The butchers in old gloves are weeping carved wolves. Their fur appears frozen, golden hairs tearing through the dawn. Blood so motionless in the sunlight. It’s tiny enough to want to skip town, hide forever. They find a pile of animals within the skin. A python, a poodle, a kid or two. They are all alive and it is a miracle to be alive yet the butchers still weep. Seizing up, sunburned, worried like moons. The wine they’ve spent all night drinking is nearing its end. They cannot keep steady their hands. The butchers in old gloves with runny eyes. Hurry, says one of the two children inside the dead wolves, hurry, but the butchers are already carving as fast as they can.



Benjamin Niespodziany is a Chicago-based writer whose work has appeared in Bennington Review, Fence, Conduit, Fairy Tale Review, Post Road, and elsewhere. His writing has been featured in the Wigleaf Top 50 and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, and Best of the Net. Along with hosting the Neon Night Mic reading series, he also recently launched Piżama Press.

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