Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Pig Who Became a Hero — An Allegory
(with apologies to Eric Blair, otherwise known as George Orwell)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Jan. 24th, 2012
It was dusk. Purple twilight had gathered up the last of the sunlight and blown it gently away to the west, where it sank sighing into the hills. The farm was done for the day, and the farmer, an independent woman who had longed to own her own farm for years and had finally managed it in her middle age, had gone off to her rest.
A large pig snuffled through the trough, rooting for the tastiest bits. Apple cores, oat mush, old vegetables, pig meal specially prepared, all mashed and mixed together made for the best, most piggilicious dinner. The pig’s name was Herman, and he was an old, happy, well-cared-for pig. His owner was a vegetarian farmer, and had only wanted a pig because she liked his funny little eyes, and pugnacious manner.
Then, along came Herman’s friend, the barnyard horse, whose name was Milt. Milt leaned over the trough, and whinnied something. The pig shrugged. His mind was elsewhere — on the food, to be precise.
Milt the horse tried again. Herman the pig raised his snout, glared at Milt, grunted and said around the food in his mouth, “Shut up. Can’t you see I’m eating? This is my hour of deep meditation. Go bother someone else.”
Milt was upset, and put out his hoof, and kicked Herman, who barely budged, because he weighed seven hundred pounds, and was pretty much immovable.
Milt said, “If you do not listen, there is going to be trouble. Look up, and you’ll see why.”
Herman looked up irritatedly, and then felt a sudden jolt of fear like a bolt of lightning in his heart. Leaning over the fence were some rather rapacious-looking men, with slouchy shoulders, hats pulled over their heads, and ragged clothes. Pig thieves! was the phrase that went through Herman’s porcine mind.
“This one looks like he’ll make several good meals through the fall,” rasped one desperado, looking interestedly at Herman.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s grab him and shove him into the back of our van,” said the other, ropes and other mysterious objects ready at hand. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we grab this horse as well? Might as well!”
Herman uttered a high-pitched squeal, Milt neighed loudly, and the barnyard burst into noise, which woke up the dogs, and mayhem ensued.
The men burst into the yard, and tried to wrestle the pig into captivity, but Herman was quicker than they were. He ran at them, and tossed one over his shoulder. Milt kicked the other one, who fell down, clutching his leg. The dogs came bursting out of their kennels, and sank their teeth viciously into their legs. They yelled in fright and pain. The farmer came skidding out, in fluffy bunny slippers and dressing gown, her hair in a bun. She had a shotgun in her hand, and she showed no hesitation in pointing it at them, while calling the dogs away. The men writhed on the ground, groaning loudly.
Then, Herman spoke, and silence fell, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all creatures on the farm are created equal, that they are endowed by their Farmer with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of pig-stealers. So, let’s chase these thugs away!”
The other animals roared their approval, and the farmer stood, stunned, because Herman the pig had spoken in English. She leaned back against the barn, with her hand on her heart, and a smile on her face, the gun slipping soundlessly into the squishy mud.
And so, Herman and all the animals chased the two men away, and lived happily ever after with their beloved farmer, unharmed by other humans till the end of their lives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, allegory, George Orwell, Talking animals
Feb 21, 2013 Original Short Stories
Patience is a House –A Short, Short, Short Story©By Vijaya Sundaram
(With a Tip of the Hat to Walter De La Mare)
February 19th, 2013
The house stood still.
There was someone about — someone who did not belong, someone who posed a threat.
The house leaned in, closer, the better to listen and absorb.
It heard the foodfalls, softer than feathers floating down. It heard the held breath, the pulse in abeyance, the mind that fenced itself in against the night.
The house shuddered. It felt grim. It had to do what it had to do.
The footfalls entered the bedroom where the dead had lain for a century. Now, there was nothing but dust and the vague shape of a human outlined in moonlight.
The footfalls paused, and breath whistled out in a cloud of shock. The footfalls seemed to consider what to do.
The house tensed itself, ready to protect and serve the dead, to prevent the world from knowing what lay within it, and why it was there.
The footfalls turned around, went to the window. The pulse in abeyance was now hammering loudly, and the house could hear it. The footfalls pressed down. The moonlight streamed in, and the forest all around the house moved like a glacier, indistinguishable from the passing shadows under the moon.
The house started to close in. And then, it paused.
There was a spring, a whoosh of air, and a dull thud. The footfalls gathered themselves up, and clattered over the bone-white, bleached cobblestones, putting distance between themselves and the house. The forest pressed back, afraid. The echoes that remained seemed forlorn. The footfalls died away into the distance.
The house sighed. So close, so close. Now, it had to wait again. Another hundred years would pass. It didn’t matter. The house was patient.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, ghost story, mystery