Here's the second of the Long Pig shorts.
Long Pig II
I stretch my consciousness across
billions of galaxies wheeling and pulsing with energy and life --with void and
death. I count them as a hen on a planet
yet to be will count her eggs.
The one we call Trickster snickers and
remarks, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
But I take my job seriously. I am Death. I am
Change. None deny me my due.
On the still non-existent Hen planet,
some will call me Cerridwen, Hel, Pele, Kali, Tiamat, The Stern Mother, and The Crone.
I am the ravening sow who consumes her young. I am the liberator of souls who dances the
rhythms of life and death until love and rage are one. Adorned with a necklace
of fifty severed head, I dance upon my husband’s corpse, upon your corpse, and the
corpse of every being who was or will be.
Time and space are running out for this
here and now. It is stretched to its
limit and touches the realm where myths are made. I number each existence on planets that have been,
are, and will be. Rage rises against the
cruelty unleashed and the lessons unlearned until I am consumed--taut as a boil
ready to burst. This universe quivers—suns
sing their death songs. I strain and
roar. Mass collapses into mass. Each dying world becomes a bead upon my
necklace.
. The dying universe surges in its death
throes as I devour dark matter, suns,
nebulae, planets, satellites, blood, bone, sinew and atoms until all that’s left is a conflicting
silence---hot and throbbing with potential.
Eons pass. Bound to their galaxies, suns and
planets form. Life evolves. I am imagined
on the Hen planet and worshipped in many forms. Right now, it amuses me to incarnate where my worshippers
are (as yet) unaware of my identity. I
survey them upon a reviewing stand beside a lovely young woman crowned with a
rhinestone tiara. A satin sash draped across
her chest reads, “Pork Princess.” She
is my handmaiden, for I am Cerridwen, the Great White Sow. Humans admire my solid majesty—the long thick
muscles of my groomed length. My pungent female scent attracts and alarms them.
They cannot resist me.
The
satin sash draped across the wide barrel of my torso reads, “Supreme World
Champion.” The crowd clusters—one bears
an offering. I raise my huge head and grunt a deep, guttural warning. He backs away in reverent fear as I thrust my
snout into the cauldron of mash and turnips.
Fourteen pendulous pink teats hang
beneath the swag of my belly where my unborn children squirm—waiting to burst forth. All of the energy and potential of life is
coiled within them—within each being. It
will erupt and will be stretched to its allotted limit, before I consume it so
that the cycle continues.
In
this moment, I am inclined towards clemency because these beings appreciate me and
because my body teems with life. Besides,
I do not wish to harm my handmaiden who smells of sweet lavender soap. For now, she is The Maiden. But I will always be the Stern Mother and the
Crone. All will know my rage and my fierce consuming love.
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