"You are flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone," the voice droned softly into her ear as she looked down at the endless line of laid out, bloodless flesh drying under the harsh lights of the supermarket store. A love song wilted in the air, stifled by the scent of day-old clams. The meat looked bitter and unpersuasive. She picked up a roast of beef; it was too stiff, too coarse, not marbled. She remembered the days of her childhood, and the rich scent of gravy, and the cows out in the pasture. Flesh had been something different then. Something mysterious and familiar. She put down the beef roast and impulsively grabbed a bag of halal chicken, as though the connection with a faintly mysterious, ancient-world religion would bring life back to pre-bagged meat.

“Using language may be compared to riding a horse;
much of one’s success depends upon an understanding
of what it can and will do.”
- Richard Weaver, The Ethics of Rhetoric

My bass teacher, in an effort once to encourage me to learn how to read music, reminded me of my studies in English and creative writing.

“Imagine a writer without a true understanding of the rules of grammar of the language they write in; the difference between a musician who works, and a guy who maybe plays in a band but winds up paying to exercise his craft-- even if it’s just gas money to get to the gig-- is the ability to read music,” he said.

“What did I hit..?”

Pepper released the throttle, and the lawnmower cut off with a ka-thunk. She’d run over something, something big enough to nick the blade. There weren’t any rocks in this part of the yard, and she hoped that she hadn’t struck a rabbit. At the thought, her stomach lurched.

As the roar of the lawnmower engine faded to a ringing in her ears, a high-pitched squeal rattled the blades under the mower deck. Pepper squeezed her eyes shut, and shoved sweaty hair from her eyes. Jesus, it was a rabbit.