All Flesh is Grass

by Kelda Crich


No, It's Not Fire, and It's Not a Bloody Shower, Either. What's Wrong With Your Eyes? by The DIY Publisher

No, It’s Not Fire, and It’s Not a Bloody Shower, Either. What’s Wrong With Your Eyes? by The DIY Publisher

Kellim shrugged out of her latexly clinging bio-suit and took a much needed shower. It felt good to be nano-scientifically clean after eight hours in the meat fields.

Kellim marched into the living area. At her entreaty, the wall displayed the news. Kellim frowned at the sight of the NewWales Colony ration protesters. She gasped when the NewWelsh Army fired vigorously into the crowds. Tears formed in her pea green orbs when the protestors fell like strands of grass.

She glanced at the comm. which was insistently blinking. She knew who that message was from. Reluctantly, but determinedly, Kellim trudged to the comm. and opened the file.

“I hope you’re okay, Kellim.” Just a few words from her busty ex-lover made Kellim tremble like a convulsive leaf. Meela was so ethereally beautiful. Kellim had to talk to her voluptuous ex-paramour. Partially unenthusiastically she dialled the ansible.

“What do you want, Meela?”

“To make sure you’re okay, Kellim. I still care about you.”

“Do you?”

“You know that!” A frown line formed between Meela’s ebony, black orbs.

“You care about me?” Likewise a frown formed between Kellim’s pea-green orbs. Despite the controlled ambient temperature, a line of furious sweat prickled her firm breasts. “I’m fine, Meela. I’m doing something important here.”

“On your secret government space farm? It’s something to do with the splicing enzyme that’s in the news, isn’t it?”

“Since when have you been interested in science?” asked Kellim inhospitably. “It’s nothing to do with you, just as I, also, am nothing to do with you. That was your choice, Meela.”

“I’m glad, you’re okay,” said the raven-haired Meela. “And I do care about you, Kellim.”

“Don’t contact me again.” Kellim broke the connection. She trotted into the kitchen to fetch the sub-sink space toolkit. It was against regulations to disable the comm. but Kellim needed to be alone. And what could possibly go wrong on an isolated secret asteroid farm? Kellim smiled savagely and ironically. There was no way that Meela could contact her now.


The meat-grass wavered in the artificial breeze. Genetic manipulation was a good thing! The flesh-producing genes into the grass’ DNA would solve the colonies food shortages! Those rioters on NewWales would soon be sated with bacon.

Only lately, Kellim had been feeling a bit peculiar. The isolation, maybe. The political situation meant that the M-Farm had to be a top-science-secret project. Kellim glimpsed the broken comm. She was truly alone. It was better that way.


Next morning, when Kellim ambled through the fields, she had a irregular feeling of being watched. But when she looked around, there was no one there!

She fed meat-grass strand into the scanner, checking the molecular cohesion ratio. She breathed in the wonderful meaty air. It smelt so wonderful! They’d even incorporated autolysis and oxidation enzymes to stimulate the cooking process. She rubbed a strand between her fingers, feeling the lubricating grease. She was so hungry! Without being conscious of what she was doing, involuntarily Kellim yanked up a bushel.


Back in her space-aged snow dome, Kellim filled in terribly, tedious reports. Yet, ironically, she was thrilled to be part of this project. Meat grass was important!

Despite her soy-fruit breakfast, she felt so hungry. Everything in the space pantry seemed unappetising, until she saw the bushel of meat-grass she harvested.

Her mouth salivated at the thought of the grass deliquescing in the pan.

Breakfast would be good today.

And so would, lunch, tea, dinner and supper.


That night after she had gone to sleep, Kellim woke in the dark, her fingers clenched into fists of greasy cloth. Her bed sheets were stained with scrumptious oil.

How did that happen? Had a few strands of meat-grass got into the bed? Kellim picked up the sheets and inhaled the delectable aroma. It smelt so good, like the a lingering lover’s perfume.


Next morning, as she took a hearty stroll through the fields, Kellim heard someone whispering:

I want you.

But there was no one there! Fear caressed her latex-clad spine. Kellim’s hand slinked to her laser-pistol. She never thought that she’d have to use it. But you had to confront your fears. She didn’t want to use it. But she would if she had to! To protect the meat-grass.

I care for you.

So close. Kellim whirled around like a spinning latex top.

The grass coalesced into a female shape: a meat-grass woman. For a moment, Kellim stood perfectly still, hypnotised by this tremendous creature.

Then she legged it.

Wherever she ran, the meat-grass woman reformed, blocked her path. Kellim twisted and trampled the grass, while sinister words formed in her head:

Run, run as fast as you can

I’m always going catch you

I’m the meat-wo-man.

Kellim’s collapsed. Her blood was the drowning ocean. The meat-female stood above her, calm and smug. “All flesh is grass,” she crooned.

Kellim stared at her alluring meat face. What would it be like to kiss those delicious lips? Her eyes looked like sausage balls. Kellim could see longing in them.

“I love you, Kellim,” hissed the meat-woman sibilantly, holding out soft raw arms, wanting to embrace Kellim in her yielding flesh.

“No,” whispered Kellim. Then less whispery: “No!”

It was wrong to make love to meat!

As Kellim hightailed it to the dome, the words whispered in the air, “I want you, Kellim.”

Kellim rattled open the dome’s door. She’d gone space-crazy! She looked at the broken comm. and shook her head wildly from side to side. She was alone.

The meat-woman pressed soft hands against the transparent glass windows. “All flesh is grass, Kellim. Look!”

The mirror showed Kellim’s face as brown as bacon. She wiped her cheeks. She was sweating salty oil!

“You’ve eaten my flesh, Kellim. You’ve become me.”

They had the same face. The meat-woman was Kellim’s meat-mirror. Here was what Kellim had always wanted: someone who was herself, her reflection, but – what a bonus- was made of bacon!

Kellim let the meat-woman inside. The marvellous slicing enzymes whirled, transforming and binding, to consummation.

They feasted in wonderful union: woman and meat and grass.

All flesh is grass.

# # #

All Flesh is Grass © 2014 Kelda Crich
No, It’s Not Fire, and It’s Not a Bloody Shower, Either. What’s
Wrong With Your Eyes? © 2014 The DIY Publisher

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