I have made a couple of executive decisions with this week in regards to this little hobby of mine! Since we had no submissions last week, the $5 gift card will be rolled over to this week and the winner who submits a story for this post will receive a $10 gift card! The second change I have made is the word count requirement (some of you may be excited about this!). The minimum has been dropped down to 100 words (maximum of 1,500 still applies… Ain’t nobody got time for that!) which means that you can bang out a quick story in around 5 minutes and, as long as it’s good, still win! Get crackin’! (stories are to be based on the photo at the BOTTOM of the post and are due by MIDNIGHT MST on August the 2nd. Submit posts to firstname.lastname@example.org OR using the form below the photo)
There is never a dull moment when you are vegan and live across the street from a slaughter house.
As the squeals and cries of the innocent ring out in the night, I am always forced to press my pillow so firmly against my head that I fear I might suffocate myself one night. Night after night I push myself to the brink of suffocation in an effort to drown out the squawks, squeals, snorts and moos that drift across the street to my window. Night after night I fight down vomit as the stench of death wafts through my drapes. Night after night I whisper into my pillow “Just wait until morning, little friends. Those cages are nothing compared to what awaits you.”
Night after endless night had been filled with the same routine.
Until the night that PETA called.
I leaped out of bed and covered myself from head to toe in black before sneaking out of my own back door and slinking along the side of my house before dashing across the street and heading to the gate where I had been instructed to meet them.
They showed up a couple of minutes later and we crept silently through the wooden portal and stepped straight into the bowels of hell. Everywhere we turned there was some kind of defenseless animal cooped up in a wire cage that looked ten sizes too small.
One by one, we began to open them.
One by one, the poor creatures limped, hopped, hobbled, flapped, ran and crawled away from the internment camp that had been forced upon them.
One by one, the five of us filed back through the gate and silently went our separate ways.
Moments before reaching my back door, a blood curdling squeal shattered the silence of the night and I spun in a full circle trying to see where the sound had come from. I saw it a moment too late. A giant pig came charging around the corner of my house and plowed into my legs, knocking me on my ass and causing one of the smaller bones in my arm to come shooting through my flesh.
The pig vanished without another sound as I sat cursing loud enough to wake the neighbors.
When I arrived home from the hospital the next morning, police officers had cordoned off a good portion of my neighborhood and animal control officers were darting in and out of yards in an effort to detain various forms of escaped barn animals. It really was quite comical.
And then I saw this. Like a nightmare come to life, the dark, beady eyes set into that furry, porky face stared at me. It was as if the damn thing knew me.
When I noticed the officer carry the hell spawn back to the slaughter house, I wasted no time in snapping this photo before grabbing my wallet and running over to be the first in line for a side of bacon. I always get my revenge when it comes to matters of pride.
I’ve just never had my revenge taste like bacon before.
In a sick way, it has never tasted so sweet.
As always, happy writing!