Mother’s Human Humus
This piece is a Write or Die response to Death Dreams
Transition — final paragraph of Death Dream:
The iron filled smell of the liver filled my nose. It was too much for me to handle after the nightmare, I turned around to leave. That’s when I saw him laid out, on the table. Dead. Bloody. Cut open as if someone were doing an autopsy. I realized just what was in the pan. Scared and sickened… I fled. Wondering, “Am I awake or dreaming?”
I stopped and turned — then asked my mother.
Is that by chance, liver you’re cooking?
She looked, no smirked, at my dead brother
“Ha, tell me now who’s not good looking.”
Mom, did you have to kill another?
“Yes, because we’re out of your sister.
Anyway, the onions will smother
liver’s taste. Did you say you missed her?”
Mommy, dearest. You know she’s my twin.
Why did you have to serve her face up?
Like I’d be eating my own lips and chin.
Our shared blood type you swirled in your cup.
You know I’m freaked out. How’d this begin?
Now wondering when your recipe
from Jeff Dahmer’s Guide: Cannibal Kin
will require you add some parts of me.
