Member-only story
Fiction
Cannibal Chef
Tastes like chicken
Sorry I’ve been AWOL for a while. I was under the weather, but when I thought I was better, I went a little overboard and overdid it before working on my new website occupied my time. Here’s what I thought up while I was lying around.
The TV cameras were rolling and lights bathed the stage when the countdown began. Three, two, one. “And welcome to another afternoon of Cooking with Camilla.”
Just like most days, Camilla Anderson, America’s sweetheart chef, stood behind a marble countertop that was the centerpiece of her set and the object of her viewers’ desires. Her auburn hair was pulled into an effortless bun and an extra ten pounds made viewers say, “She’s just like me!”
“Thanks for joinin’ me today,” she cooed in a southern drawl that made each word seem like honey over warm cornbread. “Today, we’re cookin’ up somethin’ so delicious that it’ll have y’all beggin’ for seconds.”
She winked at the camera. Behind her, pots were already bubbling, and the air was thick with the smell of roasted garlic, caramelized onions, and something else — another of Camilla’s secrets.
On a cutting board lay a slab of meat, marbled with pale white fat and juicy, red muscle. She ran her fingers across it slowly and deliberately, like she…
