by Create50
He pulled aside the curtain to reveal a large work-room, filled with the tools and appliances of the chocolate maker’s craft. Worn but gleaming pans were arranged on large tables, some with electric warming plates under them, their contents bubbling like slow lava flows.
Now the delicious scents were enough to draw her to the very edge of reason. This was Paradise indeed.
She felt breathless and unable to speak.
Her guide didn’t seem to mind her silence. He took some powder from a jar and poured it into a mortar, added another powder, some drops of liquid and four leaves, ground them all together and smiled at Catherine as he poured the mixture into a dark metal goblet, before adding water until the goblet was half full.
“This,” he told her with near-comical gravitas “is the drink of the gods.”
So saying, he picked up another similar goblet and poured the liquid from one to the other several times, lifting the pouring goblet as high as he could each time. Once the foam had built up on the surface of the liquid, he handed the goblet to Catherine.
“Drink,” he told her. “This is your Paradise.”
Catherine hesitated as she regarded the dark liquid, so he enfolded her hand in his and slowly lifted the goblet towards her lips. “I charge you nothing for your first experience because I know you will want to be part of this place.”
Again he gestured towards the work-shop and its many statues. “You will wish to become one of my friends.”
“Perhaps.” She took a sip of the chocolate drink and was surprised. It was bitter and peppery.
Xavier noticed her expression and sat down on the table in front of her. One by one he switched on the bank of heaters under a huge pan of solid chocolate. “That which you have in your hand is the original chocolate. This is what the royal Aztecs would drink. Montezuma himself drank this chocolate. The god-kings and the priests prized this as highly as gold. Sometimes they even dissolved gold into it. This is called “precious thing” in their language. You are privileged to drink such a marvel.”
She smiled and sipped a little more.
Now that she had got used to the idea of the strange bitterness, she was beginning to acquire a taste for it.
Xavier smiled even more broadly. “You see? This is not the common chocolate of the common people.”
Languidly he dipped one long index finger into the bowl of melting chocolate to test its temperature. He sucked slowly at his finger as he watched Catherine and she found herself becoming breathless once more.
“This is wonderful,” she whispered as she took another sip and looked around the work-shop. “Will you make a statue of me, one day?”
“Perhaps I will.”
Catherine found herself singing ‘Love me Tender’.
It seemed appropriate to her and not a strange thing to do in front of a stranger in a strange shop.
“Are you an Elvis fan?” she asked.
“Naturally. He once made a film near my home and I went to watch.”
“Which film was that?”
“Here they called it Fun in Acapulco.”
She laughed out loud and swayed as she tried to balance the goblet. “Hah! I’ve got you! You’re Mexican!”
He smiled broadly at her; his lips stretching back to reveal his beautiful teeth. “You are correct. I am from Mexico. I am a direct descendant of those royal houses that once drank that very chocolate.”
“And there’s chillies in it too,” she added, once she had drained the goblet.
“Chillies, coca leaves and just a little mescaline,” he said.
Catherine didn’t know what mescaline was or even the significance of coca leaves, she simply enjoyed all the delightfully unusual sensations surrounding her.
This was more than the simple pleasure of taste; it was a celebration of all pleasures.
The dark room was now flooded with golden light as she looked at Xavier’s smiling face. He was an arresting looking man and in this new unreasonable light he seemed almost to glow.
“May I go and stand next to Elvis?” she asked him. “I was his biggest fan, you know.”
“I have a place reserved specially for you, right next to him.”
The smell of chocolate was making her head swim. There was gold everywhere, the walls were golden, there was golden light reflected from the floor.
She stood and smiled at Xavier. “Am I going to meet Elvis now?”
“Of course.”
Now Catherine understood.
She looked at the bath of chocolate before her and took her clothes off. The gold-bedecked priests standing around the bath were smiling at her as they chanted the ancient words of power.
Even though she was naked, the room felt soporifically warm.
The chocolate caressed her as she stepped into the bath. It clung to her, possessed her, drew her into its inner self.
She was joining the gods and they were going to take her to Elvis.
She began to drift away.
You can’t say no in Acapulco.
There was a slight awakening as the dark, warm liquid filled her nostrils but then she fell back into the taste and the comforting warmth of his presence.
One last sigh and then the sweet darkness poured in.
A Guide To Acting The Gentleman In Any Given Scenario By Lewis Rice
Keeping up appearances.
When the doorbell rang, I guess you could say that I felt my heart being ripped out; my father began his usual sex like moans and groans from mother’s bedroom.
This had become more frequent since father’s bitch had begun visiting more often; every time that bell rang, or someone visited, father would persist in rubbing my nose into what they were up to.
As the bell rang again, again and again, I could hear him getting louder and fucking louder.
Although I’d invited the family, I didn’t really want them here, touching things and putting them back where mother never would have. Even Josephine, that whore of a sister of mine, repulses me. I know she fucked her husband on their wedding night!
And yet I have to keep up the pretence and kiss her on the lips whenever I see her. I can almost smell her husband’s cock on her breath.
My cousin Eddie, his wife, and brat were the first to arrive and the onslaught began. He made his thoughts about me quite clear when that limp-wristed fucker offered me his hand.
Despite marriage, I knew he wanted me; as I did him. However, I was not prepared to go through that humiliation of him pushing me away for a tenth time. Besides, I knew he didn’t trust me.
As the saying goes, revenge is a dish best served cold. I knew he was still biding his time; for when I was about twelve, I took his teddy bear apart. I just wanted to see how it all worked.
As I pulled off both its hind legs with pliers, I was rather taken aback; who knew that a hamster could scream so loud? When the stupid creature breathed its last breath, I put it back in its cage and hid the blooded pliers under Eddie’s pillow.
When his father found Teddy he beat Eddie senseless. The dumb shit didn’t even drop me in it! A lesson learned – loyalty belongs to the feeble minded and is a weakness that can be easily manipulated.
Manners maketh the man
I worked the room like any good host should. Entertaining, charming and charismatic; I must be a delight to watch. I’ve often considered writing a guidebook offering advice on how a gentleman should always act.
When I finally served up, I must confess to being overcome with pride. Despite their flaws, the fifteen family members applauded my efforts. I was centre stage for a change, robbing the limelight from that cunt Josephine. She’d always been the favourite, never doing wrong.
She married some big shot lawyer. The goody two shoes refused to take a penny from Mother and Father. Hers was the long game; soon I may expose her actions. Both Mother and Father made their favouritism very clear when they decided to leave a majority of their belongings to her in their Wills; which was something that I discovere
d whilst making (which I felt were) the necessary amendments to their instructions.
Improve your likeability by putting the needs of others before your own.
Father was still hung up from when I’d re-mortgaged the house. I’d said I was sorry a thousand times, even though I felt no need to.
Six months ago I developed a flawless system for winning at Blackjack. I had the chance of winning over £200,000 and managed to borrow the £50,000 entry fee from various (shall we say) dodgy acquaintances. I was going to show the world, but instead rotten luck got in the way.
When a bunch of thugs showed up at my front door, Father took a beating (despite his stroke forcing him to be in a wheelchair and unable to talk).
I was not prepared to hand over my inheritance to those low lives! It was only when they threatened to desecrate Mother’s ashes that I felt moved to act. Luckily for Father I’d been able to release £70,000 from his bank account and could pay them off.
The annoying thing was that I’d planned on using that money in a second attempt at the system. I’ve since wondered whether I should have allowed the beatings to continue, and simply let Father’s life come to an end. It’s rather divine of me, don’t you think?
Tits and teeth darlings, tits and teeth.
Each one of those cock munchers who sat around me, greedily tucking into the roast meat, had in fact tried to steal from me! The leeches had forced their way onto the will. Maybe tonight I’ll sort it all out.
Yet I had to keep up the pretence; laugh at their poorly constructed attempts at wit, take their meaningless compliments with a toothy smile, listen to them drone on and on about their pointless charity work stories. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. . .
“My life’s one big act…” and then stories about Mother. How dare they?
Anger is a weakness and they will try to use it against you.
And then that interfering bitch of an aunt yet again stuck her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. I so wanted to cut it off and make her eat it.
On and on she went, “When you going to meet a nice girl and settle down?” or “Don’t you think you should start looking for a job!?” SLUT! Why should I lower myself to their expectations?
Take a look at your own life for a change! Take her son, for example. He may be studying medicine at Oxford, but the dumb shit still can’t spell so many basic words.
Everyone seems to have forgotten that I was a quarter-finalist in a Spelling Bee when I was eight! It’s a great delight to watch him squirm whenever I quiz him in front of people. Dyslexia my arse; strange how this phenomena appeared once the cane was abolished in schools!
I needed fresh air, so made my excuses and popped out for a smoke.
Help out those less able.
My return journey was blocked by my one year old nephew trying to climb the stairs.
No one was around, so I gave him a little nudge and he fell (just three steps), to the bottom. I picked up the screaming brat and presented him to my sister who had made an over-dramatized attempt to reach him.
As the family made a fuss of the poor little fella, I felt a need to remind the family that it was I who was first on the scene; and not his (and I bitterly quote), “loving mother”.
Don’t brag, just reveal enough to keep them engaged.
As the plates on the table became empty, I decided to confess to my captive audience a little secret I had been hiding from them.
I expected to be met with words of anger when told them that the vegetables had been cooked in the juices from the meat, but was surprised to hear my vegetarian cousin and his wife remark that the veg was divine and that they were considering switching back to meat.
As the evening rolled on and the wine dampened our senses, I found myself somewhat warming to them. Were they really as bad as I had painted them? I considered revealing the real secret to the perfect roast; that I had used a pinch of Mother’s ashes when seasoning.
The alcohol was truly working wonders to warm my heart. I looked lovingly at my grandmother, who still had remnants of dinner around her chops.
The image of her licking her lips and playing with her hearing aid began to arouse me. As they turned me into a joke with anecdotes of my childhood I began to pleasure myself. I deposited the finished contents into my napkin and swapped it with my uncles who had popped to the lavatory.
How I laughed inside as he spent the best part of the evening wondering where that smell came from.
He finished his dessert and wiped his face with the napkin. Soon after his nostrils started to flare.
He subtly whiffed his wine glass. “Not in there, Numb nuts!” Was it the dessert? “Are you fucking kidding me?”
When he finally smelt his hands, he went red faced and hurried back to the bathroom.
He actually believed that he was responsible. Ha!
Ah, hello Mr Angry, I’m so pleased you decided to join us…
And then the doorbell rang. When I answered it my mood switched back to how it was at the beginning of the night. Standing before me, and here to ruin my evening, was Father’s cum bucket of a fiancée, Carol, and his fucking faggot of a carer.
They demanded to see my father, as they were “concerned for his health”. How fucking patronising!
No doubt in my mind that they were trying to suck the last ounce of dignity from him.
I was about to introduce them to Mr Angry, who was dying to say hello, when for some unexplained reason I backed down and stepped aside allowing them to rush to Father.
I returned to the dining room with the intention of taking the carving knife to the throats of each and every one of my guests and the two gate-crashers.
I picked up the knife, downed a large goblet of vino and began to eye up my first choice.
Perhaps my baby cousin who’d spent the whole night sucking the chees from his mother’s saggy old tits.
Then my brother-in-law was making my sister laugh like nothing I’d ever seen before.
Despite his filthy wandering hands placed upon my sister’s shoulder, I felt relaxed.
Everyone in the room was having the time of their lives, and it was all my doing. Maybe I’d put a little too much methadone in the wine, who knows? I dropped the knife and collapsed back into my chair. Nothing could ruin this day.
Then that bitch Carol entered the room and charged at me. She demanded to know where my father’s gangrene infected leg had gone! I just smiled as I watched my grandmother picking her son from her teeth. I was still buzzing from everyone’s compliments on how tasty dinner had been.
Besides, since I pushed him down the stairs, and the stroke, he wasn’t even using his legs anyway!
Something to His Left
By Gerald Kells
There was something to his left.
It is hard to put it differently.
If he turned his head and looked into the row of trees or the hedgerow or the fields he saw it, even when there was nothing to see.
From the front door to the road was a copse, a clogged up ditch and, in-between, an iron gate into a field of corn. The gate was rusty, its top bracket corroded so that the crosspiece hung slightly down, suggesting that at some time someone had sat on it and it hadn't taken their weight.
There was nothing beyond the gate. A field rose to a ridge and on the ridge a single tree. Being winter it was spiky. The man wasn't sure what species it was.
There was definitely something to his left.
It wasn’t something that had appeared suddenly. It had been there every day, ever since he'd arrived.
He’d tried walking past the gate without looking but it made no difference.
He’d made himself stop, put out his hand, tentatively, where the metal had bent, as if the thing might had been sitting there a minute before or when the cross bar broke. He’d searched the horizon, examining the branches of the tree, seeking evidence that something had hung from them or climbed them or was hiding behind the trunk, its claws clasping round the bark.
There was nothing to his right.
A hedge ran all the way along.
The thing wasn’t behind it.
It was to his left.
It was somewhere in the field, among the saplings, following him from the yard to the bus stop where he’d trimmed back the nettles so he could stand without causing an obstruction.
The bus represented his last link with the world.
Every two hours a blue-grey service vehicle came into view. You could see it from the upstairs window of the cottage. Mostly it was empty.
He took the bus into town to pick up groceries and a paper, which he never read. He was fed up with the world, with the nasty things in it. Anyway, he didn't believe half what they wrote.
His intention had been to “get away from it all”, perhaps to write his memoirs.
He’d asked the bus driver, “The cottage, “has anything happened there, ever I mean, anything untoward? No reason,” he’d explained, “just curious,” and he’d smiled to emphasise the ordinariness of his question and that it wasn't about a thing in a field or a gate or a row of saplings, each one equally apart, which had been planted by someone else, sometime before he came.
He didn't know who owned the field. Or the coppice. There was a farmer, he'd been told. He might “see him about”.
But he hadn't seen him about so he never framed his cautious inquiry, his burning question: not about a particular event but about things in general.
Each day he walked quicker to the bus, getting there two minutes early, a minute and a half, half a minute. He sprinted down the lane, brushing back his hair, catching his breath so the bus driver wouldn't realise how scared he was.
The thing to his left was a deformed thing which towered over the driveway. It wanted to get him. The bus driver knew about it. The person who rented the cottage knew about it. Everyone on the bus knew about it. Even the people in the town had read about it - whatever it had done or had had done to it. After he passed they shook their heads, amazed he'd taken on 'Rosebud', the name which hung at an angle from the plaque by the cottage door because one of the screws had rotted away.
