I wrote this something like three months ago, trying to imitate the tone of a David Lynch movie cause that’s what I was into at the time. It definitely focuses on the prose more than the story, but I feel like in composition– especially the earlier stages– you have to try a couple different styles. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Feed me feedback.
Mommy is alone in the kitchen. Her fingers knead purple ground meat. Streaks of translucent grease cross her face. The vent above the stovetop is on high and squeals a bit, so Mommy presses her thumbs into her ears. She gets blood or something inside her ears. She picks up a knife to cut celery but the grease is all over her hand. The knife slips out of her grip and she cuts her palm. She swears and clenches her wrist. A drop of blood is diluted by the dampness of her hand, and falls onto the cutting board mixed with brownish oil.
Mommy dreamed last night that her baby came in the mail packed in cellophane. When she tore off the tape and used her fingernails to pry the staples, she took out her baby but it had the face of a mouse and no arms and no stomach. Its legs were bent like a frog’s, its head stuck atop elephantine thighs. Her baby hopped around her kitchen; then it died, gasping for air like a fish, its tongue slapping at the green and white tiles, which like everything in Mommy’s house were very clean. Another night Mommy dreamed she saw her baby at a department store, a Walmart or a Target with the fluorescent lights screamingly bright. She found her baby thrown in the section with the porch chairs and the patio umbrellas, when it should have been with the pharmaceuticals. She walked to checkout with the box under her arm and the pale fat girl behind the counter swiped it with a wand and then Mommy swiped her credit card, and then, going to her car, Mommy noticed that the tape on the box had been tampered with and the package was damaged, open in a corner; her baby had been picked apart and eaten with a bag of corn puffs. Little toes rolled here and there on the cardboard, smudged in flavored orange dust.
Mommy and Gary have waited for their baby almost a month now; six months ago Mommy retired from her job; a year before that, Gary’s website blew up. Mommy was barren, so the real Mommy, another Mommy, had been paid a sum of money and was lying on a beach in Maine, cracking lobster shells and dunking violet meat into tiny plastic cups filled with butter. (The surrogate Mommy is the daughter of a lobster fisherman in Maine. Mommy has never seen the other Mommy, and she imagines her this way).
Mommy takes a fistful of ground meat and presses it into a hot pan that looks the same as a cold pan. Steam rises. It smells like bugs.
Their land is heavily wooded. A groundskeeper comes once a week. A maid service comes the same day as the groundskeeper.
“What’s the plan for today?” Asks Gary, standing by the kitchen table.