Thursday, September 27, 2012


I write a lot about dogs. And blood. And death. And teeth.

This is part of a story "Break Your Teeth" that I am going to share with my writerlies tonight. Thought I'd get back into the blog thing now that its almost winter again...

Teaser, just a little taste:


But the teeth were the first thing. The teeth were unmistakeable, long and sharp and white, so white they dazzled. I remember being dazzled, stopped in my tracks dazzled, the first time I saw them, huge, not quite fitting into my beautiful husband’s beautiful mouth, distorted by bones that didn’t belong. It was dark, the lights were out, but still those teeth gleamed. The moon shone in through the window and my husband’s teeth gleamed in response, gleamed with pleasure “the better to eat you with my dear.” He turned to me in the bed, warm, warmer than he had ever been, and his big shiny white teeth gleamed. His mouth opened wide and he let out a yelp that I didn’t recognize. He held me down and licked me all over, nipped at my fingers, nipped at my toes, but licked me all over. My skin was raw in places from his tongue. He slept like the dead when he was done.

His teeth make impressions that they shouldn’t, his body heals from the scratches I give him instantly. In the morning, the morning after, he is smooth and unblemished. Every morning he awakes anew. But the marks stay on me, they stay and they stay. The bruises get deeper, more purple, more yellow, more red, his powerful fingers marking the same place over and over again. I am a map to his neediness. He can find his way by the pin pricks all up my arms, the punctures his teeth make. My body is a salty river, taste me. 


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