* Author : K.C. Mead-Brewer
* Narrator : Jen R. Albert
* Host : Summer Fletcher
* Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh
*
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Previously published by Carve Magazine.
Content warning for violence against women, suicide, and cannibalism
Rated R.
The Feast
By K.C. Mead-Brewer
We took Emmaline on what promised to be a particularly stormy night. It wasn’t hard to do, especially since all the police and alarm company people were right there in the mob with us. Her mother, Rebecca, had to be restrained by five different people; the sheriff had to lock her in a holding cell to keep her secured.
We brought Emmaline to the closest beach and tied her to a giant lightning rod that we’d planted in the sand not far from the water. The choice of sacrifice via lightning strike surprised a lot of people, but we didn’t have a volcano to toss her into or any grand golden steps like the Mayans to push her down from. And if we were going to make the sacrifice count, if we really wanted our crops to flourish and satisfy, it made sense to us that the more drama we could build up, the better.
The noises she made! She sounded so much like an animal it actually became easier for us to see it through to the end. We waited all day and half the night with her until finally the promised rain began to fall and a flash of light slipped down to snatch her up. Our fillings all buzzed in our teeth and Mrs. Johnson lifted a hand to her heart as her pacemaker gave a startled little jolt in her chest.
The lightning-struck sand turned to liquid glass around Emmaline’s bare feet. We all agreed to let it harden some before trying to move her body. But when old Maurice and a couple of his fishing crew finally went to untie her, they discovered she was still twitching. Of course, we’d all dissected frogs in school and killed plenty of chickens for plenty of dinners, so initially this didn’t worry us much. But then Maurice put his entire callused hand up against her throat.
Heart’s still beating, he told us, and some part of this revelation must’ve made him real itchy, because he took to scratching the back of his neck and the crusty caps of his elbows.
We were all surprised at the news, but mostly we were disappointed.
Emmaline came back to her senses around the time her feet finished cooling. She started begging all over again, saying that her survival was proof the gods didn’t want her dead, but it wasn’t enough to convince us. If anything, it only seemed like her life might make for an even more valuable sacrifice. Something hard-won and fought for. So, Maurice and his crew hauled her up into one of their rowboats, her chunked-glass feet clunking against the wood as they did so.
We all pitched open our umbrellas as the rain picked up and lifted our flashlights high to watch as they rowed her out and dropped her in amid the waves. Weighted down by her glass slippers, she sank feet-first through the purple dark. We waited a long while, perhaps expecting another lightning strike or some other divine message confirming Package Received, but it only continued to rain and rain as if we’d done nothing at all.
Blond, beautiful, lemon-fresh Rebecca was famous across our little island for her preserves: jams, pickles, jerkies—she knew how to make things last.
