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The Gingerbread House
An elderly pensioner finally retires and builds her dream house in the woods. Tall multicoloured rock candy spires sit upon gingerbread walls, fairy floss steam emerges from a dark chocolate chimney and finely rolled marzipan lines the white chocolate windowsills. One day, the pensioner spots two small children gnawing on her oversized candy cane doorknocker. She sees the white chocolate windowpane torn off and bite marks on the caramel fudge porch railing. She is distraught, but her anger invigorates her rather than renders her paralysed.
Her husband comes home just as she’s putting dinner on the table. He lays his hatchet and the day’s firewood in the corner. She greets him with a kiss on the cheek and pours the wine. “The roast is quite rare today,” he says. “Yes, I thought you liked it that way,” she replies.
“I do.” He carries on eating before adding, “It is rather warm today,” as his eyes turn to the freestanding Franklin stove, still ablaze and lightly sparkling. The scent of melting gingerbread intermingles with that of the evening’s dinner. She smiles and they kiss, red wine and a somewhat indeterminable aftertaste on their tongues.
Girl, Uninterrupted
They lay her amongst the flowers and wait. Still, the prince does not come. They continue to wait. An acrid odour begins to emanate from her body. Through the trees a beautiful woman watches. She removes her hair scarf, discards the half-eaten produce, shrugs and sinks her teeth smugly into a fresh juicy peach.
J’adore
“No, that’s my name,” the doctor tells him. He shrugs.
The man is tall, pale, and not ugly. There is merely an absence of beauty. At best he is simply unhandsome or unbeautiful. He smiles at the villagers. “Bonjour,” he says, towering over them, “je m’appelle Fra—.” His voice is drowned out as they all scream and scatter, with the exception of the village idiot’s daughter, the chimney sweep. She is deaf in one ear and blind in one eye. Frank looks around at the deserted town square, tears streaming in rivulets down his deep eye sockets. The chimney sweep grins toothily, turns and beckons him to follow. Frank wipes a tear away. “J’adore,” he grunts, following her into a room. The chimney sweep looks on, unhearing. “J’adore, j’adore, j’adore,” he insists. “Yes, shut the door,” she says, smiling. He does.
The Lake
Nars goes to the meadow every day. He says it’s in search of fresh fruit. It’s not. The sun blazes down, letting the scent of citrus trees permeate the air. Nars halfheartedly stubs his cigarette out and deposits a few lemons and oranges into a wicker basket before and heading for the lake. He smiles as he’s greeted by his favourite sight. He bends down for a better look. Closer. Closer. Closer. The lemons and oranges go flying.
Nobody goes to the meadow anymore. They cannot stand the sight at the bottom of the lake.
Words by Theo Rosen & T. Angel
