Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Perfect Body in One Sentence

By Kaye Linden

Your arm doesn’t belong to you anymore, sensation fades, a kaleidoscope of pink and yellow circles assaults your eyes as anesthesia winds the muscles down into a free-fall of sorts for your next body part procedure, where this time the surgeon excises a tumor (maybe or maybe not in need of extraction) and you fall into the dizzying depths of the operating room and remember when you were eight and a doctor with a mask etherized your baby body and burned up the appendix, then at fourteen they took out your tonsils but you could eat ice-cream afterwards, at eighteen three wisdom teeth, at twenty they widened the sinuses, at forty the hyperabdominoplasty repaired loose skin from two C-sections and one gall bladder operation, and you wonder if you’re addicted to internal plastic surgery, or to the attention you get with the cleaning up of unnecessary body parts and if you need all this cutting anyway and then your memory goes black as death when the surgeon makes his first cut and slices into your brain.
BIO: Kaye has an MFA in fiction from the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts on Whidbey Island. Kaye was born and raised in Australia and now resides in Florida.  She is the short fiction editor of the Bacopa Literary Review, an annual print journal and teaches short fiction at Santa Fe College in Gainesville. Kaye has just signed with to publish a collection of tales from Australia: “Fifty Tales from Ma’s Watering Hole.” (Watch me write 50 Tales from Ma's Watering Hole)

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