses ‘round ‘ere. No tables either.’ With a wink he strode off in the opposite direction.

            I swear that man is as blind as a post! thought Inspector Black as he watched the little officer waddle away. Shaking his head, he strode into the darkened room that had begun to smell of rot with a cover of sickly sweet cold meat. Each guest was finely dressed as if ready for a dinner party with pearls gleaming from the women’s ears and ties hanging from the men’s necks like nooses. It was obvious that they were all wealthy and had all gathered here by choice as each one of them were impeccably dressed. But the question was why? Why gather in a place like this? Leaning down to sniff the food, the inspector began to go through the motions of considering what had happened. It was then that he noticed a corpse sitting at the head of the table with its head firmly planted in the plate of food before him. Immediately Black knew that poison had been at work and that this very man was the host of the party for corpses.

            ‘Inspector, Inspector!’ cried the officer from the upper landing of the main hall, interrupting the thoughts of the inspector. ‘We’ve found the corpses. It’s all very peculiar. They’re seated around a table like some strange party.’

            Struggling to maintain a grip on his temper, the inspector turned to the officer and shouted up to him, ‘yes, I know! I’m bloody well standing in front of them!’

            ‘So you are! What a strange coincidence. You know what? I bet they’re not even dead, they’re probably some strange red-herring to throw us off the scent of the real crime!’ And with that he strode off once more to investigate throughout the house.

            With shocking disbelief at the incredulity of his co-worker, the inspector once more began to walk around the table and study the faces of the dead. Each corpse had something peculiar about them. One man with hair oiled to perfection had two crushed plums that had been forcefully pressed into his face, one in each eye. The man next to him had a smear of greasy mustard all over his face covering the beginnings of a beard while a woman who sat opposite him had had her face vandalised with streaks of bright scarlet lipstick. As he attempted to connect the mysterious appearances of the people lying around him, the officer suddenly appeared next to him, brandishing a bright red letter.

            ‘I do believe I’ve found a clue inspector!’ Rolling his eyes, Black took the envelope and read the letter inside.

You are cordially invited to a Murder Mystery this Friday evening in the abandoned house at 6 Stumpin Street. Please arrive at 6:00pm sharp and be in your best attire that suits your character.

Your character is: Mr Boddy.

            ‘A murder mystery? What kind of sadistic joke is this killer trying to make?’ inquired Black with eyes raised in disapproval. Strangely as the Inspector glanced at his watch, he noticed it was only just six o’clock now.

            ‘Oh it’s a game, Inspector! Such a fun game, I’ve been to a few good ‘uns in my time,’ replied the rotund man.

            ‘Oh? And who is this Mr Boddy?’

            ‘Why sir, don’t you get it? It’s a game of Cluedo!’ cried the officer.

            With a jolt the Inspector looked over the corpses again in muted shock. Professor Plum, Miss Scarlet, Cornel Mustard and all the rest stared back at him with gaping eyes. ‘But who on Earth is Mr Boddy?’ the Inspector mumbled to himself.

            ‘Why they were Red Herrings all along sir,’ the officer grinned happily and rubbed his belly.

            ‘I don’t understand – what are the red herrings?’

            ‘Oh you really are daft aren’t you Inspector Black? They’re the Red Herrings,’ he said as he waved to the guests sitting at the table, ‘and you sir, are Mr Boddy, the dead body in a great game of Cluedo!’

            With a triumphant cry the officer removed a gun from the front of his trousers and shot the rusted chord holding the chandelier upright. With an almighty crash the ringed metalwork fell down on top of Inspector Black crushing him through the rotted floor next to the table. All that was left was the gaping black shape of a figure of a man in the old and mouldy floorboards just like the shape of a dead body on a Cluedo board.

A Murderous Talent

The water sounded almost as if it was whispering to itself. The way it gushed around the bloated body and encouraged crimson swirls of blood to spiral out from the figure was almost calming. Tendrils of the mixture snaked around nearby rocks and stained the overhanging grass from a pure green to a sickly red. Bruising on the temples with a leaching wound reaching from a stubbled left cheek down the neck and under the collar. It was evident that the shoes were missing as a single blue and white striped sock bobbed its way downstream at a pace a snail could beat. No murder weapon was to be seen nearby...yet. This just made things more like a game of Cluedo. Was it Professor Green in the garden with a candlestick? Or perhaps Madam Peacock in the neighbor's hedge with a revolver? It was my job to sort things out - it was always my job to sort things out.

 Detectives, policeman, dogs; they were always useless, always bumbling around and tripping over the evidence from one another and constantly jibing with the Judge over the most fickle details while skipping the most important part of an investigation. Finding the culprit and the history of the victim. That's what I did, no matter how many times I've been told to "keep my bloody nose out of it". I've always hunted, sniffed, tracked and traced the culprit down to the very last nose hair found at the scene of the crime AND I've always come out with results. Let's just say some love me and some hate me - it all depends upon your perspective.

However no matter how many past investigations I've solved or uncovered, as I look down upon the body floating in front of me, having little to no long-term memory - I know that this time things will be different. To say this case is a near impossibility is an understatement. For you see, this time - I am the victim; the body is mine.

The Day The World Froze

The day the world froze was icy enough to meld our hearts into stone.

It had all began months before as the polar caps began to grow, rapidly. Icy winds blew through the Sahara Desert and strange phenomena such as snow was to be found in arid places like on Australia's Uluru. Not to mention a polar bear was seen walking the streets of Germany and a penguin crossing the boarder into France! The sudden chill over the globe was like God blew an icy breath upon the world and was seconds from smashing it into small pieces of ice shards.

We all felt and knew it was time to flee. Warmth was a myth by the time my family moved. Trudging through snow-bound streets, we headed north towards the less cool part of the equator. Sadly many of those who came with us did not survive the sudden blizzards that struck up within half a minute every two hours. I now can only laugh at what they told us in school before the Big Freeze - Global Warming, the globe's getting warmer? I don't think so.

So now living in conditions in which the entire population of the world is trying to cram into - we're running out of resources. This weather has killed off all crops - even the ones who are strongest against mild frost. Our clothing is tattered and mended here and there with any materials we can find and wood is constantly being stockpiled for warmth and bonfires in the caves we must resign ourselves to live in. We can only hope it doesn't run out soon.

I guess it's just one be joke isn't it - the world coaxed mankind out of its caves and enticed it into the arms of new life whereas now, it seems to have had enough of us and is forcing us to turn back the clock. Cavemen are all we are now. I heard that there are other... more savage groups of people around the equator region that have resorted to acts of cannibalism, it happens most often on the islands. Luckily the temporary International Crisis Government has placed laws and banns on this community of ours against such horrors.

Only time will tell if we survive each night and the one after. As in times like these, people are desperate.

(Science-Fiction Beginning)

The Cell of Ice

PRELUDE

Day ??? Month ??? 1788,

The cold seeps in through the walls of this cell like living tendrils of death that stroke my insides with icicles. Stone. That's all I can see around me. The cold life-sucking stone stealing my happiness and life. The scratches upon the walls around me count the days I've been stuck in here, however the dull blue glow of the cell has reduced my eyesight to nothing more than 10 centimetres forward and so those pitiful scratches mean nothing to me. My only current measurement of time here is the strange new short beard that clings to my face and is clumped together in spikes of icicles. It's just another reminder of my separation from society and my life before the arrest. I fear that I look like some nightmarish vision of Jack Frost waiting to come out from my lair. But alas - will I come out? I believe not as the guards have left long ago. For weeks I believe I have been the only one here, surviving on licking the water of icicles and killing the rats that run through. This predicament in which I am in is all for nought as I did not even commit a crime. All I did was write - of course I underestimated the power of my words but it was not me that turned them into what they are today. I now understand that the written word is to be used far more carefully than any other weapon in the world for though one word may lead you down the path of happiness and prosperity - another may lead you here. Here being the eternal prison of Hell - only cold and harsher upon the vitals. So as anoth--

Sounds, I hear something. Is it that I have finally gone mad? For I thin--

Voices, whispered voices. Coming closer, nearing the bars of my cell. They mus--

Chains rattling, clinking moving closer, closer, closer--

They're upon me like the plague, is this the end? They--

The Diary of Henry Walker ended here before several pages of a series of hurried symbols and scribbles. There is suspect of a second diary under a different name. Only time will tell whether his story will arise...

My Life and Cats

Cats. Cats here, cats there, cats everywhere! They follow me, I swear it. Every time I go out in public, I only have to throw a glance over my shoulder and see one stalking me. There are black ones, skinny ones, tabby ones, Siamese and even those massive Mancoons. That’s right, stalking. They don’t walk, they don’t prance; they stalk. It’s all because of the time I insulted a cat…

I was walking along a road in the middle of the day and everything was as sweet as honey. I was even whistling and you must know; I never whistle. So as I passed the corner of Manson and Bly streets, I came across as strange assortment of creatures. One was a dog, one was a budgie, another was a frog and there, sitting in front of the group was a black cat.

His eyes were as yellow as a squash and fur as silky black as a flowing river in the middle of a moonless night. Each ear was pricked forward, listening to the unintelligible babble of the animals around it and a knowing smile spread across the lips. “Could this be the Cheshire cat, the one from that bizarre story of a girl down a rabbit hole?” I thought as my pace halted half-way around the corner. “No, you’re just being stupid.” I did notice one thing though. One thing so significant that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. As I neared a little closer to the group, the cat turned and spoke with a strange British accent:

“It’s rude to eavesdrop you know. Please mind you own business.”

My jaw dropped to the ground beneath me. Boy, did my perspective change on this animal. I had just witnessed a cat talking, shaking his paw at me as if to shoo me away he continued to glare.

“Cats can’t talk!” I shouted back at him with my mouth in the shape of a vortex of shock.

“Well you stupid humans don’t listen that often do you? Only when you want to find out some juicy news or some gossip,” he retorted with another sharp jab of his paw into the air, “Shoo now.”

Shocked to the core, I was quick to lose my temper. I wasn’t as cool as a cucumber anymore, panic began to overwhelm me. “Am I mad? Have I really lost it?” flew around my mind as it tried to make sense of the boggled mess it was in.

“Don’t shoo me, you stupid dirty animal,” I boldly replied. But as I did so, I knew that it was a mistake.

With the narrowing of those golden orbs, the cat screeched one syllable which erupted into a pandemonium of legs flying everywhere. The bird pecked at my ears, the frog launched himself onto my face, the dog bit my leg and the cat just went berserk in all the wrong places. Now the sky began to whirl and new points of pain erupted all over my body as these animals attacked me.

“Thanks for the inspiration for my next show,” said a clown as he walked by and didn’t bother helping.

Once I had disentangled my legs from the legs and wings of various other animals, I raced home as fast as I could only stopping once to look back at those all-knowing eyes watching me, always watching. So that is why cats stalk me and hunt me both in my dreams and in the real world. The worst thing about it is that there’s a crazy cat lady next door and you know what that means…

(Attempt at Comic Short Story)

The Carving

But all was not right in the house of the Caddys. Soft whisperings could be heard when the house was under the spell of slumber, the walls moved and the paintings sighed as one when none of the household watched. Some believed the house was a common meeting point for the spirits of the long gone as they came from different time periods and whispered secrets to one another. A hushed scream muffled by a soft cry from another would be heart late at night if one listened closely. All the while the house was sleeping...

Babies and small infants were not permitted within the house's walls as everytime they crossed the threshold, they immediately began crying and calling for their family. This did not bother the Caddys as they were people who seldom wished to be bothered. They would potter around the house during a dull winter's day muttering seemingly to themselves as they went about peculiar businesses. One clanging pots and pans, another hugging the moth eaten hallway carpet and a third walking in circles rasping tales of woe to the ceiling. The surrounding neighbourhood thought this family as very very odd. So odd as to be escaped inhabitents of an insane asylum seeking refuge in an innocent part of the country.

The house itself was somewhat of a piece of outdated terror. Marked by the sagging wooden turret in the northern corner of the mansion, the entire structure looked as if a grotesque 3-year old had mashed the individual sections together into a large rambling moldy construction worthy of a good bulldoze. However it was not the mansion that inspired terror into the indivduals who looked upon it, it was instead the large carved face imposed upon the front wooden door of the house that glared at passersby with accusing eyes...

(Gothic Beginning)