La Petite Piggy
by
Paula Stevens
by
Paula Stevens
CONTEST
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Hail Mary, full of Grace..."
My throat and lungs felt as though on fire, and indeed, the air was no longer oxygen, but ash
and gun powder. But though it pained me, I could not end without sending the words to
whatever messenger would hear and take them. "...Pray for me. Your humble servant."
"Servant? Ha! No, my friend, you are a soldier."
Had my messenger come? Was this the angel who would send word to Peter at the Gates? I
could not see him, and my eyes were confused by shadow puppetry, the tree branches playing
in the moonlight. I tried to sit up on my elbows to see better, but all I managed was to lift my
head. There was no angelic light, as I'd heard tell, only a familiar shadow with a musket at
its side. "Pierre, Pierre is that you? Did we do it Pierre? Did we push them back?"
I sensed him kneel beside me. He stroked my hair as he spoke, as though putting a child to
sleep, "Damn the English. They'll never have it...I'll not let them, even though I die in the
doing."
An odd sentiment, I thought, as I lay there, not him, ever closer to the pearly gates. Pearly,
yes, like the face of Tara. Ah, Tara. I could almost hear her melodic voice, a cool,
cleansing wind from across the sea. What was singed on my inner eye was not the fires from
the battlefield, but the soft radiance of her wild red hair. I could see it, flickering in the salty
moist breeze. There she was, as always, a beacon overlooking the rocky shoreline -- her
favorite heaven, she said -- but now, holding their first child, a child whose curious little
feet, he would never kiss. Phineas, they decided, after her grandfather. Her letters teased
that he looked so much like his daddy, that he already showed signs of a prevalent cleft in his
chin. Letters. So much left to say to her, to little Phineas, a whole life left to say...
"Pierre, please, you must write this down, tell her --"
"No, Bram. You do not understand. Your fight is not over. This is our land, we have yet to
take it."
My visions left me. All I heard was 'no,' echoing like the heavens declaring their verdict. He
was right -- what could I say anyway?
"No, I will not deliver a message," he went on, "but, my eternal friend, I will deliver you."
I felt a sharp pain in my neck and more life drain out of me. I summoned as much will and
strength as I could to defy my verdict.
"Drink this, mon beaute.
I did not know what was happening, but he added, "It will make you strong again. And then
you can go find your Tara and do what you will."
And so I drank. And the moon disappeared.
'I hope they all grow snouts and die!'
She said it under her breath, but in the quiet of the glossy street, her voice surprised her. It
seemed to be not her voice at all, and the fear of the disembodied voice caused her heart to
beat a little faster. She was being silly, she knew, but she made herself turn around to check
the street behind her. Little was visible in the darkness but tree canopies, highlighted by the
flood of lights from the football field a few blocks beyond. She stood listening for a moment
to the loudspeaker and the occasional bursts of cheers. All those people cheering in the
distance had seen her and had laughed. She choked back sobs and continued her way home,
trying to not think about it.
But it wasn't fair! It had been her idea in the first place, this student-sponsored charity, but
somehow they took it and fashioned a weapon to spite her. She had suggested some kind of
student art auction. Perhaps the student government could even convince some practiced
local painters and craftspeople to donate their work. But who wanted to buy a crappy
watercolor? No, we could make a lot more money if we donated admission to a football
game. And we can insure more students attend if we do something really spectacular for
half-time. The requirement was 'spectacular.' And the result was the kiss-the-pig contest.
The contest, to give it a loose definition, was itself a school-wide part of the fundraising
effort. The student lobby was made host to seven mason jars, each labeled with a different
name: three jocks, three princesses, and to her profound dismay, one Tara Peterson. Little by
little the jars filled up with coins, and in the case of Tara's jar, dollar bills. By the end of the
week, popularity had a new definition and it wasn't about boobs or MVP's; it was about
humiliation. Tara's jar had collected double the amount of the runner-up. Tara had won the
kiss-the-pig contest.
She hoped to be conveniently missing during the game, but her fate was determined in the
fourth grade when she took up the clarinet. Seven years later, that clarinet would require her
to be in the pep band at all games. Half-time came and she was called by loudspeaker to the
field. Her face flushed, and the rest was a blur of whistles, applause, and laughter,
punctuated by taunts from the players on the sidelines: 'Hey Peterson, how does it feel to get
your first kiss?' 'Slip it the tongue, Peckerson!'
She was a block from home, and her tears were now in full force.
"...all just, just...beasts!"
"Yes, they are, but then... so are you. "
The voice had come from behind her. She hadn't noticed him leaning on her favorite climbing
tree when she passed it, but there he was: a tall shadow, now pushing off the tree and
sauntering toward her. He came into the light from her front porch, and she saw that he was
older than her, a college student maybe, clean-shaven, and with tousled ash brown hair that
fell into his eyes a bit. She stood staring at him, like a deer waiting for an apple but ready to
pounce away at the least hint of danger.
"Ah, Tara, my beautiful girl, Tara." Her name sounded like an exotic land on his tongue and
she let it lull her. An apple it would be, then. "What's this? Tears?" He said it with a bit of a
smile, made all the more endearing by the dimples it created in his cheeks. And, oh, such a
charming indentation in his chin! She had the sudden urge to reach out and touch that Rodin
chin, but his eyes had paralyzed her. In one world, she stood planted on the sidewalk; in
another world, she was ecstatically drowning in those blinking pools of Caribbean blue. And
all the while, he was touching her face, brushing her tears onto his finger, and putting his
finger to his mouth.
"Salt. Salt has never cured a single woe. You do not need to cry...ma petite piggy."
...To be continued...
(1,187 words)
My throat and lungs felt as though on fire, and indeed, the air was no longer oxygen, but ash
and gun powder. But though it pained me, I could not end without sending the words to
whatever messenger would hear and take them. "...Pray for me. Your humble servant."
"Servant? Ha! No, my friend, you are a soldier."
Had my messenger come? Was this the angel who would send word to Peter at the Gates? I
could not see him, and my eyes were confused by shadow puppetry, the tree branches playing
in the moonlight. I tried to sit up on my elbows to see better, but all I managed was to lift my
head. There was no angelic light, as I'd heard tell, only a familiar shadow with a musket at
its side. "Pierre, Pierre is that you? Did we do it Pierre? Did we push them back?"
I sensed him kneel beside me. He stroked my hair as he spoke, as though putting a child to
sleep, "Damn the English. They'll never have it...I'll not let them, even though I die in the
doing."
An odd sentiment, I thought, as I lay there, not him, ever closer to the pearly gates. Pearly,
yes, like the face of Tara. Ah, Tara. I could almost hear her melodic voice, a cool,
cleansing wind from across the sea. What was singed on my inner eye was not the fires from
the battlefield, but the soft radiance of her wild red hair. I could see it, flickering in the salty
moist breeze. There she was, as always, a beacon overlooking the rocky shoreline -- her
favorite heaven, she said -- but now, holding their first child, a child whose curious little
feet, he would never kiss. Phineas, they decided, after her grandfather. Her letters teased
that he looked so much like his daddy, that he already showed signs of a prevalent cleft in his
chin. Letters. So much left to say to her, to little Phineas, a whole life left to say...
"Pierre, please, you must write this down, tell her --"
"No, Bram. You do not understand. Your fight is not over. This is our land, we have yet to
take it."
My visions left me. All I heard was 'no,' echoing like the heavens declaring their verdict. He
was right -- what could I say anyway?
"No, I will not deliver a message," he went on, "but, my eternal friend, I will deliver you."
I felt a sharp pain in my neck and more life drain out of me. I summoned as much will and
strength as I could to defy my verdict.
"Drink this, mon beaute.
I did not know what was happening, but he added, "It will make you strong again. And then
you can go find your Tara and do what you will."
And so I drank. And the moon disappeared.
'I hope they all grow snouts and die!'
She said it under her breath, but in the quiet of the glossy street, her voice surprised her. It
seemed to be not her voice at all, and the fear of the disembodied voice caused her heart to
beat a little faster. She was being silly, she knew, but she made herself turn around to check
the street behind her. Little was visible in the darkness but tree canopies, highlighted by the
flood of lights from the football field a few blocks beyond. She stood listening for a moment
to the loudspeaker and the occasional bursts of cheers. All those people cheering in the
distance had seen her and had laughed. She choked back sobs and continued her way home,
trying to not think about it.
But it wasn't fair! It had been her idea in the first place, this student-sponsored charity, but
somehow they took it and fashioned a weapon to spite her. She had suggested some kind of
student art auction. Perhaps the student government could even convince some practiced
local painters and craftspeople to donate their work. But who wanted to buy a crappy
watercolor? No, we could make a lot more money if we donated admission to a football
game. And we can insure more students attend if we do something really spectacular for
half-time. The requirement was 'spectacular.' And the result was the kiss-the-pig contest.
The contest, to give it a loose definition, was itself a school-wide part of the fundraising
effort. The student lobby was made host to seven mason jars, each labeled with a different
name: three jocks, three princesses, and to her profound dismay, one Tara Peterson. Little by
little the jars filled up with coins, and in the case of Tara's jar, dollar bills. By the end of the
week, popularity had a new definition and it wasn't about boobs or MVP's; it was about
humiliation. Tara's jar had collected double the amount of the runner-up. Tara had won the
kiss-the-pig contest.
She hoped to be conveniently missing during the game, but her fate was determined in the
fourth grade when she took up the clarinet. Seven years later, that clarinet would require her
to be in the pep band at all games. Half-time came and she was called by loudspeaker to the
field. Her face flushed, and the rest was a blur of whistles, applause, and laughter,
punctuated by taunts from the players on the sidelines: 'Hey Peterson, how does it feel to get
your first kiss?' 'Slip it the tongue, Peckerson!'
She was a block from home, and her tears were now in full force.
"...all just, just...beasts!"
"Yes, they are, but then... so are you. "
The voice had come from behind her. She hadn't noticed him leaning on her favorite climbing
tree when she passed it, but there he was: a tall shadow, now pushing off the tree and
sauntering toward her. He came into the light from her front porch, and she saw that he was
older than her, a college student maybe, clean-shaven, and with tousled ash brown hair that
fell into his eyes a bit. She stood staring at him, like a deer waiting for an apple but ready to
pounce away at the least hint of danger.
"Ah, Tara, my beautiful girl, Tara." Her name sounded like an exotic land on his tongue and
she let it lull her. An apple it would be, then. "What's this? Tears?" He said it with a bit of a
smile, made all the more endearing by the dimples it created in his cheeks. And, oh, such a
charming indentation in his chin! She had the sudden urge to reach out and touch that Rodin
chin, but his eyes had paralyzed her. In one world, she stood planted on the sidewalk; in
another world, she was ecstatically drowning in those blinking pools of Caribbean blue. And
all the while, he was touching her face, brushing her tears onto his finger, and putting his
finger to his mouth.
"Salt. Salt has never cured a single woe. You do not need to cry...ma petite piggy."
...To be continued...
(1,187 words)