She drinks from the cup, nods. He can’t see. His hand comes to her knee. She drops off, drives to the mall. A little girl in a peach dress takes her hand. It’s this way, she says. When a mirror opens, they stand shoulder to waist.


There are times you’re underwhelmed by the sight of her naked body. She’d say the same thing except more often. There are times you don’t look in a mirror for weeks. This isn’t either. Your hands cup the puddles of milky white flesh you once were reminding her were pectorals, not breasts. Nipples swollen? You think so. The center of you is shaking as much outside. Do jumping jacks. Put out an eye. Someone’s waiting on the doormat thinking what you’re seeing.

You’re Beautiful While I Kill Anything That Makes You So Then Die In This Fiction

Fat chicks have nice breasts not always. Your hair tastes like sea salt after you wash it. It doesn’t remind me of home. Kiss good. The chicken you cut up and spear with my fork and place in my mouth tastes like fetus. If I could go back twenty minutes at three hundred and seventy five degrees I would join each sweet and sour unborn chunk in the oven I draw your head in and mine sometimes. Without ever leaving my mother’s oven. Or sitting under a tree. This is how maybe’s hello (If I’m anywhere and nowhere is 3AM).

Parker Tettleton is an English major at Kennesaw State University. His work has been accepted by Short, Fast, and Deadly, Mud Luscious, > kill author and elimae, among others. His chapbook Same Opposite was recently published by Thunderclap Press. He blogs at


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