Orange Slices

Henny Penny could draw. Always could. Even before. She drawed an orange once.

She knows it isn’t drawed, but that’s how she thinks, sometimes, because it sounds little

and sometimes people won’t hurt little things. But people hurt little things without even

knowing it. Remember that orange she drawed? It was lots of them. A whole batch of

them, all cut open longways. She used her pen and they came out provocative, so her

tutor, because she had a tutor by then, because she wasn’t fit for school, her tutor said

they were nasty and crumpled up the page and threw it away. But Henny Penny, but

really it’s just Penny, she just calls herself Henny Penny because she’s gone wacked,

pulled it back out of the trash when her tutor wasn’t watching. She can’t remember the

tutor’s name, but she wasn’t pretty. Of course she was old, which tends to take the pretty

out of girls, but even if she wasn’t old, she wouldn’t have been pretty. She had a big

nose, and big pores like an old man’s, and red lines on the sides of her nostrils and

fanning out on her cheeks like a big blood delta, like the Mississippi sputtering out, only

with veins over cheeks. She’d try to teach Henny Penny proper things, like proper

English, and proper manners, and Henny Penny didn’t learn because she didn’t want to,

although she didn’t intend to make things hard on the tutor. Still, the oranges weren’t

proper, the way they were so vulvular and all, the way the middle part opened so

provocatively, and the exposed slices curved around to meet at the top, just like the little

lips curving around to their clitular ecstasy. And the tutor, of course, she was proper, and

had never learned about clitular ecstasy, had never been taught by Daaaaaarwin, which

wasn’t her father’s real name, she just always thought of him that way, as Daaaaaarwin,

because he was a little bit whiney, like he whined when he wanted stuff, and he was all

about evolution and how society would evolve to make it right that a father teach his

daughter the things she otherwise might not learn for….well, for years. So Henny Penny

drawed her oranges, then fetched them, crumpled, from the garbage, and spread them out

to show Daaaaaarwin, and he liked them and said they were very, ummm, uhhh, he

sought for a right word, and he opened his pants, and he said they were very, ummm,

uhhh, he tried for a second time to find a word, but instead he showed her his penicular

delight in her drawing, like that was word enough. He asked her if he could have it. The

drawing. He didn’t ask her about the other things he could have, he just had those. But

he was polite to ask her about the drawing, he asked her all fawning, his voice all

fawning and throbbing, like he’d turned into his penicular delight, like it had become

him, so there was nothing left but just that. He showed her how it throbbed at her

painting, and he told her, all fawning and throbbing, that he’d like to do her, and she,

Henny Penny, laid back on her big bed and Daaaaaaarwin opened her up, her dress, her

panties, her legs, he opened her up and said what a luscious orange she was and how he

loved to eat her up, and would she like to eat him up, too, because it was perfectly

natural, and the only ones who didn’t understand were those who didn’t know, and they

could never tell because they didn’t understand. Well, whatever. But really she wanted

to keep the drawing for herself, so she said so, and Daaaaaarwin said she could but it was

like their secret so she’d have to keep it hidden, so she did, she kept it hidden, but she

drew more. With a mirror, she drew more. She sat on her bed, with her knees drawn up,

and a mirror so she could see, and she made herself orange halves, juicy and open and

sectioned, made her lips orange wedges, made the orange wedges her lips, made them

wavery and delicate, shadowed the secret hole, engorged the secret button, thought about

Daaaaaaarwin, and his thin lips, his darting tongue, too eager, too impatient, just

smearing up her orange wedges so she’d suck up his big stick, which was only orange

flavored, not really orange. They’re so pretty, her oranges, her juicy oranges, and her

pretty face, and her pretty titties, even before they sprouted, when they were just flat, and

her oranges unobscured by curling hairs, back when it was slick and bald, when it was

little and sweet and pretty, when Daaaaaaaarwin loved it best.

Errid lives in inland Southern California, far from the mercy of the sea breeze and
the marine layer. She writes at a cluttered desk where a candle burns to create an
aura of serenity. Sometimes she accidentally catches things on fire, which turns the
aura to a bright yellow and orange and red glow and sort of wrecks the serenity thing.
Her stories have appeared in storySouth, Pindeldyboz, and Quantum Muse.

© 2006 Underground Voices