Two Clear, Blue Eyes
Debra Levy


 
I’m a woman of voracious appetites. I don’t sip, I gulp. Don’t bite, but devour.
 
The other day, I picked a piece of skin off my big toe and ate it. One thing led to another. The nail, the toe. (I didn’t see much point in that toe anyway.) Never one to quit while I’m ahead, I ate the long toe, and the next one as well—soon, I’d consumed all ten.
 
My fingers were eager pincers (hadn’t Mother always reminded me that idle hands were the devil’s workshop?). My mouth was a willing accomplice.
 
So, I picked and ate. My legs, my lady parts, my stomach, my chest and breasts, my neck, my chin, my lips, my nose (never liked it anyway), my ears, my hair.
 
Finally, all that was left of me were my two clear, blue eyes there on the floor. They stared at the world: the same old world stared back.
 
Mother always said I bit my nose to spite my face—but really? She underestimated my appetite, my hungry fingers.










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About the Author: DS Levy's work has been published in Little Fiction (nominated for Pushcart), the Alaska Quarterly Review, MoonPark Review, Cotton Xenomorph, Columbia, South Dakota Review, Brevity, The Pinch, and others. Her collection of flash fiction, A Binary Heart, was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. 

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