Snap Stories With Photos

Chef Dahl

Chef Dahl, with meat cleaver in hand, chopped the piece of meat on the bench, There came knocking on the back door to the kitchen. Being the only one in the kitchen he went to the door.

“How dare you interrupt my cooking?” Chef Dahl stood with meat cleaver in hand.

“Shh. Are you mad. You never who might be listening.” The man looked over his left shoulder.

“Don't shush me. I am thee, Chef. I can bellow whenever I feel the need. Why are you here. I don't give handouts.”

“I don't want a handout. I have very fresh trout. You like to buy my trout.” The man turned his head to look over his shoulder again.

“Do you have a neck problem? Or do you have the Devil seated on your shoulder.”

“Devil. Where is he. I don't see him. I tried to ditch...”

“Ditch who. Ah. So the fish has been cooked.”

“No. Fresh from the stream. Not been near no fire.” He opened the bag on the ground to show his wares. Sniffs. “Fresh. You cook for your customers. Going at a very cheap price. One hundred dollars.”

Chef Dahl took a closer look at the fish in the bag. A recipe running through his mind. He shook his head. “Sorry. Too high. I give you twenty dollars. Take it, or leave it. That's my final offer.”

“Seventy-five. Fifty. I have seven children to feed. Have a heart.”

“You don't spend too much time fishing, do you. Twenty-five.” He moved back like he intended to shut the door.

“Okay. I take twenty-five.” He looked over his shoulder. His jerky body movements showed his nervousness. Picked up the bag to hand over to Chef Dahl when he was paid. Before money changed hands a shot rang out. The bargainer slumped to the ground shot in the back. With automatic reflex action Chef Dahl threw the meat cleaver to hit the shooter in the chest toppling him to the ground. He cursed. There were two dead men at the back door and a bag of stolen fish.

Table Mystery

Talismar dressed early.

She wanted to be at the auction house early.

She pulled her long grey hair severely back into a bun on her neck. Caked lots of powder on her narrow, angular face. Powdered rouge on her cheeks. Plastered red lipstick on her pouting lips. Talismar drew black slashes above her eyes to cover her blond eyebrows. She held open her eyes to place in the faded blue contact lenses to cover her green coloured irises.

Standing from the stool in front of the mirror, she lifted the old fashioned dress from the bed to step into the dress. She dragged it up over her slender hips. Slipped her arms into the sleeves. She reached around to the back to pull up the zip. Slipped her feet into the pair of flat leather, lace-up shoes. Tied the laced. Slung a bag strap over her arm then picked up a walking stick to limp her way out of the bedroom with a secret smile on her face. Hope in every step she took toward the auction house.

Every day there was action at the auction house. Talismar made the slow walk around to survey all the items in the catalogue list for a table to put in the empty corner of the study.

“Five dollars,” she bid for each table no matter the shape. Size. Wood grain. Varnished or polished. Even the most valuable of the tables she placed the same bid.

The crowd chuckled each time her excited bid of five dollars came, knowing someone would bid higher to buy the table.

Coming to the end of the long catalogue list there remained one table to be sold. The table had eight legs. Four on the edges. Four a little further beneath the table. To everyone looking at the picture it seemed like there was two tables. One on top of the other. There was a draw on one side. Paint peeled from the legs. Years of gouges on the surface of the table.

Customers gasped, and shuddered, at the sight of such an ugly table. How was it allowed to be placed in the auction with the more expensive, antique tables.

The auctioneer banged the gavel to begin the auction. “What am I bid for this unusual table. One of a kind. Spider. Table. The talking point in any home. Who will start the bidding?”

Everyone turned to look at Talismar. Waited for her enthusiastic bid for the table.

The art dealer in the chair next to her gave her arm a bump with his elbow to wake her. “The auctioneer is waiting for your bid, Madam,” he told her when she lifted her head.

“I thought the auction was over. What table is left,” she pretended she didn't know.

“The one with the eight legs.”

She opened her purse to search around among the collection of rubbish. She found a lovely two dollar coin from the bottom of the purse. She pulled out the coin. Held it up in the hope everyone showed sympathy for her plight of being poor.

“The lady bids two dollars,” everyone chanted, wanting to pay her back for all her false bids.

“Sold.” The gavel sounded to end the suction.

“How am I suppose to take it home. I don't have any money left to pay for cartage?”

“I'll have it delivered to you,” the art dealer told her, thinking she was poor.

She walked out of the auction house with a smile on her face.

“Did you deliver that weird table for the nice old lady,” Duncan asked, thinking he'd be rid of the pesky old woman who sat beside him at every auction.

“Did you look at the address the old girl gave you?”

“No. Why? Should I have wanted to know where she lived. I thought I was doing a good deed because she didn't have enough money.”

Jasper spluttered into a full blown gale of laughter. Tears trickled down his rugged cheeks. His boss had been taken for a ride.

Duncan stared at Jasper in disbelief. Not once. Before today. Had he watched such merriment from his long time employee. Jasper hardly smiled. Today. He was making up for all those years. Duncan stood staring when Jasper collapsed to the floor still laughing.

“What's so funny. Have you been drinking,” Duncan growled, wondering what was so funny. “Did the old dear spike your tea?”

Jasper laughed more. He rolled around the floor.

Duncan stomped to the bar to grab the jug of cold water from the fridge. He marched back to where Jasper lay. He up ended the jug of water over Jasper.

The shock of the cold water stopped Jasper laughing. He sat up to look accusingly at Duncan. “I think there is something wrong with your eyes. I would advise you to go have your eyes checked.”

“There isn't anything wrong with my eyesight. I have good vision,” he snapped, peeved his vision had come under attack.

“Well. You must have been in a dark room at the auction house then.”

“No. Why. Tell me so I can laugh,” demanded Duncan.

“The house where we delivered the ugly table. You should be ashamed of yourself. We arrived at the address to find a very expensive, mansion. Thought we had the wrong address. I knocked on the door. A beautiful young lady opened the door.”

“We came to deliver your table,” I told her.

“She was so excited to have her shabby table. We took the table into her study. Then left. She rubbed her hands over the table like it was a prized antique.”

He been had. The bothersome old lady had tricked him. Duncan wasn't pleased to have been outsmarted.

“Take me to this house.” Duncan stormed toward the front door with a drenched Jasper trailing in his wake.

Jasper parked the car close to the house. He crept toward the house to search for a way to have a closer look at the table. To Jasper's surprise the table no longer looked the same.

Duncan watched the beauty from the house step into a Rolls Royce. He sounded the car horn for Jasper to return.

“Well. What did you find?”

“Two tables,” puffed Jasper, reaching to start the car. “The spider table has become two different sized tables. Didn't have time to investigate.”

There had to be something hidden in the table, thought Duncan.

Slowly. They followed the Rolls Royce to where it parked in front of the bank. Jasper found a park. Duncan, and Jasper, dived from the car to race toward the bank. They watched their prey step from the car. The driver collected a case from the boot of the Rolls Royce to carry into the bank. They watched. Rushed into the bank. Standing at the back of all the customers Duncan, and Jasper, watched. The driver stood beside their prey. He placed a case up on the counter. The woman flicked open the locks. Opened the lid.

A loud groan coupled with a laugh echoed above the noise in the bank. Everyone turned to look at Duncan, and Jasper. The woman smiled at them. Gave them a dainty wave.

What had looked worthless had possessed a gold mine, ran through the mind of Duncan. He stalked from the bank with the sight of all those gold bars glittering from the lights. Sparkling to remind him he'd been had. Jasper followed still laughing.

“Oh. Shut up,” snapped Duncan. “Take me home. I need a whiskey.”

“Sure, Boss. No wonder the table was. So. Heavy.”

Buying a Car

I stood at the sink drying some dishes.

My son rushed in calling, “Mum. Mum. I bought a car.” He waited for me to place the plate on the table. He snatched the tea towel from my hands. Grabbed me by the arm to drag me out of the kitchen door.

I prayed the car was safe to drive on the road. Or cause an accident. My heart stopped beating for a minute the moment I saw the piece of junk on wheels. I sighed. How to release the words to say I like my sons new baby. Words. Lies. To express my real thoughts about his car.

“Isn't she a beaut,” he announced with pride. Staring with love. His face alight with joy. His chest puffed out. My heart fell all the way to my toes.

“Do they have white ants where you bought this car?” I tried to hide my loathing for the choice without telling him I hated the car.

“White ants. What have they got to do with my car?” He was probably thinking I'd lost my marbles.

“Well. You should have asked.” I moved closer to the car. “Look here. The white ants have been munching away at the metal.” I reached out to touch the spot with my finger. The metal crumbled to the ground.

Not to be deterred. I was told, “That's only a bit of rust. I'll patch it over before I do a paint job.”

Patch it. The hole was bigger than my fist. He'd need to go to a wrecker for a replacement. Or try to weld in a large piece of metal. Maybe use a carton of bog to fill in the holes.

I strolled around the car to find more places where the metal was eaten away with rust.

“What do you think? I have my own wheels at last.”

My eyes shifted to the wheels looking for a sign of tread in the rubber. I was shocked to find how little tread there was. I wondered how the police hadn't pulled him over on the way home.

“How does the engine run, dear?” I hoped it worked better than the rest of the car. I hadn't heard any rumbling, or spluttering, when the car arrived. “Can you start the engine?” I prayed extra hard the engine wouldn't spring to life.

The door sagged on the rusted hinges when it was opened. Age, and sun, had cracked the seat covering. Some of the stitches had rotted, and broken.

He pumped the accelerator a few times before he turned the key. The engine coughed. Spluttered to life. Chocking, black smoke poured from the exhaust. I placed a hand over my mouth. And my nose. I needed clean air to breathe. I moved back away from the car in case it exploded.

“Turn it off.” I tried to yell above the noise. The pollution fouling the air. I looked around. At least no one had called the fire brigade. Finally. The noise stopped. My son climbed out of the car with a large smile on his face.

“What do you think, now? Isn't she a beaut?”

How did I tell him he had bought a lemon. I couldn't believe I hadn't heard the car arrive.

“Its. How did you drive this. Your car home.”

“Fred brought it home on his trailer. Once I find the parts I'll be able to fix it up.”

“I hope you have enough enough money left to pay for all you'll need.”

“I still have all of my money. Fred gave me the car. He has to get rid of some of his cars.”

Wait until I find this Fred, I mumbled. I'll tell him what I think of him passing his junk on to a young kid.

With many months of work. Searching for parts. The car finally looked like a car ready to be driven on the road. The moth eaten metal had been fixed. Or replaced. Then painted. Now. When the engine was revved there wasn't any pollution. Instead of a rust bucket on wheels. He had a racing car to roar down the highway. A real killing machine.

Squeaky

Squeaky patrolled through the castle. Day and night.

He searched out the stash of cheese the master had hidden. The lovely bouquet of the Swiss cheese teased his wet, pink nose, each time the master came to sit in his wing back chair to puff on his foul smelling chimney. He seemed to be sending smoke signals to the local Indian tribe. Squeaky had checked out the chief, and his tribe, in the games room. No signals were returned. The tribe never complained when he scuttled past them. Never even blinked an eye. Or screamed.

His mates came during the day to help him search for the cheese. The maids screamed when one of his friends raced across the floor. Each had painstakingly cleaned every speck of dust from the rooms. Some of the maids screamed. Jumped up on the furniture. Other swung their brooms to kill the rats.

A cheese smell had been found in the kitchen. Not the lust after Swiss cheese the master snacked on each evening. This other cheese was stale. Mildewed. This was used as bait to trap Squeaky, and his friends. They were too smart for the iron cats. Even the over stuffed monsters with a little energy didn't have a chance to catch them. The half starved skeletons that prowled on the outside of the castle were more fun to tease. His friends laughed at the strays with saliva dripping from their mouth at the thought of a fresh, hot meal.

One stormy night. Lightning flashed through the window lighting the usually dark room. Reached to the corners where light had never been. The cavernous room sparkled like a cache of brilliant gems. The force of the strike sent the master, and his chair, backward across the room. The bolt reached the unusual table. The table which took pride of place beside the chair. Everything, which had stood on the table was tossed in different directions. The wood of the table splintered into chips. The blackened cheese bubbled where it had melted on the carpet. No longer the taste to die for. From that night on. The wonderful cheese never tickled the nose of Squeaky. Or his friends.

Natso's Room

Natso entered the house by the side door closest to his room.

He stopped before he opened the door to his bedroom. A sly smile began to show. He took a closer look at the door. “Yep.” Someone had been in the room, he knew. Gently. He pushed the door back so not to disturb the evidence. His nose twitched to identify the newer smells. He looked around to find what had been moved. He stomped his way to the kitchen.

“How was your day, Natso. Didn't go well,” sympathised Sophie. “Today has been so hot.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Gary thinks we might have a storm.” She turned to look at Gary seated at the table.

“Didn't you, Gary?”

“There has been this strange smell.” He looked out the kitchen window. “Storm clouds brewing. Don't you reckon a storm has a certain smell?” Natso knew there weren't any clouds when he came home.

“So does a stinking cheat.” Natso cast a nasty look at Sophie. Gary. “What were you two doing in my room?”

“I wasn't in your room,” snapped Sophie.

“Neither, was I,” said Gary. “Why would I be. The smell coming out of there would anaesthetise a blow fly. How can you live with those germs?”

“Maybe he has a maggot farm in there,” suggested Sophie. “We should report you to the health department. They may find a new germ strain.”

“Nothing is wrong in my room. I know where to find things.” He stared at Sophie. “Like your, perfume, Sophie. Lovely. Isn't it. Has a fresh. Feminine. Modern smell. “

“Yes. A new one out. Do you like it?”

“It's called. Lovely. Don't you read the bottle?” Natso watched Sophie's face pale. “More gentle on the nose than, Musk. You should tell Gary to blend his aftershave with your scent. Musk. And Lovely. Don't gel.”

“I don't wear, Musk. You have to be wrong. How can you tell one smell from the other,” Gary challenged.

“A very sensitive nose. I noticed you didn't find what you were looking for. Do more study. Then you won't have to cheat.”

“I don't cheat,” both Sophie, and Carl, complained.

“You were both in my dump. Didn't take ant CD's. Did you enjoy the porno book? You should buy your own,” challenged Natso.

“I don't read such thrash,” Sophie bit out. “Especially not the...”

“Sophie,” warned Gary. “I hear the library, calling. Let's go,” Gary growled, before he shoved her toward the front doorway. “The storm is about to break. Run.”

Natso laughed at their hasty escape. He strolled back to his room. He retrieved his assignment from the smell pair of jeans on the floor. He bagged up the smell articles he'd used ready to use another day. Natso sprayed the room with air freshener to wipe out the smell of the dirty clothes. He hid the bag of smelly items. Opened the window to let in the fresh air.