We walked into the backyard. My parents were in the garage; they had rigged a makeshift wooden beam and were in the process of removing the heads from the carcasses of two small, wild pigs my father had caught, the smell of burned pig hair still lingering.
Becky let out a strange, muffled sound that stopped everyone in their tracks, her bike dropped to the ground and she threw up all over it. As my father hosed Becky’s breakfast from her bike, she broke down crying, saying that she wanted to go home, and I knew there would be no more play dates. I was so sad she didn’t get to try the rabbit.
I think of Becky often and wonder if she maybe became an animal rights activist. I, on the other hand, became a foodie.
Share your stories with us. For guidance and inspiration, here are a few other recent entries: about racism, weekend sport, birthday cakes, another road trip, for the birds, no hat, no play, a housewarming party, tales of nippers, growing up on the creek, generational angst, paying with pineapples, magical mermaid pools, lizard friends, nude beaches, music and road trips, curious lifeguards, death and kindness, plus poetry and #metoo on the work site.