We gather around our meal in long lines, like tentacles.
Father is there with sharp knife gleaming. He strikes downward, again and again, while grease and gore and tissue flies. Steam floats upward in the fecund air.
Mother stands next to father, her white apron dotted with deep maroon stains turning black as they dry.
My brother and his family creep on the floor. They whine and cry out. Some scratch the fur behind their ears with the claws on their toes. Others rub their bald skin against the walls, itching, endlessly itching. The youngest, just a pupae, writhes and yelps with hunger.
My sister steps on her youngest nephew. It bursts with a twist of her high heeled shoe. My brother, caring father that he is, laughs.
My wife, my kids, they stand back and wait quietly. This comes naturally to them. They are inflatable, after all.
Our family is larger this year, and growing. It includes you.
We gather around our meal in long lines, like tentacles.
You cry out as we slice off a chunk of your burnt thigh, and you close your eyes. Tears stream down your face.
I smile for you, knowing those are tears of joy.
We have so much to be thankful for.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The Remains
I enjoy reading about ghosts much more than I enjoy being a ghost. I miss breathing. You can't laugh when you can't breathe.
The walls here are too thin. I hear everything, only there's nothing I want to hear. I miss the wind, the wailing, the cursing, the screaming. I miss those hands reaching up for me, trying to push me away.
When you die your memories begin to fade. Only your strongest moments remain. I can't recall a kiss from my mother, don't even remember her face, but I remember tearing flesh, the smell of singed hair, the struggles, the extasy.
The dirt above me hides worms and beetles. I can sense them squirming and their squirming reminds me of my love. I am eternally stiff now that my skin sloughed off my bones. I lie still, unmoving, unafraid, just terribly bored as I try to rest on this pine board. Perhaps the lid of this thing will collapse. Perhaps the dirt, the beetles, the worms, the whole world will fall down upon me and crush what remains.
Perhaps, I might be no more. Perhaps, that wouldn't be so bad.
The walls here are too thin. I hear everything, only there's nothing I want to hear. I miss the wind, the wailing, the cursing, the screaming. I miss those hands reaching up for me, trying to push me away.
When you die your memories begin to fade. Only your strongest moments remain. I can't recall a kiss from my mother, don't even remember her face, but I remember tearing flesh, the smell of singed hair, the struggles, the extasy.
The dirt above me hides worms and beetles. I can sense them squirming and their squirming reminds me of my love. I am eternally stiff now that my skin sloughed off my bones. I lie still, unmoving, unafraid, just terribly bored as I try to rest on this pine board. Perhaps the lid of this thing will collapse. Perhaps the dirt, the beetles, the worms, the whole world will fall down upon me and crush what remains.
Perhaps, I might be no more. Perhaps, that wouldn't be so bad.
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