By Lee Gooden
Roger stood behind the door that led to the second floor. Head cocked to the side, he listened to the heavy footfalls of his father’s workbooks upstairs, clumping from room to room. His mother’s sobs were whispers, added to the other secrets and transgressions already witnessed by the house. Its joints, wiring, pipes, lathe and plaster absorbed the energy of expended emotion.
The knife from the silverware drawer felt good in his palm. He had held it before, while washing dishes, the soapy wood wet and slippery between his fingers, blade side held away from him as the dishrag slid along its length, polishing, invoking, inciting a sharp gleam. And, then there were the times he held it tight in his hand, the blade sawing between the guideposts of a fork’s tines as he cut his meat into manageable bites. What Roger remembered most, and his greatest pleasure, was when he shifted it back and forth from right hand to left hand in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom. He practiced slices, thrusts, feints and parries. Like Zorro. Roger carved Z’s into his enemies. [Read more…] about Manageable Bites
