Night of the Weasels

For my new friends who might want to peruse some of my musings, I'll be reposting some of writings here on the blog, making it easier to view.

Back in 2010, I had to write a spontaneous story for a creative writing exercise in English Comp I, and I wrote about it on my Facebook page. This is what came out. Enjoy.

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Today we had to do a spontaneous writing exercise in English. As we wrote, she gave us things to put into the story and write around, like keys, water, a cup or mug of some kind, and a house. We had to integrate all these things on the fly, and then she told us how each was symbolic of our current life situation, our view of love, knowledge, the afterlife, etc.

I asked her if she was sure about that, because mine involved weasels, pigs and bacon.

For your reading pleasure:

Night of the Weasels

It was humid. I was crouched behind the water trough, fighting the hordes of midsummer mosquitoes that were clamoring for my blood. I tried to quiet my breathing, which wasn't hard, considering the smell of mud, manure and mold.

At least I had my thermos, which was still roughly half full of cider. I felt the burn cross my lips and spread like fire down my throat. After peering over the trough again, just to verify I wasn't crazy, I took another long drink.

The water of the trough rippled in the breeze, filling my nostrils with the scent of wet metal and mildew. My legs were starting to go numb from crouching in the mud next to the fence. My car keys were in my front pocket, slowly digging into my thigh.

The weasels, decorated with what for all the world appeared to be warpaint, made their way beyond the farmhouse. They were rapidly closing on the barn and pigsties, and they appeared to be carrying rope and stakes. The small predators disappeared into the darkness of the pigpens. After perhaps a minute, during which I almost forgot to breathe again, wild hoots and hollers erupted from the pens, followed by terrified squealing. The weasels reappeared in the barnyard, dragging a trussed and horrified hog behind them.

For what seemed an eternity, I watched the weasels gather wood and build their bonfire. It was mesmerizing and surreal, and I questioned my mental health more than once. I pinched myself twice to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Once the fire was blazing, the pig was spitted and roasted alive, as the weasels danced wildly around in circles. For what seemed like hours longer, they danced with wild abandon under the moon, shaking fists full of bacon at the sky.

I was left to my own devices, cramped, more than slightly drunk and badly in need of therapy. Maybe they make a pill, because I don't think the cider is strong enough.

In the predawn hours, they doused the flames, and they scurried away as covertly as they had appeared.