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THE DINNER HOUR
He is old. He has dumped a container of menthol foot powder on his head. It forms a small pyramid. He sits in an apricot armchair. The armrests have turned the colour of deep rust.
A girl puts a tray near him. A peeled orange. Tea with milk and sugar.
The girl is 45. She is a normal 45 year old girl in every way. She works for the school board, reviewing standardized material.
The girl is 45, normal in every way except for her mouth. Which is a zipper. Tiny little metallic nubs fitting into each other perfectly. She is aware that it is an unattractive feature.
He begins to sing his darling was buried in a log coffin and sent down the river. She rests her hands on the kitchen sink where he cannot see her. She unzips quickly and the gravy from dinner and a few trickles of blood pour out. She zips back up. This is why she had the zipper installed. She was forever feeling bad about the inappropriate situations in which she vomited.
She zips back up and uses a toothpick to make sure nothing is stuck in the tiny metallic nubs. |
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Shannon is based out of Toronto. She works as a freelance audio documentary maker and writes short fiction. Other work has appeared in THIS Magazine, Taddlecreek and Lorraine & James. She has a penchant for cats. |
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Dance to Death, Issue III |
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©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within. |
