121 words: Home Cooked Dinner

I ate my way through my childhood home. I started with the kitchen table, naturally. Pieces of wood and spare screws lodged in my throat, inching down into my esophagus with every swallow. I moved to the living room. My brothers sat on the floor as I munched through the couch, savouring the dusty fabric and cushion stuffing. They scoffed at me, shaking their heads at my gluttony. But I was only getting started: three more rooms to go. By the time I reached the basement, my sister’s hand appeared on my shoulder. Slow down. She warned. You’ll explode. But I had no time to listen, the perspiration from the water heater beckoned to me like a thick, juicy thanksgiving ham.

 

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