Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Moose Kebab (sorry Elizabeth!) by Helena Nolan
I was on the bus with her you see. Yes, the self-same bus. And it didn't happen the way she tells it at all. The way she tells it, it might be more poetic, more atmospheric-like but it ain't the truth. We'd been on that bus for days. Truth is, we were all starting to stink, never mind the gasoline. And we were hungry too, real hungry. So, when it happened, it was all kinda natural like. Like a gift from the gods. Nature's bounty I think you might call it. A cornucopia. Slam, it hit the windscreen like a tree, big as a house n all, she was right about that part. And the eyes, watching us, even though it was killed stone dead, watching us, as we dragged it down off the bumper by its horns; watching us, as we skinned it and cooked it and ate it. It tasted like blood. It tasted like the road. It tasted burnt. But it was damn good. Now, put that in a poem, why don't ya?