Six Sentence Sunday – Week 13

Posted: November 20, 2011 in Six Sentence Sunday
Tags: , ,

Last week’s celebrity six sentences came from The Captive Wife by Fiona Kidman – or should I say, Dame Fiona Kidman.  Looking at her bio in the front of the book, it appears that she prefers not to use her title of “Dame”, which was awarded to her in 1998 for her services to literature.  The Captive Wife was runner-up for the Deutz Medal and won the Readers’ Choice award at the 2006 Montana New Zealand Book Awards.

****

Here I go bending the rules again, with a full piece instead of a six sentence excerpt (hey – it’s my blog and I’ll do what I wanna).  This was first published in Illumen in 2009.   I must have been having a Bad Mother Day when I wrote it – and yes, feel free to interpret Bad Mother Day as either “I was being a Bad Mother on that day” or “on that day, I was finding motherhood particularly challenging”.  Or both.  Also feel free to interpret it literally, although the author intent was metaphorical.

Tastes Like Chicken

 

The recipe
calls for breast
but I use
dark, fatty
thigh
It’s cheaper
less prone
to overcooking
 

I slice it
dice it
spice it
and serve it
to my family
Blood pools
on the kitchen floor
I will limp for a while
but no matter 
the flesh
will grow back

 
The kids say,
“Eww, gross!
I’m not eating that!”
They partake only
of the body
of Britney Spears

****

Another SuperNOVArian’s work features in this week’s celebrity six sentences.  The second-to-last word in the excerpt is the big giveaway.

I wrench the door open and – Dorothy, what was that about Kansas? – step into a corridor which looks to be made of flesh, or something like it.  All pink and raw and pulsing with veins and fine, spidery capillaries, the red stench of meat inviting a fresh surge of nausea.  Walls press in thick and warm from all sides and the floor is repulsively spongy beneath my bare feet.  As I start to walk, something that can’t really be blood wells up between my toes.  Hunching beneath the low and curving ceiling, both arms spread wide for balance on the unstable surface, I creep slowly forward, finding no doors, only a winding path I suspect may be circling incessantly in upon itself, forking and reforking in a claustrophobic snarl of warm fleshy hallways and cul-de-sacs.

If this is what Erin’s hippy-trippy cocktail is doing to me, I’d almost prefer to be here on Madigan’s terms.

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