The Shed
The rumour has spread that we are leaving. Panic has spread through the shed. Normally leaving would mean the end for us. A brief glimpse of daylight then herded into the factory where we would only come out packaged, not necessarily body intact, to supermarkets across the land.
I’d heard it said that in the factory we’d be hung up by our feet on a moving line, our limbs flaying in terror. Our throats would be cut and if we were lucky would already be dead by the time we were dunked in the boiling tank to rid us of what hair we had. If we were leaving, then this would be our fate.
But the rumour is that we are being moved rather than leaving, moved to a place with more room, so that we would be able to walk around and avoid those stiff legs. The reason for this move? Complaints about our living conditions? Na, apparently our meat will be tastier if we live a more natural life and, get this, we are to be allowed to live longer and not be fattened up so quickly. Okay, this is better for us, but ultimately the end is the same – slit, scald, package.
Oh! How things have changed. We used to be an intelligent species, bringing up families in our own homes but something went wrong. It happened before my time but it was our fault. In those days we were the masters and they the food or the laboratory experiment. But they turned on us, took over in their mass produced numbers, broke out and soon the door shut on the backs of human kind and now animals rule.
As we huddle in this confined space, limbs unable to support our weight, we cry. But no one hears. The neighbour to the side of me lies dead in the stink of the urine drenched floor. It is already too late for him. The rumour about the move may be my last chance of escape. If I can hold on a little longer, when the time comes I will make a run for it. I want to see what the sun looks like, smell the air and feel if on my face. I rally my fellow inmates, tell them of my plan. Today, maybe freedom will come today.
The rumour has spread that we are leaving. Panic has spread through the shed. Normally leaving would mean the end for us. A brief glimpse of daylight then herded into the factory where we would only come out packaged, not necessarily body intact, to supermarkets across the land.
I’d heard it said that in the factory we’d be hung up by our feet on a moving line, our limbs flaying in terror. Our throats would be cut and if we were lucky would already be dead by the time we were dunked in the boiling tank to rid us of what hair we had. If we were leaving, then this would be our fate.
But the rumour is that we are being moved rather than leaving, moved to a place with more room, so that we would be able to walk around and avoid those stiff legs. The reason for this move? Complaints about our living conditions? Na, apparently our meat will be tastier if we live a more natural life and, get this, we are to be allowed to live longer and not be fattened up so quickly. Okay, this is better for us, but ultimately the end is the same – slit, scald, package.
Oh! How things have changed. We used to be an intelligent species, bringing up families in our own homes but something went wrong. It happened before my time but it was our fault. In those days we were the masters and they the food or the laboratory experiment. But they turned on us, took over in their mass produced numbers, broke out and soon the door shut on the backs of human kind and now animals rule.
As we huddle in this confined space, limbs unable to support our weight, we cry. But no one hears. The neighbour to the side of me lies dead in the stink of the urine drenched floor. It is already too late for him. The rumour about the move may be my last chance of escape. If I can hold on a little longer, when the time comes I will make a run for it. I want to see what the sun looks like, smell the air and feel if on my face. I rally my fellow inmates, tell them of my plan. Today, maybe freedom will come today.
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