“Delicious!” Albert approved of the turtle soup. It had cooked slowly, bubbling almost to the brim on occasion, the old meat drinking in the juice and liquor.
“What next? What next?”
The island’s annual fisherman’s ball was the pinnacle of Albert’s social mountain. He’d never fished himself, but as head postal officer he was as close to a dignitary as the community could muster.
Wiping his greasy finger on his stiff little napkin, he thought of how the soup was even now seeping into his bloodstream, his innards thirsting for its delicious quality, intestines in anticipation, barely contained in their rush to make the soup part of him.
Albert liked very much to maintain his deliciousness.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
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