Maxwell

When Maxwell slept, he always dreamed of chocolate. According to his psychoanalyst, this was a long repressed association he had with the candies his mother gave him as a child. His medical doctor insisted it was a result of his chocolate allergy (technically three different allergies to milk, nuts, and soy, but who's keeping track). His wife believed it was a sign he should get her a Valentine's Day gift (collateral damage be damned).

Maxwell visited a dream analyst. She said chocolate represents an indulgence, and his subconscious was telling him to live life.

In other words, death by chocolate.

Stirring Up The Pots

“Everything under control?”

“Absolutely,” I responded, stirring the contents of the left pot, checking on the right.

Gravy bubbled up delicious aroma. Steamy chocolate swirled to the ceiling, taking me back to the time I watched mother make the same recipe.

“Darn!” my inner voice screamed. “Cornstarch lumps!”

I reached for the blender. Meantime I detected a slight burning cocoa smell and set the dessert sauce aside.

“Fifteen minutes left!” the announcer yelled.

A panel of judges awaited each contestant’s creations.

“Interesting combination with chicken,” one stated, sampling mine. “There’s brandy. Definitely chocolate. Cherries are divine. What’s your dessert sauce?”From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Shame

I take a bite of the chocolate cheesecake, stolen from a remote corner of the refrigerator and want to savor with closed eyes, but I don’t dare. Mom can come anytime. I gobble it up, throwing the carton in the trash.

She descends the stairs and frowns at the cake crumbs on the floor. I hate her for that.

I look at the book I’m supposed to be reading and try to hide my shame, my secret. The same secret that’s hers when she introduces her teenage daughter to her friends, her eyes apologizing for the girth of my thighs.

From Guest Contributor Anuradha Dev

Obsession

Are you addicted to chocolate? Creamy on the tongue. Eat it all you want, whenever you want it. Secretly in your room, for you and nobody else. Life’s hard. Chocolate melting in your mouth makes you whole. Briefly.

They’ll call you an addict. They’ll tell you to get help.

Are you addicted to a person? Soft in your ear. Ring her, mail her, message her all you want, whenever you want her. Secretly in her arms, you and nobody else. Life’s hard. Melting into her softness makes you whole.

They’ll call you in love. They’ll tell you you’re lucky.

Briefly.

From Guest Contributor Amita Basu

Amita is a graduate student of cognitive science. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Right-Eyed Deer, Gasher, St. Katherine Review, Star 82 Review, Proem, Muse India, and Dove Tales. Her nonfiction has appeared in Countercurrents and Deccan Herald. She has finished a collection of literary short stories, and is working on a mystery novel about art. She lives in Bangalore, India.

The Cookie Jar

Leon sat across the kitchen table, gulping down instant coffee and looking everywhere but at Jaclyn. He was late for work, again, and spoke of nothing else. The toaster pinged and he bustled away.

She felt that their love was like a cookie jar. At first it was full of unexpected treats: crumbly sweetness with sticky jam fillings, dark chocolate coated crunchy goodness, and much, much more.

Now she felt that if she turned the jar upside down and shook it, there might be a few crumbs in there. But it would be too much effort for too little return.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

The Clock

I was walking down Canal Street when a man threw a clock from the roof of a twenty-story building. It smashed into the car next to me and I was startled from my chocolate-induced haze. I really like chocolate when I can get it.

I caught just a glimpse of the man and he looked like an angel, all blond hair and white clothes. I examined the clock, with its hands pointed to 4:44. I wondered if it indicated the start of the rapture.

Later, I realized the angel had escaped from the asylum at the same time I had.