General

It was its own horror show, that butcher's shop. The corpses lined up and stretched out with the most ignominious ways. Then there was that smell of blood, the death stench. And in it all stood the butcher, cleaver in hand. There are times to follow tradition, and time for change, and I couldn't help but feel that the future had to be a kinder place where we learned to separate our needs from the bodies of other animals, mammals especially.

General

The meat shop was as white as death. It smelt of blood and sawdust and its tiled interior offered a refuge from the heat without.

By mikeb, May 7, 2013.

Found in The Narrow House, authored by Evelyn Scott.

General

Her vague, rather squinting eyes traveled undecidedly over the big pieces of meat: the shoulders, the forelegs, the haunches, of different shades of red streaked with tallow or suet, that swung on hooks in the shadow against the gray-white tiling of the walls. The fowls dangled in a row a little to the fore of the meat. The feet of the hens were a sickly bluish yellow, and the toes, cramped together yet flaccid, still suggested the fatigue which follows agony. The eyes bulged under thin blue-tinged lids and on the heads and necks about the close-shut beaks bunches of reddish brown feathers had been left as decorations. The butcher took one down and, laying it on the counter, pinched up the plump flesh between his forefinger and thumb.

By mikeb, May 7, 2013.

Found in The Narrow House, authored by Evelyn Scott.