by Mallory Dickson
Amiga, unfazed, hacks away with her small machete. Her ax peels the slivers of onion bark away from the bulbous tree, where they fall like pine needles, mingling with her pumpkin seed tears. Cutting through this onion is cutting through her, thin lines of mascara streaking down her face, black vine tendrils. Her face a brown canvas, lost in this forest, this arena of food. The slab in front of me is cold, numbing my fingers and rejecting my blade. I am fighting with a jellyfish, jello de carne, pink marble slab. Amiga is offering up her kindling, tossing the small ivory pieces onto the stove, mixing with golden sap: a pond of oil. As the onion slices crackle in liquid fire she turns to face me, me with this sword, hacking away at this faceless opponent, the metal reflecting off his salmon-pink armor. No I do not need help, let me face my demons alone! Fingernails dig into this fleshy hill, steel penetrating the carne: I leave carnage in my wake. Rosy chunks, fallen petals are strewn across the wooden chopping block. I lay down my knife, turn away. Let her bury the dead in round metal caskets, ringed by flame.
From a young age Mallory Dickson has been fascinated with books and writing. She has worked on a fantasy trilogy for over seven years, dabbles in poetry, and writes creative essays. She is a senior at Brigham Young University, studying English with an Editing minor.
