Short Fiction

I dreamt I had killed my mother and her body was inside the house we grew up in. I was calmly rationalising it in the street oddly enough, to my father, who died in 1990 (in real life) I figured it might be years before the body was discovered, because we haven't lived there for years and nobody in that street knows me or her. It was perfectly justifiable that I had killed her, but it began to slowly dawn on me that I had nonetheless committed a crime, and that I would undoubtedly be locked away for for many years. That worry manifested itself immediately as two ambulances and three cop cars roared up outside. But it turned out next door's spaniel had choked on a chop bone. It heralded the first of what I knew would be dreadful, heart-stopping moments whenever I opened a newspaper or turned on the tv. I asked my dad whether I should turn myself in now to save the grief, but he'd already turned into a panther and drove off in a volvo estate.

This presentation was brought to you by Chianti and stilton.