MicroHorror

After the slaughter, the scent of slippery-crisp pork belly suffused the house. Don’t be greedy, the boy’s mother had warned, but alone in the kitchen he tore hunks of meat from under foil. He laughed, expelling a fine porcine mist. A muted slapping crept nearer as he sucked his fingers and sampled a roast. In the doorway, a putrid tangle of viscera reached out wet tendrils, struggling toward him. Worn tile grew hot and greasy in its wake. The boy ate on, turning only when the entrails rushed him, their accelerated smacking like spattered applause.