The Butchery Tree

Pretty. Pretty, pretty. I was rarely called so. I grew up on goats’ milk, still frothing and warm, and salty, crumbling cheese. I grew up on fatty cuts and raw prunella. I ran my palms over the bucks’ backs and slicked my dark hair out of my eyes. I was a wild thing, the wind splitting my cheeks and lips till they glowed scarlet.

approx. 4300 words

First published in Pareidolia ed. James Everington and Dan Howarth — July 2019