Ashlee Campbell
Bio
A poet by trade dabbling in the art of fiction.
Stories (4)
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Feed Me
The sizzling of the onions in the pan, their milky white shards turning sweet and translucent, was like the percussive build up before a band breaks out into song. It was the shaking of a tambourine, the beating of a drum. It reverberated throughout the kitchen, nestled itself among the clanging of silverware and clattering dishes finding the bottom of the sink. Gary was facing the stovetop, the back of his gray t-shirt mottled with spots of sweat as he stirred the pan, tossing in the garlic and spices. I had fallen asleep on the couch, mouth open with the soft buzz of sleep, my hands loosely wrapped around the television remote. Something about tornadoes showed on the screen, barely audible, a vector for sleep. Quietly, I padded into the kitchen, propelled by my olfactory awakening which stirred something deep in the gut of me like the sauce simmering on the stove, bubbling the lid right off the pot. I was brought back from the dead by the scent of tomatoes, their visceral bodies peeling out from under the skin. As I passed between the sink and the kitchen island, I popped a cool slice of green pepper in my mouth. An unsatisfying place holder for the hunger that was now clawing itself to life inside of me.
By Ashlee Campbell3 years ago in Fiction
