Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry

Lest you think I am moving my work into some sort of biological anthropological studies - the title of this post is the name of my new story collection.

The full title is:

Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry and Other Tales of General Weirdness

Whew.

This collection contains my darker, quirkier, black humour filled stories (wait, isn't that all my work? Well, not quite).

Here on the blog I will be posting excerpts of some of the stories, leading up to the release date in early summer.

This is the beginning of the title story:

Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry

Simon clenched his hand into a clay fist, his eyes became cobra-slits, his stance radiated violence. Still, he wondered, was it enough to stop his ex-neighbour dead? He thought what he always thought. There is the reason that bitch got pregnant. He only knew him, because of the moonscape across his mug, as Pusface. It had been three years since he lived down the street. The ex-neighbour brushed past Simon without recognition.

Simon jammed the fist into a pocket ripping a seam.

"Oh that's frickin' great." He looked back to see if his comment was heard, but the sidewalk was empty. "Oh sure, duck and run, Mr. Impregnator…Pusface…whatever your name is – I know where you frickin' live."

Simon did know where he lived. He walked past there everyday on his way to the gym.

#    #    #

When Mr. Pusface first moved off his street, Simon absorbed a weird sort of pride, like he was responsible for the neighbourhood jettison. He certainly had glared at the guy, and he had told anyone who would listen the nature of Pusface's crime.

"Don't be silly," Mary told him. "I heard he got transferred and c'mon, Simon, you barely talked to the guy. Except for that day."

"Who transfers grocery boys?"

"I think he's more than that. Some sort of produce manager or something."

"Look at the guy, what is he one-twenty, one-thirty soaking wet? He couldn't lift a frickin' cabbage! I could press him without a spotter."

"Don't hold such a grudge. I'm sure he's forgotten all about it by now." Mary stroked his cheek.

"Well I sure as frickin' haven't."

How do you forget that? It's the kind of thing that sticks with you, especially when it affects your bank account.

#    #    #

Mary had wanted a dog for a long time. She grew up with dogs in the country, big shaggy collies and shiny black labs, real dogs – that's what Simon called them.

"So what the heck do these little French things look like? Some sort of poodle thing? I hate poodles – saw them in a circus once when I was a kid. Dumbest thing I ever saw – big poofs on their head, riding tricycles. Can you imagine? Who puts a dog on a bike?"