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    Gift of a Casserole and Other Deadly Sins
    Gift of a Casserole and Other Deadly Sins
    Gift of a Casserole and Other Deadly Sins
    Ebook197 pages2 hours

    Gift of a Casserole and Other Deadly Sins

    By David Vernon

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    About this ebook

    Lust, envy, greed, wrath, sloth, gluttony and pride. What a collection of sins to make the heart beat faster. This is the second anthology of short stories we have published that explores these dark human motivations. Our first anthology, The Seven Deadly Sins, was published in 2012 and was so popular that we thought it timely to run another competition and publish a second volume of wicked tales. Here we present to you the thirty highly commended and three prize-winning stories from the Stringybark Seven Deadly Sins Award 2017.

    I never thought pinking-shears would be sharp enough to kill someone.
    But then I didn’t expect to find a dead body in my sewing room either. A very dead body. I knew this because of the circle of wine-black blood.
    A man without trousers.
    — From “Not With the Good Scissors” by Barb Ettridge

    Danny stared through the glass at the young, voluptuous woman, her turquoise bikini luminous in the subdued street lighting. A gaggle of men formed a half-circle outside the window in Amsterdam’s red-light district. Danny’s bestie, Si, egged him on.
    “Go on, Dan, she’s the one. Look at those tits, dude!”
    Danny’s heart sank. Why had he agreed to have his stag do in Amsterdam?
    — From “Caged Birds” by Susan Carey

    There she is again, the bitch, bending over to pick up the morning’s paper with her come-and-get-me arse pointed in my direction. I know she does it on purpose – probably imagines me peering through the curtains like some sad case waiting for his morning dose of booty. And she'd be right. I’ve been obsessed with her ever since she arrived.
    — From “A Matter of Taste” by Graham D’Elboux

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Vernon
    Release dateJul 11, 2017
    ISBN9781370092185
    Gift of a Casserole and Other Deadly Sins
    Author

    David Vernon

    I am a freelance writer and editor. I am father of two boys. For the last few years I have focussed my writing interest on chronicling women and men’s experience of childbirth and promoting better support for pregnant women and their partners. Recently, for a change of pace, I am writing two Australian history books. In 2014 I was elected Chair of the ACT Writers Centre.In 2010 I established the Stringybark Short Story Awards to promote the short story as a literary form.

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      Book preview

      Gift of a Casserole and Other Deadly Sins - David Vernon

      Gift of a Casserole and other Deadly Sins — thirty-three award-winning stories from the Stringybark Seven Deadly Sins Award

      Edited by

      David Vernon

      Selected by

      Julia Robertson, Zena Shapter, Graham Miller and David Vernon

      Published by Stringybark Publishing

      PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

      http://www.stringybarkstories.net

      Smashwords edition first published 2017

      Copyright: This revised collection, David Vernon, 2018

      Copyright: Individual stories, the authors, various.

      Some of these stories are works of fiction but based on real people and real events. Unless otherwise made clear (and we are sure you can figure it out), those mentioned in these stories are fictional characters and do not relate to anyone living or dead.

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the editor, judges and the author of these stories.

      Contents

      Introduction — David Vernon

      Seven Sins, Seven Gears — John Smithwick

      The Revolution of You — Cam Dang

      Petronella — Phillip Richards

      Future Past — Anne Tavares

      Six Inches — Harry Huang

      Eternal Dreams — Tyler McPherson

      The Death of Mrs Book-Book — Kym Iliff-Reynolds

      Bad Seed — Gabrielle Gardner

      Dirty Old Man — Michael Wilkinson

      A Black Friday — Anthony Coorey

      Sinner — Irene Buckler

      How Haught Are You? — Alan Wolfe

      Not With the Good Scissors — Barb Ettridge

      Hot Slick of Sin — Nikki Reid

      Under the Canopy of a Fig Tree — Darcy-Lee Tindale

      The Croc Hunter — Cassie Hamer

      Everything — Jordan Hagedon

      Stepsister — Annie Xinyuan Zhang

      Caged Birds — Susan Carey

      Cake — Darcy-Lee Tindale

      Play Big to Win Big — D.H.Mamet

      The Scarlet Dress — Mary Ann Napper

      The Wages of Sloth — Laura Campbell

      The Fall — Chris Faassen

      The Rime of the Ancient Sex Tourist — Steve Rhodes

      Kit Kat’s Revenge — Donna Lee Austin

      Chocolate Biscuits — Stephen Knox

      Gift of a Casserole — Eugenie Pusenjak

      A Matter of Taste — Graham D’Elboux

      Stupid Idea — Paula Wilson

      Casting Stones — David Day

      The Book Club — Howard Englander

      If It Don’t Fit, Don’t Corset! — Penny Gibson

      The Stringybark Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Award 2017

      About the Judges

      Acknowledgements

      Other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

      Introduction

      — David Vernon

      Lust, envy, greed, wrath, sloth, gluttony and pride. What a collection of sins to make the heart beat faster. This is the second anthology of short stories we have published that explores these dark human motivations. Our first anthology, The Seven Deadly Sins, was published in 2012 and was so popular that we thought it timely to run another competition and publish a second volume of wicked tales. Here we present to you the thirty highly commended and three prize-winning stories from the Stringybark Seven Deadly Sins Award 2017.

      This is our thirtieth anthology and at the risk of causing grief to the ghost of Pope Gregory I (540-604 CE), who classified the seven deadly sins with which we are familiar today, we are going to take some pride in this. Stringybark Stories exists to support short story writing and short story writers. We are one of the few publishers in Australia that uses four judges to select the winning stories. Most competitions use only one or two judges, but in our experience this means that some of the more eclectic or adventurous stories miss out if they fail to please one judge. Using more judges ensures that a greater range of subject matter and short story writing styles are explored, and again, we are proud of that. In this slim volume you will find tales from both new and established writers. Many of the stories are amusing, some are sad, a few raunchy, and several make you wish you hadn’t got out of bed; but all will provide an entertaining read.

      I am sure that you will enjoy these stories as much as the judges enjoyed selecting them for you.

      David Vernon

      Judge and Editor

      Stringybark Stories

      Seven Sins, Seven Gears

      — John Smithwick

      Right. Nearly ready. Tyres pumped, check. Backpack zipped. Wallet and phone, in case of emergency. Ventolin in case of wheezing. Wet wipes, in case of real emergency. Expensive isotonic water. Good to go. Except? Ah yes. Helmet and Go-Pro: one securely on and the other On.

      Wait till the sneering fools at the office see this. Forget 10,000 steps. What about a twenty kilometre plus cycle. I wonder if one can attach the Fitbit to the front wheel? No, who needs a computer printout, when you have video footage. I’ll ask the IT crowd to make it everyone’s screen saver. As if.

      Bye, darling, I’m off. First Grand Tour of the year! Wish me luck… Lazy cow. Don’t worry, I’ll close the garage door.

      Look at those beautiful, leather fingerless gloves. Very professional, me. Up, chin up. Where the chin goes the Go-Pro follows. 1:1 gear. Reminds me of my one and only spin class. Frantic peddling, going nowhere. How about 1:2.

      Finally, a downhill. Down to the creek broad-walk. Not many swimmers. Bit of a chop. But taste the air. All those great negative ions. Easy riding, Easy Rider. Am I Peter Fonda or Dennis Hopper? Maybe both? Freedom! Effortlessly moving through space. How good is this? Meditative. Zen on wheels. Have I discovered a new religion? Ah Grasshopper, put down the sponge; pick up your bike. Enlightenment in lycra awaits. Let’s lift a bit, up to 1:4.

      Danger, danger, Will Robinson. A new mother on phone, plus pram and ADD dog. Brake. Swerve. Airborne. Shouldn’t allow that lot out of the house. Oh, she looks petrified. Typical, she’s had a fright, I am checking myself for broken bones, and guess what: I am in the wrong.

      Sorry if I gave you a bit of a scare. Such a lovely morning, I must have been day-dreaming. What a cute baby, is it a girl? No, I’m alright. No harm done.

      Thankfully the bike’s okay. Bit of a grazed knee. An honourable injury. Wounded on the field of sport action. Every gym should hand out medals for such heroism.

      Leave the yapping hound behind. Take off carefully in 1:3. Let’s concentrate. Is the sun hot, or is it me? Feeling all flushed. Bloody adrenaline. Always makes me peckish. Must need sustenance? Where are the Tour de France support cars when you need them? I can see myself being handed those tasty high protein tubes. That’s what I forgot, not even a banana. Can’t continue like this. I could faint from hunger.

      And like a drowning man seeing the lifesaver paddle towards him; there appears salvation in the form of Café Sirenuse. Outdoor tables, blackboard menu and barista all in place. Replete with convenient bike rack. Such a sense of well-being. I even remembered to turn the Go-Pro off.

      Cappuccino, thanks.Yes, full cream. And perhaps, do I spy a white chocolate and raspberry muffin, on the counter? Followed by: scrambled eggs and ham, a side serve of bacon, and, oh well, just a couple of hash browns. Yes, that will be all.

      No need for that look, waitress person. I’ve just had a near-death experience involving a Smartphone and a Jack Russell.

      Maybe the last hash brown was ill-advised. Never mind. All fuelled up. Helmet, Go-pro On. Oh look at that racing bike. Bet you could lift it up with one finger. Lucky devil. I’d have one like it, except for my bad back. Still, this is one fine, sturdy hybrid.

      Bike path at last. Much safer. Crank the gears up to 1:5. Flying. How fit am I! That gym session last month must be paying off. Should do more.

      Would you look at the arse on that. Shorts any shorter, and I’d have to make a citizen’s arrest. Speaking of arrest: be still my galloping heart. Do I stay behind and watch the show; or do I peddle alongside and see if the bow is as comely as the beam.

      Oi, getting an eye-full, you old perv.

      Alarm. Large tattooed boyfriend ahead. Innocent smile required. Cycle furiously. Go for 1:7. Round bend quickly. Dismount. Detour into bushes. Head down. Hide.

      Is the coast clear? It may be time to head back. Jasus, where did that wind come from? Nearly blowing me backwards. I can do it. 1:7 too high. 1:5? 1:4? 1:3? I can do it… I can’t do it. No-one can cycle into such a gale.

      Well done me for remembering to pack the phone in case of emergencies – like this one.

      "Darling, ‘tis I. Is your program finished? I nearly got to the caravan park. Yeah, past the café. No bike’s fine. Wind a bit breezy. Don’t want to overdo things. Can you, ah, can you come and pick us up in the hatchback? Ha, ha, very droll. No, the Go-pro seems to be mal-functioning. But I’ll tell you all about the ride. Okay, I promise not to. Just get in the bloody car, will you. Darling, Sweetheart, you there?

      I think I can. I know I can. Let’s try 1:1.

      John Smithwick is a retired desk-jockey living in the Northern Rivers region of New South Wales. When not being distracted by the beguiling weather and environment he enjoys writing short stories and even shorter plays.

      The Revolution of You

      — Cam Dang

      You knew others had it worse. A hundred years ago they would have been stuffed inside a bamboo pig cage and drowned by the villagers. Head shaved and paraded around town naked. Raped by ten men. Stoned to death. You were getting slaps and punches. Big deal! Your own mother used to hit you harder than that.

      As Mrs Lai, your mother-in-law, kneaded your face, you thought of the time you watched a dog hump another dog on the street. A neighbour cast stone after stone to separate them. A group of kids laughed, cheering her on. And you, sitting by the front door and feeding your four year-old daughter, you felt sorry for the dogs. They should have looked for somewhere private, somewhere no one could find them.

      Looked like you weren’t any smarter than those animals.

      Your cheeks burned and your eyes saw only stars, but your ears were still working perfectly fine. In fact, every sound seemed to be amplified. Your husband’s monkey-like shriek, his brother’s heavy breathing, their mother’s sour voice. The only person you didn’t hear was the man who just ten minutes ago had been making a lot of noise on top of you. Vu with his voice like palm sugar lured you here. And now, hunched up in a corner of the bed with his head between his knees, butt-naked, this prince charming had left you to fend for yourself.

      It wasn’t as if you’d expected it from him anyway. You knew what you were getting yourself into before meeting him here, and that you truly deserved this beating now, because there wasn’t one good reason justifying you sleeping with another man.

      Mrs Lai yanked off the blanket that you were gripping onto with your dear life. You fought for it and got another fist in your mouth. Phong shouted for his mother to stop aiming for your face. It wasn’t the law he was afraid of – there was no law in Vietnam punishing husbands for hitting their wives anyway. He simply didn’t want to spend a month looking at a stitched up face while fucking its body.

      Even that thought couldn’t help you justify your action, because although your husband was a scrawny man with awful breath, he’d never smacked you around like other husbands did to their wives in your village. Prior to this moment anyway. And technically his mother was doing the punishing, not him.

      He also had never told you if you were pretty.

      Or if he missed you.

      Or if he could bring you something for your period pain.

      Whereas Palm Sugar Face over there had slipped you love letters, laid daisies on your windowsill, stood in the rain all night when you told him it was wrong.

      Still, not a valid reason.

      The only reason for lust was the lack of self-control. These were words of wisdom your mother bestowed upon you on the night she caught you kissing a guy under the papaya tree in the garden. It was 8pm, Saturday, and you were supposed to be at the town’s popular lovers’ park with your tray of peanuts and cigarettes. That was your night job. During the day you sat at the market, the peanuts and cigarettes replaced by winter melons, onions, chilli, limes. Her wisdom that night came with twenty red lines across your buttocks. Nothing new. At least she didn't chase you down the road with a cleaver like last time.

      Three months later, she married you off. Before you have a chance to disgrace me with a bastard child, she had said. You were eighteen.

      It was the excuse you held onto whenever you got wet thinking of Vu: your marriage was empty. And so, could anyone really blame you for tingling all over catching another man with a beautiful smile staring shamelessly at you? He was Phong’s friend, but that did little to put out the fire in your loins whenever he came around. You dreamed of the hardness of his biceps, the perfume on his skin, his hot breath on your neck. You trembled feverishly picturing his hands gripping your hips. You dissolved by the thought of his warm body bearing down on yours. All the feelings you never knew existed. Could anyone really blame you?

      Once you'd read an article – The Revolution of Eves – printed on a sheet of newspaper with which you’d use to wrap vegetables. It was a rainy afternoon and you were slowly dying, sitting there behind your tray of goods, staring at the muddy road. Thank God your mother let you learn how to read before she took you out of school. The article talked about the ideal, modern women, how they broke out of their shells (like cracked peanuts, you supposed) and proved they could do all the things men could. They were strong, fearless. They followed their needs, their dreams. They were everything you were not but had hoped to be,

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