Contributor: Michael A. Withell
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“How do you do, Mr. Moo?” Silence. Bovine ignoramus? Nothing more than a mosquito to the majestic brown beast, squeeze and feel him burst between two bloodhungry fingers. Stop, shy away from the lair of the impotent lips; flaccid wet mouth stalking minus a moo (a coo) for how to you do?
“I'm very well, Mr. Moo”. Unregistered. “Care to join me in the tea room for my morning brew?” Nice tea there he's heard; not too bitter and you can admire your face in the convex face of the spoon (convex?) Shiny with no salty stain of sodium. (Lingering crumb hanging from the corner of its mouth).
Thudspreadgrasp. The gate was locked and its eyes remained empty; convex globes of light that only appeared to reflect, deflect, (direct) consciousness into the eyes of the beholder. Diffuse (defuse) the lock and let it roam free? Where could it go though? Certainly not for tea.
The man moved to leave it alone and oblivious to its own incarceration, maybe he'd come back home that way and share a quip and a sliver of cake. Forget the cake, the Doctor had mentioned fat and sugar with a distasteful glint (he'd end up calorie-counting all the way to the crematorium that fellow, just to prove his point.)
(Prod the statue with the stub of his stick, don't you see how it moves? Even in eternal snoreless sleep it dances to the same dull tune. It was the gateau that killed el gato, it didn't fall victim to its own curiosity).
Still silent.
“What would you say, Mr. Moo, if your lips could speak?” Cowmany calling Cowmany calling, I am talking to you about Cowmany; the lips of Lord Moo-Moo in an infinite stew. Maybe it would like some grass; a clump, a lump, a tuft taken from the top of the turf.
Poor Mr. Moo, his kingdom for a Horse indeedy, unable to flee from those Quadrupedal Quislings. Rejoice rejoice re-joyce, turncoat ersatz toff. Look at you, Mr. Moo, how flawlessly your coat shines! Hide that head in a leather hat perched above his eyes, good for warmer days and rainy Mays.
Chomp chomp feet stomp mouth full of pomp (maybe not, but grass between two front teeth and sagging lower lip. Unsatisfied). Mumbled apologies to the lowing animal, stomachs still rumble and mouth still tumbles against the putrefied clod.
Food for rats, not for a steedless, dethroned King.
The man sighed a single stuttered sigh and scratched an itch sneaking across the skin of his inner thigh. “Adieu Mr. Moo, Adieu and A pleasant day to you”. He turned away from the market mausoleum and eyed the man perched atop his stony plateau, his tie moving in sync with his dancing hand, a red tie in fact (red with black dots).
A fashion-conscious fascist.
Too hot for tea, the man wanted something colder (some ice would suffice). Wait. The smell of fried meat tickled the tiny hairs of his nostrils, causing him to turn to the right in a cartoon-like shuffle. Shoulder. Arms.
Shriek of a whistle pierced the morning sky. Over the top.
(Dead meat, bloated bodies hooked through the skin of their feet; blood pooling in the vacuum of their eyes.) Smell better with onions. Fried Onions? Garlic? Garlic keeps the dead at bay, steak through the heart.
“A burger”, he said to the meatman. “No onions”. The smell of onion pickles the tongue, petrifies the lips (unmissable smell for an unkissable hell). Burnt. The burger was burnt and the gristle took residence in the contours of his teeth, hiding itself from prods and pokes and the most pointless coercion.
Coercive voice danced above the vegetative smell; lower taxes, racial inequality and dilution camps all became the buzzwords of the day. Buzzbuzzbuzz, follow the beeline to auditory shelter; back to unhearing ears.
“I tell you, Mr. Moo. They don't listen, they never listen. They just stand there on their pedestals and preach to the inconvertible. Sure, they'll nod and agree but at the end of the day they won't share their taxes. Why would they?”
Silence, bovine Ignoramus.
“Yeah I know they get a good crowd. Christ, most people just come for the food I bet. Come for the chance to eat something other than cardboard and for the chance to look at the woman's ass standing in front of them. Apple of my eye. Cannibals, all of them.”
Shake of the head, cannibals. Eyes fixed on the burger, back to Mr. Moo.
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Michael A. Withell is a short story and comic book author from Beverley, England. His first short comic will appear in the in-print 'Gods & Cattle' anthology in 2013. He spends his time playing with words and getting people to draw pretty pictures for him.
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“How do you do, Mr. Moo?” Silence. Bovine ignoramus? Nothing more than a mosquito to the majestic brown beast, squeeze and feel him burst between two bloodhungry fingers. Stop, shy away from the lair of the impotent lips; flaccid wet mouth stalking minus a moo (a coo) for how to you do?
“I'm very well, Mr. Moo”. Unregistered. “Care to join me in the tea room for my morning brew?” Nice tea there he's heard; not too bitter and you can admire your face in the convex face of the spoon (convex?) Shiny with no salty stain of sodium. (Lingering crumb hanging from the corner of its mouth).
Thudspreadgrasp. The gate was locked and its eyes remained empty; convex globes of light that only appeared to reflect, deflect, (direct) consciousness into the eyes of the beholder. Diffuse (defuse) the lock and let it roam free? Where could it go though? Certainly not for tea.
The man moved to leave it alone and oblivious to its own incarceration, maybe he'd come back home that way and share a quip and a sliver of cake. Forget the cake, the Doctor had mentioned fat and sugar with a distasteful glint (he'd end up calorie-counting all the way to the crematorium that fellow, just to prove his point.)
(Prod the statue with the stub of his stick, don't you see how it moves? Even in eternal snoreless sleep it dances to the same dull tune. It was the gateau that killed el gato, it didn't fall victim to its own curiosity).
Still silent.
“What would you say, Mr. Moo, if your lips could speak?” Cowmany calling Cowmany calling, I am talking to you about Cowmany; the lips of Lord Moo-Moo in an infinite stew. Maybe it would like some grass; a clump, a lump, a tuft taken from the top of the turf.
Poor Mr. Moo, his kingdom for a Horse indeedy, unable to flee from those Quadrupedal Quislings. Rejoice rejoice re-joyce, turncoat ersatz toff. Look at you, Mr. Moo, how flawlessly your coat shines! Hide that head in a leather hat perched above his eyes, good for warmer days and rainy Mays.
Chomp chomp feet stomp mouth full of pomp (maybe not, but grass between two front teeth and sagging lower lip. Unsatisfied). Mumbled apologies to the lowing animal, stomachs still rumble and mouth still tumbles against the putrefied clod.
Food for rats, not for a steedless, dethroned King.
The man sighed a single stuttered sigh and scratched an itch sneaking across the skin of his inner thigh. “Adieu Mr. Moo, Adieu and A pleasant day to you”. He turned away from the market mausoleum and eyed the man perched atop his stony plateau, his tie moving in sync with his dancing hand, a red tie in fact (red with black dots).
A fashion-conscious fascist.
Too hot for tea, the man wanted something colder (some ice would suffice). Wait. The smell of fried meat tickled the tiny hairs of his nostrils, causing him to turn to the right in a cartoon-like shuffle. Shoulder. Arms.
Shriek of a whistle pierced the morning sky. Over the top.
(Dead meat, bloated bodies hooked through the skin of their feet; blood pooling in the vacuum of their eyes.) Smell better with onions. Fried Onions? Garlic? Garlic keeps the dead at bay, steak through the heart.
“A burger”, he said to the meatman. “No onions”. The smell of onion pickles the tongue, petrifies the lips (unmissable smell for an unkissable hell). Burnt. The burger was burnt and the gristle took residence in the contours of his teeth, hiding itself from prods and pokes and the most pointless coercion.
Coercive voice danced above the vegetative smell; lower taxes, racial inequality and dilution camps all became the buzzwords of the day. Buzzbuzzbuzz, follow the beeline to auditory shelter; back to unhearing ears.
“I tell you, Mr. Moo. They don't listen, they never listen. They just stand there on their pedestals and preach to the inconvertible. Sure, they'll nod and agree but at the end of the day they won't share their taxes. Why would they?”
Silence, bovine Ignoramus.
“Yeah I know they get a good crowd. Christ, most people just come for the food I bet. Come for the chance to eat something other than cardboard and for the chance to look at the woman's ass standing in front of them. Apple of my eye. Cannibals, all of them.”
Shake of the head, cannibals. Eyes fixed on the burger, back to Mr. Moo.
- - -
Michael A. Withell is a short story and comic book author from Beverley, England. His first short comic will appear in the in-print 'Gods & Cattle' anthology in 2013. He spends his time playing with words and getting people to draw pretty pictures for him.
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Michael A. Withell
