Dog Food

Convicted of butchering an abusive ‘John’ by slicing him open, placing a cheap wind-up clock in his bowels, Nanette crudely stitched him up, waiting to see if time heals all wounds. It doesn’t.

Now she endures time, day-dreaming in nightmare-fashion, of that ‘final ten-foot’ of life.

She lacks the knife, but in her minds-eye, she takes former ‘Johns’ in slashing silence, opening them like bags of dog food with a razor. She needs to know if what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Nope — each begs, cries, grows weaker, dies. Nanette smiles vacantly; she won’t give the state the satisfaction.