HCE received a lot of high-quality submissions for The Green Issue – sadly, too many to fit inside the magazine! So we offered some shortlisted writers and artists the chance to be published here on the website. Keep an eye on our social media for more great writing like this, in the run-up to the release of The Green Issue…
Waste Not, Want Not
Nick Knibb
Edward, as usual, did what he liked
and browbeat his spouse for all of her life.
“Waste not, want not,” he announced on Wednesday,
“Auntie Jane’s death will be eco-friendly.
I’ve made my decision, and had my say –
I’ll eat her remains before they decay.
No diesel-run hearse, no pricey casket,
no buffet of meat or flowers in plastic.
I’m not wasting money – we have to survive,
churches and vicars are there for the ride.”
Jean, battered and beaten wife,
clutched her dog Sparky and thought back on life:
living with Edward had never been easy, every penny
had been pinched. She was world-saving weary.
He controlled her life and the dog was worried,
every time Ed shouted he went off to scurry.
This was one more thing taken out of her hands;
eating her kin was not in her plans.
So he took dear Aunt Jane into the kitchen
and sliced her and carved her into small bits then
labelled and packaged her in the deep freezer,
expertly done with knife, saw and cleaver
and
for the next four weeks he dined on her cheeks,
eye amuse bouche in a bed of grilled leek,
terrine of foot and heart au vin, braised calf of aunt and liver tartine,
pensioner stew, kidney saute, elbow melange and spinster souffle,
thigh of old maid, Kentucky Fried Fingers,
braised rack of ribs and backbone zingers.
Jean cooked digit, lamb and midsection
and served up her aunt with love and affection
until
one Saturday, after a terrine of old toes,
teriyaki lobes and fillet of nose,
the feasting was over and the deed was done:
the freezer was empty and the body was gone.
Edward belched then licked his lips
and mopped up the plate with the last of his chips.
Jean brought him his usual beer,
smiled, and said, “Here you are, dear.”
Edward grunted and switched on the telly,
gulped down the beer, arms resting on belly
then slipped into sleep – the deepest of rest,
aided by contents of the medicine chest
Jean had been saving for this one occasion
after years of resentment and sad rumination.
She turned on the oven and sharpened her knife.
“Waste not, want not,” she chuckled –
there would be something new on the menu tonight.
Nick Knibb, aka The Archbishop, is a poet, performer and train spotter.