Isabelle Kang (17)
Wild Moon Rising
Sometimes when he left his window open he could hear the pigs howling into the night. The stench pervaded regardless. But the noise only hit him when he listened hard enough, because after so many years his ears had gone blind to the sound. Only when the night got thick and black enough, when it came through the window like a plume of soot, could he really hear the sound for what it was: a snorting, mud-shuffling kind of survivalism. Sometimes he imagined the pigs shoveling dirt with the cusp of their noses, letting the night fill them with a senseless unrest. Sometimes he imagined how, when their fear of the dark grew too great, a terrible violence would ensue, and upon waking in the morning, he’d find only a few sows, huddling behind the metal troughs. Beyond them would lay the remnants of a massacre.
He didn’t know why these thoughts plagued him, but at times their presence made him uneasy. On hot days when he strung up the pigs for gutting, he would imagine leaving them to rot beneath the sun, so the sickening smell would roll over the countryside. And he would think of the urbanites from Seattle or Vancouver driving down the road, cranking up their windows when the stink hit them, scrunching up their noses like the pigs did when they shoveled dirt. And even when they’d driven far away, the odor would still cling to the hairs of their noses, would make it hard to breathe as it clogged the passageways of their lungs. He imagined a black-brown grime coating the walls of their throats; a dark, bubbling liquid tarring the insides of their gut. A warm sticky mucus with a foul taste.
But as he stood there, with half of the pigs’ bellies spilled on the floor, the shame of his own temptations would fill him, so much that he would, in a wave of self-disgust, cut open the rest of them without care for the quality of meat. Then, humiliated, he would mop up the barn floor and discard the ruined corpses, because the pork was no longer good enough to sell.
“I can’t seem to get my head in the right place,” he said one night to the neighboring farmer, as they sat drinking beers in her kitchen.
“Like what? You just can’t focus?” She’d looked at him half-concerned, as if what he was saying wasn’t all that strange.
“Not just that,” he’d said. “I think maybe I need to get out of the business. Go do something else for a while.”
“How’re you gonna do that? You can’t just quit.”
She was right, he’d thought. I can’t just quit. No, the farm was too big, too old to just abandon, but sometimes when he drove into the nearby town, he thought about driving further, and then a little further, until the smell of the pigs was so far away he could taste the air again. And yet. He always came home, returned to the pigs and the squalor, to the thick black night that covered him like syrup. And he would wake in the morning to find himself gutting the pigs again, only to dream of sharing the stench with the passing cars on the roadway. Then, when the dream became too frightening, he would ruin the meat and drive himself into sadness, rolling around on his uncovered mattress, picking through the scraps in the empty fridge.
“I’ve really got to get out of this,” he’d tried to explain to the neighboring farmer.
“Sure,” was all she’d said, and a frustration would thrash inside of himself, for he knew she didn’t understand. And he wanted to tell her that something was wrong, that he’d been up at night dreaming of strange things, but he couldn’t bring himself to say, I’m not right in the head. For he feared she would pinch the corners of her mouth and back away, that she would run out the door and into the deep, gelatin night. He feared she would suddenly see that he’d grown lazy in cleaning up the barn floors. He feared she’d become revolted at the sight of yesterday’s pigs fermenting in the sun; that now, under the weak moonlight, their torsos would resemble her own, and when he ran outside to comfort her, he would find the pigpens quiet. Then, in that moment, he would drop to his knees and weep, and he would wallow in his own despair; for only then, once the farm was glazed in dark, could he face the stillness greeting him, could he face the silence that he had once longed for so sweetly.
Isabelle Kang is a seventeen-year-old Korean-American writer from Denver, Colorado. She attends Denver School of the Arts for Creative Writing, and has been published in her school’s literary magazine, Calliope, for four consecutive years. She has also been published in Blue Marble Review’s 17th issue. She enjoys incorporating her other interests into her writing, blending aspects of psychology, history, and music/sound into her work.
Wild Moon Rising
Sometimes when he left his window open he could hear the pigs howling into the night. The stench pervaded regardless. But the noise only hit him when he listened hard enough, because after so many years his ears had gone blind to the sound. Only when the night got thick and black enough, when it came through the window like a plume of soot, could he really hear the sound for what it was: a snorting, mud-shuffling kind of survivalism. Sometimes he imagined the pigs shoveling dirt with the cusp of their noses, letting the night fill them with a senseless unrest. Sometimes he imagined how, when their fear of the dark grew too great, a terrible violence would ensue, and upon waking in the morning, he’d find only a few sows, huddling behind the metal troughs. Beyond them would lay the remnants of a massacre.
He didn’t know why these thoughts plagued him, but at times their presence made him uneasy. On hot days when he strung up the pigs for gutting, he would imagine leaving them to rot beneath the sun, so the sickening smell would roll over the countryside. And he would think of the urbanites from Seattle or Vancouver driving down the road, cranking up their windows when the stink hit them, scrunching up their noses like the pigs did when they shoveled dirt. And even when they’d driven far away, the odor would still cling to the hairs of their noses, would make it hard to breathe as it clogged the passageways of their lungs. He imagined a black-brown grime coating the walls of their throats; a dark, bubbling liquid tarring the insides of their gut. A warm sticky mucus with a foul taste.
But as he stood there, with half of the pigs’ bellies spilled on the floor, the shame of his own temptations would fill him, so much that he would, in a wave of self-disgust, cut open the rest of them without care for the quality of meat. Then, humiliated, he would mop up the barn floor and discard the ruined corpses, because the pork was no longer good enough to sell.
“I can’t seem to get my head in the right place,” he said one night to the neighboring farmer, as they sat drinking beers in her kitchen.
“Like what? You just can’t focus?” She’d looked at him half-concerned, as if what he was saying wasn’t all that strange.
“Not just that,” he’d said. “I think maybe I need to get out of the business. Go do something else for a while.”
“How’re you gonna do that? You can’t just quit.”
She was right, he’d thought. I can’t just quit. No, the farm was too big, too old to just abandon, but sometimes when he drove into the nearby town, he thought about driving further, and then a little further, until the smell of the pigs was so far away he could taste the air again. And yet. He always came home, returned to the pigs and the squalor, to the thick black night that covered him like syrup. And he would wake in the morning to find himself gutting the pigs again, only to dream of sharing the stench with the passing cars on the roadway. Then, when the dream became too frightening, he would ruin the meat and drive himself into sadness, rolling around on his uncovered mattress, picking through the scraps in the empty fridge.
“I’ve really got to get out of this,” he’d tried to explain to the neighboring farmer.
“Sure,” was all she’d said, and a frustration would thrash inside of himself, for he knew she didn’t understand. And he wanted to tell her that something was wrong, that he’d been up at night dreaming of strange things, but he couldn’t bring himself to say, I’m not right in the head. For he feared she would pinch the corners of her mouth and back away, that she would run out the door and into the deep, gelatin night. He feared she would suddenly see that he’d grown lazy in cleaning up the barn floors. He feared she’d become revolted at the sight of yesterday’s pigs fermenting in the sun; that now, under the weak moonlight, their torsos would resemble her own, and when he ran outside to comfort her, he would find the pigpens quiet. Then, in that moment, he would drop to his knees and weep, and he would wallow in his own despair; for only then, once the farm was glazed in dark, could he face the stillness greeting him, could he face the silence that he had once longed for so sweetly.
Isabelle Kang is a seventeen-year-old Korean-American writer from Denver, Colorado. She attends Denver School of the Arts for Creative Writing, and has been published in her school’s literary magazine, Calliope, for four consecutive years. She has also been published in Blue Marble Review’s 17th issue. She enjoys incorporating her other interests into her writing, blending aspects of psychology, history, and music/sound into her work.