A cross-post today — more on diet tomorrow–some interesting updates.
12 min ago
Soon, I’ll write something about how fun it is to watch liberals twist in the wind trying to spin Biden’s “classified” fiasco (keeping in mind there’s likely a reason they’re making this public now after they knew about it before the midterms — the first problem being Garland’s knowledge of the law and how problematic it would be to actually prosecute Trump for this and set that ridiculous precedent — but also, many Democrats don’t want him in 2024). But this week is busy for me and I can’t get distracted. Here is an excerpt from another story. If you like it, (and it’s got a great dark comedic ending) you can buy the story collection at Amazon: Seasonal Roads.
Published New York’s Washington Square
I’m not sure who came first, but it must have been either Chevy Chase or Steve Martin. It was too early for Tim Allen, though he comes often. Not Steve Martin, though. The last time he arrived in my dreams, he never went on at all. Just hid under my desk because he said if he came out, I’d force him to have sex with me.
I assured him I only wanted him to fix the oven.
You sleep naked now. Before he had insisted upon it. Now it’s your personal revenge.
Next to your bed is an oak nightstand that once belonged to his mother, too massive to please you, dark, heavy grained, upon which rests a delicate lace doily, a pair of dime store reading glasses, a few books written by your women, the ones he refers to as “your harpies,” and a book called Trout Stream Insects, an Orvis Streamside Guide. Oh, and that collection by Kafka you stumbled upon at the library, reading selection of the month.
Next to the books there is a square jewelry box your own mother gave you — made of glass the color of purple oxidized blood. It has a matching lid and is attached on two sides with antique brass hinges. It’s lined on the bottom with plushy white satin — stark against the red glass — and on top of the colorless satin the daily ritual: the results of today’s foraging.
Not too extensive; certainly not a collection as diverse as what is featured in the Orvis Streamside Guide (in fact, your collection doesn’t appear in the Orvis book at all). A couple mosquitoes (one you slapped after it had sucked a bit of blood from your knee cap), a medium sized house fly, a papery, mud-colored moth, and two tiny gray spiders … not the real fuzzy kind because, after all, that could be a bit much. All small, because that is what is needed.
Oh, and tweezers. You always need tweezers.
3 thoughts on “Carnivore Dreams – Fiction”
Don’t forget tweezers!
Ha. I won’t!