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If Sheep Could Only Talk

If Sheep Could Only Talk

Who knows where the sheep go at night? The gate is always open and they are in groups of five or six, and this is going to sound strange, they appear to be gossiping—talking over the nights’ doing, as it were..
When they see me--they spread out—away from their groups. I wouldn’t be surprised if they began whistling to show that nothing was going on but I know better.
I asked Butch, my next-door neighbor, (if you can call ten acres away next door) if he was having the same problem with his sheep but he laughed and asked if I thought they had night jobs or were going to the truck stop and putting out?
There’s no doubt that Butch will be at the barber shop tomorrow getting a trim and spreading the word of my sheep problem and thoughts. I shouldn’t have said anything.
So I stayed up last night with the house lights off and the exterior lights on and I saw Woolly, our sheep dog, the same off white color as the sheep, amble over to the gate, stand up on his hind paws, an…

Witch Soup

Witch Soup

What the hell you look at me for? Close your damned eyes! So, you are bleeding, what am I supposed to do now? Turn away your accusing eyes! I only chopped your leg off, not your head…I need it for my soup! My witch soup. Tasty soup. Magic soup.  Stop this weeping, I promise I will heal you with that soup, a new leg will grow on you once you taste my witch soup. My lovely soup, your white leg floating around with a wild squirrel. Leg-squirrel-witch soup. I´ll serve it well. With onions and cream. You´ll feel much better once I feed you my leg soup.

I should pour some of it in a can and then close the can and sell it on market-place. One good healing soup, ladies and gentlemen! Perhaps I should take a waterproof marker-you know how it rains all the time- and write “Warhol´s Soup” on it, so it could sell better. “Campbell soup can. Witch-squirrel-leg”. Just in case, I should require myself a bullet-proof can, in case someone feels like shooting Warhol again.

My soup is hot. It´s one damn hot soup. Almost as hot as you were. Now you only have one leg, you crippled invalid. Even your leg was not good enough, it´s still not soft. The meat is stuck to the bone like some rubber. And yet I stirred and boiled it so long… I don´t understand.

I should take that leg out and throw it to the dogs. You hear ´em barking? Yes, of course you do. Or maybe you want that bone? No? I thought so. Oh, be nice now, I was just kidding, I´ll take it away. Now, there. Be a good girl. Come here and have a taste. Oh, right, how can you walk… I forgot. I come to you. Open your mouth. Wider! Swallow! Don´t you dare think about spitting it out! Don´t you know how expensive this soup is? Have you any idea how much it is worth? Of course, you don´t. Did it taste good? Do you feel anything already? Any sign of a new leg? Why you gag like that? Stop it at once! You better not be throwing up in my kettle. What did you do now, little bitch? Why your eyes like this? Look at me! Look at me bloody hell! Look what you have done with my room. Look at all this mess! I hate you! I hate you! Yes, you! And I´ve always hated soup.

Annika Lindok 

Annika Lindok is an English teacher in Estonia. Her work has been previously published in Zoetic Press´s Nonbinary Review, Reaktor, Peacock Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Scryptic Magazine, Five 2 One and others. Upcoming in Degenerate Literature. She is a prose editor for Escapism Literary Magazine:


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