Cheese Sandwich for Breakfast


He heard a screech and felt as if he survived a minor heart-attack. He knew it was nothing serious, just another screech from his mother. For a normal civilian, it might sound like a death rattle but for him it was every morning’s ritual, his mother’s screeches, his father’s cracking stuttering curses and swear-words accompanied with occasional sound effects of moaning, slapping and crying, those were his morning greetings, first sound waves landing on his eardrums every morning, his usual great morning. He could never picture in his head, this scene where a father, quietly, sitting and reading a morning newspaper and a mother gently greeting ‘Good-morning’ and serving breakfast. He tried to hide his face and head while using his limp hands, eyes struggling with the departing sleep, nothing seemed to work. He stood up and sat like Buddha on his single uncomfortably-hard bed. For a long time he stared at the empty wall opposite him, a wrinkled faded-green wall with a big misshapen off-white spot on the top-right corner. He loved looking at this empty wall, this is the first thing he did every morning with the background score provided by his mother and father. He thought that he noticed something different on the wall this morning, may be this empty wall’s wrinkles have changed, or if he could focus more he might be able to look at a face with no nose, or may be with a little more effort he might be able to see thousand eyes looking at him from this wall or perhaps a painting of Goya. He heard another screech sound with a hard thump, which came from the room next to his which distracted him and broke his concentration. He stood up and went to the kitchen which looked like a Turkish ruin made of used utensils and scattered vegetable peelings. With a straight blank face, he looked for the biggest sharpest kitchen knife. He found it in the bowl which had last night’s tomato soup and lots of dead bodies of various breeds of insects floating on the surface. He didn’t like the idea of germs and contamination, he was very hygiene-friendly so he washed the knife with utter care. He used the bottom corner of his gray t-shirt to dry the knife.


He went inside the other room where his parents were discussing ‘daily chores’ in their own style. He stood beside the dressing table and watched his parents arguing, his mother was on the verge of punching his father’s face, with a hard facial expression and tight right fist and his father with clenched teeth, waving his right arm in the air while spewing out the most innovative never-heard-before swear words. His father had a penchant of inventing most spectacularly awful curses and he always envied this talent, which he never inherited from his father. His mother on the other hand was the queen of sarcasm and loathing and they always complimented each other, a great love-story written by shagged and fagged and doped out Lucifer. He was standing there with his long kitchen knife in his right hand while scratching his shoulder from the left hand. His father said something to his mother which he missed, when he was scratching his back, and in response to that his mother punched his father twice, first on the neck, second on the nose, target achieved. His father did nothing for few seconds then he slapped his mother twice and tried to invent another swear-word. He came close to both of his parents, they didn’t notice him and ignored his presence. With a straight face and sleepy eyes and full force he moved his right hand in an unknown direction in the air, right hand which was holding the long sharpest kitchen knife. In fraction of seconds, voices stopped, screeches stopped, slapping & punching stopped, he yawned again. Now, in front of him, on the big double bed, their two bodies, heads separated, were lying in front of him. He picked his mother’s head first, she looked gorgeous, he loved his mother more than his father, and went to the refrigerator which was in the kitchen, he put her head in the freezer and came back. He looked at his father’s head now, he was confused, there was no place left in the freezer and, also he was thinking, his father had refused to buy him the mountain ranger bike on his last birthday, he loved his father alright but from his last birthday there was a steep decline in the love-graph. He had to do a lot of thinking in his head before deciding that he would place his father’s head alongside his mother’s. It tired him to make adjustments in the stuffy fridge to fit his father’s head beside his mother’s, he had to move the chocolate ice-cream box down in the normal temperature compartment which was a huge sacrifice, he hated doing that, he hated molten ice-creams, they disgusted him. Somehow he finished this gruesome task and came back in the room with headless bodies. He felt sleepy again but he thought it will be called ‘a disrespecting gesture’ to leave his parents’ bodies like that. He started chopping them in small rectangular shaped pieces, their bodies were blood-less, they were not like those messy bodies which you see in gore movies, they looked and felt like cheese. He remembered how he helped his mother in chopping cheese on his last birthday when she was preparing some dish, it felt exactly the same. Within one hour he was done with the bodies. He neatly picked each and every piece and filled five big pickle jars which were lying useless in the kitchen. After putting the jars on the top rack of the kitchen, he came back in his room. He was exhausted from whatever he did, he yawned thrice and slept while looking at that off-white spot which changed its shape again on the opposite wall.


He felt as if someone was gently petting his head, he was sleepy, so he didn’t open his eyes, he knew whose hand that was. Then he heard a sweet voice, asking him if he would prefer a cheese sandwich for the breakfast along with hot chocolate. In an incomprehensible language, he said yes he would like to have cheese sandwich for the breakfast. He opened his eyes and he saw his father hidden behind a big ugly newspaper, occasionally turning the pages. His mother appeared from the kitchen with the cheese sandwich and gave him a mild kiss on his forehead. He said to himself how much he loved his mother and father and ate his cheese sandwich.





Tagged , , , , , , , ,

11 thoughts on “Cheese Sandwich for Breakfast

  1. You write so well but I find this piece a tad dark and with a touch of the macabre. A parallel reality? Domestic violence is disturbing enough to drive a child insane. I can understand. Have you read stories by Edgar Allan Poe?

    • LeTalib says:

      Just a TAD?? hahaha…. You used the expression ‘parallel reality’, I don’t know…I am not sane but that doesnt mean that I am insane…if you know what I mean…and I have never read Edgar Poe, I wanted to, but haven’t got a chance… I am into random shit…have to finish ‘junky’

      • Jofelyn M. Khapra says:

        a tad because i have read stories a lot darker than this, I meant to say the boy in the story was experiencing a parallel reality as opposed to dreaming which is very common. i did not mean to imply you are having a parallel reality. having written a lot of fiction myself mostly not based from my own experience or personality i tend to separate the writer from the story, i read the story without judging the author or wondering what kind of person the author is like. probably some authors i studied their lives after reading a lot of their works and found everything they wrote fascinating and intriguing but it is always just a passing and mild curiosity.

      • LeTalib says:

        ahhhh okay…now I see what you mean…sorry.. I am not brightly-lit in my upper-floor 🙂 (true story, no pun intended)
        yeah I totally agree with you,the boy is having a parallel reality kind of thing, I was trying to write something on the same theme (dream-distinction-theme), where a person is always in illusion that whatever is happening is in or out of the dream kind of thing..and plus the sarcastic ‘all-in-the-family’ theme mixed with domestic violence seen from the funny lens..and yes its fascinating, of course, to wonder about the source of the work of the all those great writers, the legendary question of how much of their life is in their work..and I really appreciate your views coz I have read your work and liked it a lot… but I feel fuzzy in head when I try to analyze I am not skilled to do that.. but still…i should start reading Poe now, i dont even remember if I have ever read something from him…whats your favorite work by him?

      • Jofelyn M. Khapra says:

        i suffer from being too analytical i think hahaha sometimes i see other meanings in a story where there is no symbolism at all. just straightforward story telling.

        glad to hear you like my stories. 🙂

        you can start with one short story, one of my favorites and i think you will like it too, ” The Tell Tale Heart” a collection of his work is available on pdf format online, not sure if they have this particular story though. but im sure you will find it around the net somewhere. or in the library. 🙂

      • LeTalib says:

        I suffer from being not-TOO-bright…hahaha
        thanks for the great info about Mr Allen Poe….will surely look out for him… 🙂

      • Purnimodo says:

        Poe?! Yes, yes.. you must read le Poe (Purnima shush.. why you always force innocent souls to read the things that corrupted you)! Tim Burton also made a terribly cute little animation in a Poe-like style. Delicious writer.

  2. and of course ” The Cask Of Amontillado”

  3. LeTalib says:

    INNOCENT SOULS???? I smelt the stench of sarcasm there 😛
    yeah POE I am going to find you (in cheap perpback) and read the faaaaak out of you…

    • Purnimodo says:

      Now, now my child (chuckles) sarcasm couldn’t possibly stink. Fragrant indeed. But more like luscious flowers from an evil seed. I think 😉

      • LeTalib says:

        did you say ‘flagrant’?? hehehe (thats the way I chuckle)
        All I think is that I don’t think about the evil flowers and luscious seeds, I shouldn’t think about them or may be I will…I don’t know what I am saying…I am not even weed-y-fied yet.. hehe (tiny chuckle)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


humming and hawing with words

culture monks

interdiciplinary arts praxis

Bartholomew The Novella

Bite the apple. Take a risk.


A great site

ray shannon spicer



Only selected advertising


Woh kare baat toh har lafz se khushboo aaye, Aisi boli wohi bole jise Urdu aaye. -Poet Ahmed Wasi-

Museum Nerd (>140)

This is where I post when it won't fit in a tweet.

Driven to Verse

Poetry and Prose, by Mark Scherz

Covered in Beer

by Thomas Cochran, Known Moron

Gotta Find a Home

Conversations with Street People

Sick and Sick of It

But Still Living The Life

The Indian Express

Latest News, Breaking News India, Today Headlines, Election Results 2018 Live News


There are no foxes here

The life of almost every 20 something

This site is the cat’s pajamas

A Mirror Obscura,

Poetry, musings and sightings from where the country changes

Amsterdam cycle routes

Cycle routes in and around Amsterdam.

%d bloggers like this: