The Lamb

by Lucy Rose

I thought of the advert I’d seen on telly. The one with fish fingers, flaky on the inside but crispy on the outside. Fresh catch. Fresh kill. But fish fingers didn’t taste like cooked lips.

My portion was smaller. But the slice of meat was fattier. I knew it would have a bit of chew to it. It would be gamier than the other slices. I wondered which part of the gamekeeper’s leg it belonged to. I imagined it was somewhere near his front pocket.

Mama had nothing but memories left to make, but his were already made.