By Whitney Claypool, For The Miami Student
The winner of this year's Halloween Short Story Contest, selected by the editorial board and members of Students for the Promotion of Writing, will be receiving a $25 gift card to the venue of her choice.
The market is packed tonight; it usually is after a fresh shipment of bodies.
The aisles are sorted according to what is featured, what's on sale, then by country of origin. The bigger the country, the larger the selection they have - America and Russia are among these giants, their shelves filled so full that an occasional limb disappears from the see-through packaging. The month's special is Italian men, ages 19 to 36. There are no Italian women for fear of long, silky hair found trapped between molars and canines, pulling tight as if to constrict the teeth from ever sinking into flesh again.
Children, in particular, are a delicacy, though in limited supply. In some places they are found in abundance - bodies sticking together, skin rubbed and chaffed, bringing life to the dead.
The vegetarians have resorted to processed beef and factory chicken; they refuse to partake in the soft flesh for fear that behind closed doors they will tear at their own skin, layer by layer, until they reach whatever lies beneath. Cookbooks tell us nothing beyond the epidermis; years ago I witnessed the beginnings of a scare - if the public knew what happened in the processing factories, we would be forced to find another source of protein.
My cart has the remains of a 40-something African American sticking to its silver surface. Once exposed to room temperature, the skin melts onto the metal, running like candle wax into a collected pool. A greeter brings a mini-shovel, pushing the now hardened matter into a chute. No one knows where it goes - hell, perhaps.
I start with Russia, looking for promise there. Hairy men peek around each corner, most without the delectable facial hair my boss would find appetizing. I am hosting a dinner tonight for All Hallows' Eve. The celebration calls for adults and a smuggled youth from an old friend. My appetite does not leap at the sullen flesh from the Russian men; if only Lithuania were in season. Inside my pocketbook is a list of favorites from my guests, but they're all half-hearted requests. I could bring in a leg from a homeless man and they'd eat it without batting an eyelash.
***
My grandfather once spoke of a world where everyone was civil to one another, where they ate products of the earth with strange names. Lettuce and cabbage were two of his favorite 'greens,' as he affectionately called them. When I asked him to describe their taste, he could not do so in a fashion I understood. I only know of salty flesh and ironed bracken of the sweet pockets in the trapezius muscles. Because I did not understand, he gave up and went to lie down for his afternoon nap.
I stared at his stomach and questioned how far I'd have to dig before I encountered the remains of the lettuce and cabbage he once sampled. Human remains can leave traces in our systems for years because of how well our bodies adapted to eating another. It was as if our flesh cried out for another, to feel the juicy cellulite creep down the throat to coat the intestines. I wanted to know what these greens tasted like. They were so foreign to me, in every way, that I didn't think of the man lying there and his relationship to me. Kin held no bounds in my eyes - food is food. I gently pulled his shirt up to reveal the wrinkled belly that rose softly in his sleep.
As a kid, we couldn't just dig in to a meal if given the chance, so we had tools given to us at the schools to help with the process of tearing through someone. I was given a knife that held two secret compartments: inside the first one near the bottom of the blade was a small spinning-saw perfect for cutting through bone. The second hiding place held my favorite option I had yet to use: a needle that held a deadly poison in its point that paralyzed the prey before freezing their body. I was supposed to use it if I somehow escaped our sector and couldn't find a more honest means of eating something outside of hunting season, which is mostly for population control.
Before he could stir, I plunged the needle right above his belly button and watched in amazement as he started to twitch. His eyes shot open and lips separated, but no sound came out. I remained quiet, waiting. It was then that my mother walked in and screamed at the sight before her.
***
I quickly pull two German males on sale, arranging them onto the cart. The memory doesn't haunt me, but taunts, always burning my desire to try these vegetables and other fruits of olden days. What enraptured these people so much that made them dismiss the urge for skin?
Such thoughts are not allowed in our sector. We set the example for the food chain: dominance. It's the only reason I was given a promotion; I showed leadership potential, and in this now human-eat-human world, I cannot afford to think such thoughts. This meal needs to please the executives and my fellow board members. I want the main dish to stand out from the others, to be so delectable that -
There. I have found it. A young Italian, aged 20. He is soft, eyes shut like blinds from the sun's glare. His parts remind me of foods I've never tasted but read about; their pictures dance across my memory, comparing their shapes and colors to the young specimen before me. I love him and his pepperoni nipples. I want to taste his strawberry tongue, kiss his peppermint nose. His fingers, like cinnamon sticks, pull me into his abyss. I wonder what cinnamon sticks taste like.
There are canyons and valleys along the road from his chin to his toes, each crease and bend like folds of chocolate made in the factories of long ago. Beneath his cherry toes were skin grafts for taste testing: one sample remained. I placed the parcel in my mouth, each taste bud jumping to his essence.
I swallow, and lights burst. If I could only find forever in his remains. Is this the feeling people had when they tasted pepperonis or strawberries? When they smelled cinnamon or picked cherries?
I delicately placed his frame on the cold slab. I wonder if he has ever tasted lettuce or cabbage. I guess it doesn't matter.
Tonight I would feast upon his candied heart.