The Cure

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Cure details a butcher shop and glower garden, those who work there, and our imprisonment to the ground we come from.

Submitted: August 02, 2016

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Submitted: August 02, 2016

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Down the street from the building where the woman who saw only war in her life lives is a butcher shop. The family who owns it has worked there since the building was built, predating food safety laws and Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle and nearly predating the memory of anyone alive.

 

They cure meat there, and their dry, aged beef sells out before the cow has even been slaughtered. Everyone in the family knows how to do it. You take the finest cut of beef in store and you coat it in the most granular and white pieces of salt you have ever seen. To make it part of the family, you make sure that every part of the beef has been touched by your hands, imparting a part of you and your love into it. When the whole piece has been touched and is white, you place it on the highest shelf where it’ll move down as it gets older and older. Then, you take your hands to the old, begotten pail to cleanse them of the salt where it forms clouds and stops you from seeing the bottom. And the meat waits. And the salt falls to the bottom.  

 

Peter lived his life praising the rain clouds and soil that gave life to the vegetables he grew in a forgotten, but now flourishing parking lot. In the Northern part of his garden grew sunflowers that saw further past anyone before. Their stalks tangled between each other like the legs of lovers, and their flowers more open to the world than the man who grew them. To the East lay a sprawling patch of beets whose blood you could never wash off of your hands. Peter’s favorite plant were his stalks of corn, sparse and typical, he only filled three boxes with the yellowing vegetable. Peter took the small seed to his mouth and kissed it. He put the seed to bed and coated it in the same soil that had grown the corn he ate the past season. With the cracked and marbled hands of a young man, he pressed the dirt down and back where it came from, leaving a wish in the ground.

 

Rainclouds entered through swinging doors, shutting themselves with thunder and opening with wind. The water jumps through the sky without a parachute and falls in love with the ground, who had been waiting for her since her conception. She takes her in and soaks in everything that she has given her: life and meaning and purpose met in the ground. Together they create blossoming worlds, pasture for cows seeking their slaughter, and are the foundation of the world we know. This world where butchery is no crime, where nothing dies in a garden if you spare a moment for it.

 

Everything that sprouts from the ground or nourishes itself from it is prisoner to the world. Owing something most profound to its origins, we come bearing nothing of use to the world until we accept it in its state and seek to blossom like gardens and age benevolently like beef. 


© Copyright 2017 Jesi Rojo. All rights reserved.

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