When I get off work, I stop at the farm before I go home. The chicken farmer knows me, is expecting me. He has a beautiful bird set aside, ready to go in a cardboard container. I pay him, a worn ten dollar bill. Tell him to keep the change.
The chicken, a red hen, rides in the seat beside me. The box has ventilation holes in the top, but
otherwise, the bird can’t see out, so she is pretty docile for the twenty or so
minutes it takes to get her home.
I take the box out back and leave it on the patio table while
I go inside. I reemerge wearing one of
those disposable plastic rain ponchos.
The box thumps softly as I shift it towards me, open the top
flaps. The bird’s head pops up, gold
eyes regarding me beadily. When I reach
in, she squawks and fights. I hold her
carefully, one hand around her neck, the other holding both feet together. She continues to screech, beating at me with
her auburn wings.
It hasn’t been daylight for a half hour yet. I hold her like that, stretched between my
hands for a moment in the watery morning sun.
Then I raise her to my face and bite, tearing into the breast with my
blunt canines. The bird shrieks, her
claws digging into my palms. Feathers
fly everywhere. They cling to my hands,
sticky with blood. In another second,
she is still.
When I’m finished, I hose the blood and feathers off the
patio, sluicing them into the grass.
Then I strip off the poncho. I
pack it and the bones into a trash bag and set them out on the curb, next to
the recycle bin.
The meetings are mandatory.
It’s just like from before, with gatherings in church basements and
school gyms, a circle of fold-out chairs.
In the back of our meeting area, refreshments are laid out on a pair of
folding tables: an assortment of raw meats and a carafe of blood. Pig’s blood, usually. I prefer cow.
We even start with a prayer:
I am grateful that I am here and I am still me.
I will not let my impulses define me, only my choices.I ask for strength to weather adversity and change.
May grace and mercy reign over all my interactions
So that I may be an example to others,
Leading to peace and understanding between all mankind.
We all know each other here—most of us went through quarantine
together, so there’s no need for anyone to stand up and go, “Hi, I’m Joe, and
I’m a cannibal.”
To read the rest, grab a copy of A World of Terror, an anthology of indie horror authors. It's a FREE ebook on Smashwords. Get it here.
