alf and bet, or miss batby's tale

by emily de villaincourt

i do not care for the stories you have been telling us, emmeline informed miss batby, the governess, when story hour came round and the fire had been lit. is that so, miss? miss batby replied. and what is it that you do not like about them? there are too nice by half, too milksoppy. so you would like a nasty story instead? if you please. and you, master philip, miss batby asked emmeline’s twin brother, would you like a nasty story? it is all the same to me, philip replied, in his world weary way. very well, then, said miss batby, here is the story of alf and bet. alf and bet were best friends. everybody thought so. they went everywhere together, and were almost never seen apart. alf sincerely loved bet. but bet secretly hated alf. alf had happy dreams every night. bet was in most of them, smiling and singing and dancing. bet had dreams every night, mostly of subjecting alf to slow roasting and other torments. nobody ever suspected this. they went on a trip to the south seas. their boat was capsized by a violent storm. they spent days on a raft with seven other passengers, all of whom perished of hunger. as the other passengers died, their bodies were eaten by the survivors. this was more difficult than it sounds, as they had no tools or any way to make a fire, and they were all civilized people who were unused to relying on such desperate measures for survival. also, some of them, including alf and bet, had weak teeth, and could only manage to chew scraps and leftovers. in spite of this, alf and bet were the last two survivors. finally the raft washed up on a small rocky island. there was water on the island, but no vegetation. and absolutely nothing to eat. alf and bet began eating what little was left of the other passengers. both realized only too well that when the scraps were finished, one of them would have to eat the other. in a final gesture of love, alf decided to swim away during the night, to spare bet the agony of making so heartbreaking a choice. waking in the morning and finding alf gone, bet was consumed by a final paroxysm or rage and hatred at being thus cheated out of a last meal or two, and perished of a burst spleen. so ends the story of the best friends alf and bet, miss batby concluded. was that nasty and unpleasant enough for you, miss? emmeline shrugged. it was all right. i give you e for effort. pooh, said philip, i can tell a nastier story than that, without half trying.

the white flower

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by eddie el greco

when bertrand was a little boy, his mother went to see the gypsy one day and she took bertrand with her. the gypsy looked at bertrand and announced - “one day you will look out the window and see a man walking along and carrying a white flower. on that night, you will die.” “good heavens!” exclaimed bertrand’s mother, “what a thing to say to a child!” “but it is the truth, madame,” the gypsy replied, “and i always speak truth. it is my profession.” bertrand’s mother had no answer to that, and she proceeded on with her usual business with the gypsy. the years went by. due to a combination of excellent connections and fortunate circumstances, bertrand grew to be a very successful and very old man. one evening at dusk he looked out his window and saw a man, apparently some sort of deliveryman, walking along carrying a white flower in a crystal vase. had the gypsy’s prophecy finally came true? bertrand had almost forgotten it. bertrand rushed into the street as quickly as he could on his cane. he saw that he must have been fooled by a trick of the light, for the flower the man was carrying was actually red. much relieved, he went back into his house. that night he went to bed at his usual time, and fell asleep immediately. in the morning his housekeeper found him dead.

the artist

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by danny delacroix

my aunt catherine was one of the last of the last generation of middle class women who, if they could not find a job or a husband, lived with and were supported by their families their whole lives. she could never hold a job because she just was not very bright. she had a hard time remembering anything or understanding instructions, and always talked, and seemed to think, slowly. earlier generations would probably have described her as “simple” although the use of the term was mostly obsolete in her lifetime. she never had much to say, almost never initiated conversations, and usually answered, “yes”, “thank you”, “i suppose so,” or “that’s nice,” when spoken to. she watched a lot of television. her father, my grandfather, died when catherine was forty-two years old. my grandmother and catherine continued to live on grandfather’s pension until grandmother died two years later. when grandmother died, her house was sold for a few thousand dollars and the money given to my aunt janet towards the support of catherine, who went to live with janet and her three teenaged children. janet had been divorced for many years and worked as a waitress and sometime hostess at a family restaurant. catherine was given a small space to live in janet’s finished basement. it was a few months after moving in with janet and her children that catherine began speakng of herself as an artist. she would say things like “artists like myself do such and such…” or “artists like myself are the soul of the world”, or “things seem different when you are an artist like me.” she was not, so far as anyone could see, making or attempting to make any type of art. when she talked of being an artist, her listeners would nod, and nobody questioned her as to the nature of her art. the only opinion on the subject was expressed by janet’s son adam, who said, “she probably got the idea from watching oprah or ellen.” janet’s daughter terry replied, “but would she get the idea from oprah or ellen that she was an artist herself?” bob just shrugged, and no one else had any thoughts on the subject. when catherine died, no art of hers of any kind was found in the basement, or anywhere in the house. janet’s three children moved away from home. catherine is never spoken of by her surviving relatives, except occasionally by my mom and janet, who agree that it was a “blessing” that she died before she became more of a burden.

wedding day

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by eddie el greco

amanda woke up on the day scheduled for her wedding and decided she did not want to marry jeffrey. she wrote her dreams down in a notebook, as she always did, dressed meticulously, as she always did, and went down to breakfast. her aunt bertha was waiting for her at the breakfast table. a tasteful but light breakfast of rose tea and grass seed crumpets had been spread, as it was unwise for a lady to risk gas on her wedding day. amanda wasted no time in announcing to bertha her decision not to marry jeffrey. bertha never expressed surprise at anything, and she did not express any on this occasion. “do you have any reason for taking this extraordinary step?” bertha enquired calmly. “was it because of something you dreamt?” “i do not need a reason for my decision.” amanda replied. “after all, it is the 23rd century.” “i did not mean to imply that you did not,” said bertha. “i was only making polite chit-chat.” “and my dreams, relevant or not, are my own, are of no concern to anyone but myself,” amanda continued, as she poured herself a cup of tea. “of course not,” bertha agreed. actually, the contents of amanda’s notebooks, and of her dreams, and of her brain, were all available to bertha, and to the central brain in central city, and to many of the directors and servants of central headquarters, if any of them were interested in perusing them. “how do you propose to break the news to jeffrey?” bertha asked amanda. “i am sure he will be very disappointed.” “oh, i do not think he will be as disappointed as all that,” said amanda. “in fact, i do not think he will be disappointed st all.” “be that as it may,” bertha replied, “it would still be good manners to send him some sort of explanation. it need not be true, just polite.” “oh, all right. do you have any suggestions?” “well, there are some standard forms. stokely will know them.” bertha rang the bell on the table, and stokely, the servant, appeared. “yes, mum?” “amanda here needs a brief - polite but not too effusive - communication to a young man she has decided not to marry. as i am sure you know, the wedding was to have taken place at noon today.” “yes, mum. let me think.” stokely closed her eyes. “how about this - dear so-and-so, or alternately, my dear sir - i do not feel that the multitudinous alignments of the universe are favorable to our union at this time. i am sorry for any inconvenience this may cause you. sincerely, so-and-so.” “that sounds excellent, stokely,” said bertha. “thank you so much.” “do i really need the part about causing him inconvenience?” asked amanda. “i think it would be best,” said bertha. “it adds just the right note.” “it is a tried and true formula, miss,” said stokely. “dating from the days of the feminist uprisings.” “remind me again what the feminist uprisings were about,” amanda addressed stokely. “well, it is a long story, miss, but basically the women on the planet rose up against the men referencing a host of grievances.” “but what grievances could they possibly have had?” “well, they were too numerous to summarize in a few sentences, but many of them centered on the fact of physical childbirth by women. of course the scientific advances of the past two centuries rendered those considerations obsolete.” “indeed,” added bertha. “i shudder to think what it must have been like for the poor creatures back then. we are indeed fortunate to live in times when women are free to compete with men on an equal basis, and to follow the dictates of their own natures..” amanda laughed. “yes, the dictates of their own natures in torturing men.” bertha smiled thinly at this, and nodded at stokely, who took her leave. good heavens, thought bertha, what old-fashioned notions some of these young persons have. torturing men, indeed! i wonder if any of the young men are harboring similarly barbaric notions. i shall have to bring it to the attention of the central committee. amanda stared down at her cup of tea. now that i am not to be married and do not have to concern myself with gas, she thought, i may as well have a proper breakfast. a grizzly bear steak would do nicely, and some potatoes fried in squid oil, and some good rye whiskey.