Here he comes, my seventh honey. The others hang on hooks in one of my many spare rooms. The room is awash with blood. He looks so fine, with his Brad Pitt abs and his golden locks that hang to his shoulders. Neither he nor any of his five brothers wanted to marry me. He is the youngest of them all; it took money to persuade him, an offer of five thousand pounds. He was easily bought. He is a country boy, a farmer, destined to become a farmer himself but for fate, in the form of me, intervening.

food Laura Solomon print fiction short fiction