May 18 2019 Session

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He felt too ill to drive to work that day.

By MD

Let’s face it. When Harry adopted Attila, he wasn’t too wise in the ways of the feline. The sturdy black cat, with the long, Michael Jordan-like legs, had appeared on his doorstep one morning and darted inside when Harry opened the door to discover the source of the interminable aggressive yowling which had awakened him from a sound sleep. It never occurred to him to name the feisty animal anything other than Attila – surely such ferocity deserved the appropriate, fear-inducing masculine name. And Attila seemed to settle into the name with ease.

You can imagine Harry’s surprise, then, when he awoke one morning a few days later to discover that Attila had given birth to two slimy kittens. As he watched his pet lick off the glistening goo, he felt too ill to drive to work that day. And he felt betrayed, as well. “Attila, you nasty animal, how did you let this happen?” The cat ignored him, as cats will do, and continued ministering to her newborn kits. So Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and, under Attila’s loud protestations, deposited each kitten in spare mugs as he pronounced gravely, “Attila, no matter your sexual proclivities, I’m not changing your name. I named you Attila, and Attila you’ll stay. And,” Harry gestured to the two mewling kittens, “your little black offspring I’m naming Genghis and the white one is Godzilla. Deal with it.”

And actually, the animals did. They grew and flourished in Harry’s home and soon exhibited the same tyrannical bellicosity as their namesakes. Harry lost his job but he enjoyed his life at home, catering to the dictatorial demands of his feline family.

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I feel that the language of recipes should reflect the visceral nature of cooking.

By CC

My name is Barquelus. My title is Chef for the Central Council of Penguins. My job, so far, has consisted of providing raw fish and raw crab cakes with seaweed garnish to the Council; so far this seems to have pleased them.

But I feel that the language of recipes should reflect the visceral nature of cooking. And one day a strange creature wandered in that could bring my philosophy to life!  I looked at the thing standing before me and thought – Humanus Gluteus Soufflé! Or, even more of a delicacy, Rack of Hand!

Clearly this kind of meal would impress the Council. But how to accomplish it without fire? Poking around the creature, which it seemed to find humorous, I located a lighter in one of its pockets. Good. I could get the clothes burning first, then one could only hope the fat would catch. 

But how to kill it first? I looked into the eyes shielded behind plastic goggles. My beak was long and sharp. If I could pierce the glass and then deep into the brain behind the eye, well, dinner would be on the table in a few hours!

The act took but a few minutes, as I had the advantage of surprise. I started the fire right then, but suddenly other humans came rushing over and started hitting us with cameras and their shoes. There were 7 of them, too many for us to take down.

In a rash move I snipped both its hands off and waddled away with them without being noticed in the general fracas. My plan could still work. Most of the Council had fled the scene and would appreciate a well presented and tasty Rack of Hand later, raw or cooked.

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Her mother’s eyes were blue, the same blue as her own. 

By CT

Teressa was an unusual bear. Her mother’s eyes were blue, the same blue as her own. Other bears mocked her, but she ignored them. She was special and she knew it. Her mother had passed on another quirky trait. Teressa enjoyed human companionship. Her favorite human was Josh. Whenever she saw him, she lumbered to him and covered his face with happy bear kisses. 

Josh secretly enjoyed the attention until the day she accidentally bit him and discovered he tasted like meat. He got away just in time. 

Teressa mourned Josh’s loss. Then Matt came along. Oops.

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This is a play performed for our benefit,

By BG

Madge was thrilled. She threw her arms open wide and pranced around the front yard like a school girl. Ever since she’d moved from the city, which had been a couple of decades now, she had not had her fill of cultural activities. She had missed them so terribly. Art exhibits, museums, symphony concerts and all sorts of theatrical events. Falling in love with Howard and accompanying him back to his middle of nowhere ranch was never to be regretted. Their marriage had been a wonderful fulfilling adventure together with really no time for the cultural stuff while Howard was still with her, but now it was different. He was gone and she was left alone in the sticks with very little to occupy her time. Her happy demeanor had begun to wane. Her family came to the rescue today as she received their news. A traveling theater company would arrive in the afternoon to set up for a performance. Madge’s son had let her know just now by phone: “This is a play performed for our benefit.”