*Not your average publishing company


The butcher’s wife liked to play with knives, though she hated meat. In fact, she was a vegetarian. Her husband, a kind, porcine-like person, couldn’t stand the sight of a knife, though meat―raw, fatty, and bloodied―drove him wild. This opposite union of sorts made for an enticing and exhilarating sex life, but first they had to make it through dinner.

The bony butcher’s wife had to cut up all the butcher’s meat. She would grunt heavily as if her sharp knives could not easily penetrate the tender meat. Her head would shake violently, in turn tossing her long feathery hair as if trying to whip her husband’s bald red head. She would perform this daily task every supper, lunch and breakfast, and often nightly snack, while standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his girth, her feral hair burying his face beneath all that brilliant red dye. He would giggle and snort with extreme pleasure. Often, he became so short of breath his own red features would turn purple. The butcher’s wife would notice this and run, deer-like, to fetch more meat. (The odd dinner guest, another butcher, thought nothing of this routine, but worked their own
meat over with a zealous, yet even-tempered, religious-like zeal.) Once she had truly satisfied him, she would finally sit and poke tenderly at her carrots and broccoli. He would watch adoringly, sweat poring down his meaty red or purple face, depending on the success of her performance.

The dessert, sex, was equally entertaining. Again, the same colour pattern existed for the butcher. Red turned to purple every night. His organ, while not very long, was indeed very chunky. Oxygen exposure transformed it to its particularly intense grape colour. To avoid the possibility of little butcher children, the butcher’s wife dressed the little fat man in various colourful condoms. She liked the ones that glowed in the dark, as she preferred their lovemaking in the dark. The butcher didn’t care either way. Sometimes they’d go through three or four rubbers a night. The butcher could not imagine a more perfect life. There was just something about all that meat that made him so happy. As if no animal actually had to die. As if every animal he consumed went directly into him, and into his wife– the prey in dietary habit, but the fierce hunter in love.

Panting, perspiring, and palpitating out his last lovingful fantasy of the night, the butcher fell face down into the awaiting arms of his lean, energetic doe―bucking, bucking, bucking with a sharp, knife-like precision, cutting straight through the tension of predator and prey.

David lives just south of Montreal with his wife and son. Recently his work has appeared in Wilderness House Review, Cloud Lake Literary, Synchronized Chaos, and is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly and California State Poetry Society. His novel, The Inner Traveller, is available at Barnes & Noble.

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