Fiction? — You decide. My contribution to Halloween.
An African Farm — Why Are The Pigs Dying?
Can an entire farm be “evil?”
I could not take the squeal of the dying pigs much longer.
I stormed outside to speak with Doctor Grayling. As I came around the North corner of the farmhouse, I nearly missed it. I was busy looking at the old windmill wheel slowly squeaking lazily as a pathetic gust of wind took ownership of the rusty wheel blades.
The farm had a somber feel to it, something I had not felt before. I shivered. Yet it was not cold. I pulled my fleece collar up against my neck. I felt no better.
Laying in the dirt was a small metal cross roughly hewn out of what looked like an old 5-liter paraffin can.
I could hear the squeals of the dying pigs riding the wind from afar.
I looked up. Dozens of them contorted and writhing on the ground, sliding about in their own feces, urine, and blood. The churned-up dirt looked like dull untempered chocolate, laced with shiny rivulets of pig blood.
I bent to look more closely at the jagged edges of the cross, while the veterinary doctor strode purposefully towards me from where the pigs danced in the…
