SLINGING INK: Foul
The sky was falling but no one even cared.
The young little critter stared as the black void loomed from above. It was larger now, wih jagged teeth-like edges that reminded him of how a Great White Shark would smile. He watched as the clouds evaded the dark window, as if they were scared they would be swallowed by the inky blackness that lingered and waited in silence.
"The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"
The little chicken tried screaming at the top of his lungs in the past. He tried running around, warning anyone who would listen that such a huge looming threat hung over them. But no one cared. Not a single soul gave a damn anymore. Not with Mr. Farmer now visiting the coop nightly, to take one of the other women quietly from the Rooster's care. None of the women returned. None of the women would know what to do.
"The sky is falling!"
But the pigs merely wallowed in their mud pit, ignoring the young animal's declarations. The pigs were too preoccupied with the loss of their cousin Ned and their Father Jeff. Both were lured away a few nights ago by Mr. Farmer's eldest son. Neither have ever returned. The pigs, however, recalled how their last lunch had a distinct flavor that reminded them of their relatives for some reason.
But why ponder too much on things, eh? Wallow. Wallow in the mud.
Andre Mischa Cleofe
Cathy delos Santos