The pastry cook was not a patient man. He hollered down the laneway urging Pierre to get on with it. Tourtière required an exact temperature for crust to turn golden and flaky; not a minute more, he squawked. With fists squeezed tight, the young boy shook the chicken till it yielded. Its limp neck hung, blood dripping intermittently on top of blue Nike’s. The stink was immediate. Pierre’s hand rushed to his nose, pinching nostrils closed before nausea hit. He did not hear the snap, he thought to himself. Usually, the snap is the tell-tale sign. He would try again with the next one. 104 words
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April 2024
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