by Emily Cull

On Monday, James came to eat the house. He started in the kitchen, naturally, chipping off chunks of the porcelain counter and slipping the smooth, white shards into his mouth. After washing the crumbled tiles off his palate with a few hungry gulps of the cold metal faucet, he proceeded into the living room, tearing off strips of the cracked leather couch and chewing on them like beef jerky. I watched as he delicately carved slices out of the oil painting that hung over the mantel and placed them on his tongue like a fine, aged cheese. Foot stools and tasseled rugs and wallpaper poured down James's throat like water until the moment that he encountered a small, brass bolt, an item that he simply couldn't stomach. James felt his small intestine roll over and everything came up again, exploding into a pile of sawdust and carpet fibers and runny paint where the floor used to be.


Emily Cull is 18 and lives in South Carolina. She is obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer.