Word Count: 299
I don’t want to have to do this again.
I said to the little brown man, “I miss her so much. I need her.” He gave me herbs, chicken feet, and a shovel. He didn’t do manual labor, and besides, if I wanted you back so damn bad it was going to take more than an epileptic dance and moldy flowers. The gris-gris told me to never come back, and he forked his bony fingers at me and slammed the door in my face. I was so happy. Reanimation is back-breaking work, but six feet down and a broken shovel later, we were together again. We left the chicken feet behind. It was your first tribute.
Your family was so pissed, threatening to split us up again – the word “cremation” was tossed around a little too lightly for me, so you and I left for places we could be left alone.
I remember you different, not so jerky and more conversational. Plus, you smell. I could live with the smell, because we were together again, but the tributes you’re bringing home – I just don’t have the space for all the limbs. The ones you chewed are especially upsetting. I tried to leave you once, but you found me, and what you brought home I can’t even begin to imagine how you got it down the street without someone noticing – well … just noticing.
The knife is shiny, it draws your attention. The shovel is new, you caress it like a lover. You hold a leg in your lap, your new best friend, gnawing on the end thoughtfully. C’mon sweetie, let’s go for a ride. I know just the place.
The first time was an accident. This time I mean it.
Please stay dead.
I love you.
Bound #1, Hopper Comics, 2006, Print
© 2005 MontiLee Stormer
All Rights Reserved