50 years (varies by altitude)
1. Add man to house, removing his innards (friends, job, money) and setting aside.
2. Beat mixture carefully, adding two tablespoons of sugar and a lot of sex. Mixture should begin to firm.
3. Fold in a few lighthearted insults and a drop of nagging.
4. Transfer the mixture to a large bowl and stir in two fresh children.
5. Pour in a large fight (money and jealousy are both acceptable), stirring as you pour.
6. Separate man from house (see note 2). Chill in separate bowls at least a month.
7. Bring to room temperature, and add man back to house.
8. Hold the reserved innards above the bowl, over the man’s head. You will need a lot of anger at this point. If you run out, I suggest buying more. The dish won’t be the same without it. (see note 3)
9. Pour mixture into prepared plot, removing money, house, and children for use in another dish.
10. You now have a perfectly whipped man! He will never disagree with you again.
The Yankee held a piece of paper in front of my eyes, waving it back and forth as though it was a sheet of gold leaf.
“This is my property, now.”
His voice was a high-pitch whine, and he spit into my beard with the word property.
“No, sir.” I pushed his paper away, along with his hand. “This is my land until the day I die.”
“You have been evicted. Do you know what that means, you dumb hick? You didn’t pay your taxes. Uncle Sam says this is my land, now.”
“Well, when Uncle Sam wants to come tell me himself, you can have it.”
That was when the northerner pulled a knife from his belt—a sorry, dull one he probably bought at the pawnshop down the street.
“Friend,” I said, “that was a poor decision.”
His head looks puny beside the antlers of my ten-point buck.
Keep 'Em Closed
I didn’t look, even when my boyfriend told me to. He said it wasn’t that bad, and I’d get used to it, and I was making him feel terrible.
I kept my hands over my eyes. The bed quivered beneath me as he readjusted. He told me he knew I’d never seen one before, but it wasn’t as awful as I was acting.
I told him I loved him, and I wanted to keep on loving him. So I couldn’t look.
He said alright. The springs in the mattress squeaked as he stepped onto the floor. I heard him drag the body from the room and knew there would be a trail of blood on the carpet when I opened my eyes.
I also knew there would be another one tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until I looked.
I just didn’t want to see it.
Victoria is an East Tennessee native, currently studying English and playing softball at Campbell University. Her short fiction has appeared recently or is forthcoming in FLARE: The Flagler Review, Octavo Unbound, and Synaesthesia Magazine, among others. Find her at VictoriaGriffinFiction.com and on Twitter @victoria_grif7.
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