Metal Mothers

[Rhoda]

A suckling pig took to the teat like magnets and their pins. It felt nurtured, and yet detached, as if it was being fed because it had to. Sure enough, it was deemed the runt and rather than fight for the life of the weaker one, the mother groaned through the weight of a full stomach. The pig took by man could only watch on with hatred for his brothers and sisters who were left where they stood, drinking each drop of milk as if their lives depended on it.

The only beautiful thing about that is that as soon as the well dries up, they would join him, served on a silver platter and only wishing they were the one took first. Nectar is hard to wean when you’ve been raised on it, and something is far easier to quit without exposure. Babies with cigarettes and pandas with bamboo are prime examples. The mother pig must have limbs of lead and a heart of iron to resist the lure of the knife, and yet she would rather join her children on the plate than fight for her right to bear more offspring. Either she knows what’s coming to them or she’s still thinking about yesterday’s troff.

 

Fran woke alone, dripping with cold fear already. She had been in the ball for little over twenty minutes now, and she was barely awake for eight of them. Around her, ridged bronze sealed her like a growing caterpillar. Fran was well aware of oxygen conservation, but that still didn’t stop her panting for breath and screaming until her throat proffered a painful itch. The metal rang with each screech, so she fell silent. In what seemed like all directions, a faint tapping followed the curve of the bronze. Fran gave a tap back to signal for help, assuming that the safest place away from the men who did this was inside the ball. Aside from herself, the prison felt hollow and thin, no more than an inch thick.

A thin hand on the other side copied her tapping patterns and volume, then traced his own musical composition with each finger adding rhythm. He could hear the whimpering of his captive inside. It felt good to him. Whether it was the uncertainty that was killing her or the panic, he couldn’t tell, but deep down he hoped that it was the guilt of knowing what she did.

 

“Can you hear me, Fran?” the captor spoke, his voice oddly soft and cracking.

There was only silence, again he could only assume it was the realisation that was doing more damage than the lack of air.

“I know you can,” he continued, “you heard my tapping. You’re still cute, you were tapping our song”.

Fran let out a sharp sob on the other side. Now she knew, and her captor smiled at the penny dropping finally. He drew a pattern on the bronze.

“It’s daddy, or at least, that’s what our kids would call me. They were beautiful kids. I loved them more than you, really.”

The sobbing went on, and so did he.

“Why you had to have them taken from me I’ll never understand. It wasn’t the drink. I didn’t lay a finger on them or you. I was destroying myself. My life revolved around work. Can’t you see that was my only escape? You tried your best with frankly amazing blow-jobs but the way I saw it, you were just swallowing more of my children. Our babies...”

 

His words trailed off, the cracking of the voice returning. He sat silently for a minute or two, humming their song instead of tapping it. The tune brought him comfort if anything. The ball in front of him stood on four legs, letting it stand tall like an absurd metal pig.

 

“I could have been a good dad.”

 

With a conclusive sniff, Fran’s husband slowly pushed a camping stove under the bronze ball.

 

“Rust well, metal mother.”

 

[Ronmar The Only]

I'm tired, and I don't know if I exactly get all of the intro, or the story for that matter. Is Fran supposed to be like the mother pig, unable to protect her children? Or possibly unwilling? Or is one of the babes, just fodder. I don't know.

 

If there was one thing that pulled me out of the first part was the use of present tense in the second paragraph. I suppose it is addressing a more constant thought process/events that occur not forever but are always happening somewhere. It is just that I'd like the entire piece to be in present tense if that section was.

 

But, the problem could just be that I am tired.

 

I wonder if there should be some sort of conversation between Fran and her husband. Not one where she so much talks back, maybe just him rattling off more details about their relationship and how his children were taken.

 

Maybe.

[Rhoda]

Maybe you're right with that. It does seem a little rushed on his part. Maybe it's sheer laziness that I didn't have her say anything. Maybe it's more powerful that way.

 

Lost in a sea of "maybe"! Thanks though Ronmar.

 

Truth be told, I wrote this in 20 minutes because I couldn't sleep. I first started writing about pigs and originally wanted a more mechanical feel to go with the title but I ditched that in favour of the juicy organic woman in a bronze bull.

[Canofceleri]

I didn't really get it (funny coming from me, right?), but I enjoyed your use of what is apparently a very decent vocabulary.

[Rhoda]

There's not much to get really - I'd argue the point of it if I'd spent a while thinking of its message but honestly, I started with the idea of a pig and ran with it. I didn't know how long it was going to be or where I'd end up. It was fun to write, and that's pretty much it. Maybe you've got it spot on Frank by just enjoying the piece and the vocabulary, so thank you for that much.

[UglyCasanova]

Man, my brain is full of poop now. I looked at it first, and was like "Oh, a short piece!" and then as I read it, it turned into a longer read than I thought. I remember what you told me int he critique of my shorts about us having a habit of being messy, and I think it's very apparent in this piece you weren't holding back on the mess. The thought process seems really fragmented and random. In the beginning, there's the general idea of talking about a pig, but I got lost in all the sentences, I felt I was drowning. It almost felt like each sentence was saying something different, and I really had to read to make it make sense. Man, making me really read and stuff. What are you? An author? Gosh.

 

The second section, though, was a bit easier to read. It was only slightly less fragmented, since it was more narrative than the opening and I liked that section a lot more, personally.