Flash Fiction: Meat

We’re on line at the factory, waiting for slaughter. We’re not the organic kind, we’re the ones fed hormones. We’ll be packaged up on black foam flats with blood diapers. A wrinkled housewife asks the butcher if there’s a sale or can she buy the heart without the other organs? The meat man is impatient to leave, says the lungs come with the heart, just throw it away if you don’t need it. Cheap enough.

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