Flesh Trade
by Scotty Williams
Stories are like assholes.
You only needed one to start. How you got one, not much matter: piece of meat, piece of shit. One in hand, we used the body of that first red-snapper-snatch to snatch more. They are, after all, cannibalistic. We lured the brazen ones out of their foreign world and they would be fury at our trickery. We feared these snatching brown-nipple-eyed foes, but they be in possession of what we thought we needed and eventually did. So in our young years we swallowed our fears and nailed them to the last. Blinded by their cannibalism, they lashed at each other with clickity claw and clackety armor and we circled and took them from behind. These epic massacres first unclasped on the banks of the drainage mote that serviced the new subdivision. New at the time. United by division, Robert also lived there. Mike. Third grade.
There was an old man from Nantucket.
They had a leader deceiver king popper possessor freer beauty ogre. Under bridge he drank magic elixir, which altered his speech so he could command them. At his voice they fought harder in their red armor, with purpose. We went in packs of three, Robert, Mike and me: two to fight, one to watch. We did not trust the queer ogre or the secrets he created under shadow of bridge. We vowed never to pay toll alone, but Robert crossed his fingers. He, our best fighter, liked to watch.
Hungry enough to eat a whore.
Got many as we could before joining the short march, but long-ass walk. Conjured red tail from the pail and baited them for flesh we could bring home. The limit one each, we drug them on stringer until they accepted our deceptions, their fate. But if you looked them in the eye you might see the ghost of a snapper snatch cannibal someone once knew and understand their fertile innards yet frigid hide. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me. Ask them, if they yet to leave you.
Old enough to bleed.
We vowed to never look into the ogre’s red eye alone. But Robert, the watcher, braver than us. Too brave. He opened himself, dove in, shed his shell. The ogre had fed him the elixir, rallied the dominions and they fed upon him, his face forever twisted in a grimace–his eyes open wide to see the rod not spared, the meek drowned.
Smear the queer.
Our parents told us the ogre captured and justice done, but we knew it a lie, knew the real villain victims, knew our trickery. They fenced the ditch for fear the melee would spread. Robert one of them now, Mike moved away, and I now–three times left alone–no longer feel right about trickery for flesh. I can’t sense the ogre’s beckons, but boys still do–more boys. And more brazen than we, no fence or omen can hold them back. They swim where we drowned.
- - -
Scotty Williams graduated with his bachelors in English from New Mexico State University in 2008. He and his family make their home in southern New Mexico.
by Scotty Williams
Stories are like assholes.
You only needed one to start. How you got one, not much matter: piece of meat, piece of shit. One in hand, we used the body of that first red-snapper-snatch to snatch more. They are, after all, cannibalistic. We lured the brazen ones out of their foreign world and they would be fury at our trickery. We feared these snatching brown-nipple-eyed foes, but they be in possession of what we thought we needed and eventually did. So in our young years we swallowed our fears and nailed them to the last. Blinded by their cannibalism, they lashed at each other with clickity claw and clackety armor and we circled and took them from behind. These epic massacres first unclasped on the banks of the drainage mote that serviced the new subdivision. New at the time. United by division, Robert also lived there. Mike. Third grade.
There was an old man from Nantucket.
They had a leader deceiver king popper possessor freer beauty ogre. Under bridge he drank magic elixir, which altered his speech so he could command them. At his voice they fought harder in their red armor, with purpose. We went in packs of three, Robert, Mike and me: two to fight, one to watch. We did not trust the queer ogre or the secrets he created under shadow of bridge. We vowed never to pay toll alone, but Robert crossed his fingers. He, our best fighter, liked to watch.
Hungry enough to eat a whore.
Got many as we could before joining the short march, but long-ass walk. Conjured red tail from the pail and baited them for flesh we could bring home. The limit one each, we drug them on stringer until they accepted our deceptions, their fate. But if you looked them in the eye you might see the ghost of a snapper snatch cannibal someone once knew and understand their fertile innards yet frigid hide. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me. Ask them, if they yet to leave you.
Old enough to bleed.
We vowed to never look into the ogre’s red eye alone. But Robert, the watcher, braver than us. Too brave. He opened himself, dove in, shed his shell. The ogre had fed him the elixir, rallied the dominions and they fed upon him, his face forever twisted in a grimace–his eyes open wide to see the rod not spared, the meek drowned.
Smear the queer.
Our parents told us the ogre captured and justice done, but we knew it a lie, knew the real villain victims, knew our trickery. They fenced the ditch for fear the melee would spread. Robert one of them now, Mike moved away, and I now–three times left alone–no longer feel right about trickery for flesh. I can’t sense the ogre’s beckons, but boys still do–more boys. And more brazen than we, no fence or omen can hold them back. They swim where we drowned.
- - -
Scotty Williams graduated with his bachelors in English from New Mexico State University in 2008. He and his family make their home in southern New Mexico.
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