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Goddess in a Baritone

  He said “Goddess” in a baritone, like the word was a syrup, thick and viscous, submerging his tongue and coating his teeth, seeping into the gaps in between and lapping at the mucosal tissue of his gums. The hard lines of the double ds were softened, rounded, and the e ran into both s’s subsequently, tampering with the sibilance and producing a low hum.  The bass string through his letters pulls up, up, up, through his throat, and, though it’s the sounds he is speaking, you can hear the vibrations in the centre of his chest, hollowed out like a crater you might put your foot through. Ankle deep and unshoed, wriggling your toes into indentations, squishy and malleable, like playdough squelching.   The very centre of his chest is an apple core, browning and craggy, with the stalk still attached. You imagine twisting it between your index finger and your thumb, wrapping your other hand around the core and squeezing moisture and pips and softening flesh into the middle...

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