Blood in the Woods

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

An isolated farmer in woods revisits the day his wife was killed by a wolf.

The farmer cradled a bundle of firewood in his arms as he gingerly opened the heavywooden door and stamped his black, cracked, leather boots to remove the snow, when suddenly a chicken ran between his legs, into his house and sat nervously on his favorite chair in front of a roaring fire.

The chicken, Sally, he named them all, he only had five chickens, said in a high pitched crackling voice, "I am so cold, please let me stay".

The farmer, a heavy set man in his 50's with a scraggly gray beard, shooed the chicken away from his chair, and sat down. He was not the least bit surprised at the talking chicken. He had been isolated in this house for three months and he had developed an incredibly close relationship to his animals. He was actually very grateful for the company.

"I can be useful! I am very resourceful", Sally clucked, pacing the floor in front of his feet.

Before the farmer had a chance to respond, Sally flew to the kitchen and laid an egg on the edge of an iron frying pan. With her right claw, she dexterously whipped up a delicious, fluffy plate of scrambled eggs. The farmer was quite pleased when Sally served him breakfast, just like his wife used to cook, the fluffy eggs accompanied with savory potatoes and a crispy pork sausage.

As he sat in chair, eating his breakfast, he stared lovingly at his wife's picture on the mantel above the fireplace. Such a sweet girl, why did it have to end so tragically? Her luxurious blond hair glowed around her head like a halo and her beautiful light blue eyes stared back at him lovingly from the picture.

Lost in thought, he was startled when his other four chickens walked into the living room. Sally held the door open with her claw. "They are cold too! Freezing!" Sally clucked nervously, fending off the farmer's disapproving scowl. Sally let the door close and joined her friends warming their feathers by the fire.

A short while later, the black nose of his cow Bess nuzzled the front door open and joined the chickens by the fire. "Why not let all the animals in Sally?", the farmer yelled at the chicken, "Let the whole damn woods in for all I care." The cow and the chickens merely glanced at him discreetly, shocked at his impolite outburst.

The day his wife died, her first and last day on the farm, he had been milking Bess in the barn. He really did not need the milk, but merely an excuse to escape his wife's wild, frantic, exaggerated accusations, "You are a loser, this cabin is no place to raise a child! What were you thinking? This is a God forsaken hole in the woods!" He politely excused himself and left for the barn, finding his cow Bess to be a friendlier companion than his wife at that very moment. A short while later, his dear wife passed the barn with a haughty look and wandered off into the dark, tangled, woods as he continued to pull rhythmically on the teets.

She was right of course, she was always irritatingly right, the lack of sunlight in the small clearing in the woods resulted in stunted, deformed corn, barely good enough for his pig Emma. A carrots growing in the acidic soil resulted in a fetid, black mass when they were pulled out of the ground at harvest time. Even the chickens suffered from the dearth of worms in the mossy topsoil.

But he had to sell his beloved farm by the village after his wife had spent every last dime of his on luxurious dresses and sparkling jewels. He would stride beside her like a proud rooster down the main street, fully aware of the stares of men and women at his golden girl. But her real motive in buying the dresses and jewels was to attend the glamorous balls in the city where she appeared in the doorway, her new evening dress sparkling, her diamond earrings glinting, all eyes upon her as she proceeded to dance the night away with royal princes vertically and horizontally, only to return home to see the farmer's dirt covered hands and his tired, puffy eyes.

It was already lunchtime and the farmer was hungry. "Sally," he bellowed, one of you needs to make me a roast chicken!"

The five chickens clucked nervously in front of the fire, pointing at.each other with an accusatory raised wing. After much discussion, Sally emerged from the group and, standing proudly in front of the farmer's chair, said in a high voice, "You can eat me, I am the oldest, but I am still in good shape. I will be moist and tasty, I promise!" Without hesitation, Sally flew to the kitchen counter and started to pluck her own feathers out with her beak. Her friends assisted her, since it was difficult to reach all the parts, particularly her tail feathers. When Sally was completely plucked clean, her exposed pink flesh glistening in the light, she bravely stepped into the broiler, which the other chickens had already helpfully pre-heated to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Sally saluted the other chickens lined up on the counter and of course the farmer, who stared at the scene in amazement from his favorite chair in the living room. "Remember me my friends, I am sacrificing myself so that you may live, remember me." At that point, the other chickens closed the door to the broiler and Sally could be seen through the window grimacing for a while and bravely clenching her yellow beak together firmly so that she would not scream as her pink skin turned a tasty, light golden brown. The farmer, with a tinge of guilt, ate the chicken. As Sally had promised, she was moist and delicious.

After a brief nap in front of the glowing embers, the farmer awoke to the sound of his pig Emma, asking him if he cared to come up stairs. She was leaning suggestively against the wall of the stairs, her multiple breasts swaying gently, with a come hither look in her tiny round eyes. The farmer shook himself, afraid that he was still dreaming, but he was fully awake and strangely aroused. After following Emma upstairs to the bedroom, he sucked on her many nipples, and not just for the milk, and lay with the pig, the first female he had touched in three months. Despite the time that had passed since his wife's tragic death, he still felt guilty about having sex with another female, sure that his beautiful wife was staring down at him from heaven with a disapproving look for sleeping with a pig. But he needed to be close to some body, and Emma was blessedly quiet after sex, she even refrained fron commenting on his usual sub par sexual performance, he was unnaturally small and she kindly let him finish despite his flacid condition. She also did not demand that he give her the silver necklace like his bitchy, greedy wife, a necklace he bought in town but could scarcely afford. "Of course darling, of course I will give you the necklace, I know you have had your eyes on it for awhile. Of course." As she sat up in bed, her pert breasts naked, he put the silver necklace around her slender neck with a deeply bowed head.

She constantly nagged him, not only in the village on the farm, but also on the day they moved into the cabin, "Bring me more firewood, it is freezing in here," and, after he braved the cold to go to the woodshed, appearing in the front door cradling a bundle of firewood in his arms, she screamed,"Take your boots off you idiot!"

After a heated argument that afternoon, she ran off into the woods, stupid girl. It was her first day in the woods and she obviously did not know the way. The sun set behind the trees but she kept walking, shaking with anger. She was determined to walk straight through the woods to the next village and check into an inn. In the darkening woods, she heard a twig snap. Desperately, she hid behind a large fir tree. She could hear a large animal coming closer and closer, its panting getting louder and louder. All at once, a large black wolf leapt at her. As her arms flailed helplessly against his chest, he ripped out her neck with his bare teeth. The farmer heard the screams and hurried behind her, only to find her dead on the forest floor, her lifeless blue eyes staring up at the stars, her lovely blond hair caked in blood, her precious silver necklace by her side.

"God", the farmer thought, "why can't animals be more civilized?" He put a few more logs on the fire, absorbed in the painful memories of that day, not even following the cackling conversation of the four remaining chickens who celebrated the life of Sally, who died so that they could live. It was his faithful pig Emma who snapped him out of his deep revelry, scrambling on her black hooves into the kitchen as fast as her fat legs would carry her after spotting a large black wolf standing in the front door. The farmer bolted upright and was making a move himself to the kitchen, when the wolf, walking on his hind legs quite comfortably, said, "be not afraid my friend, I have not come here to harm you." The farmer examined the wolf, who in a gesture of peace, handed him his wife's silver necklace. After politely pulling up a chair for the black wolf, the heartbroken farmer gently hung the silver necklace on his wife's picture on the mantel. He kissed her picture gently, his lips pressed softly against the glass.

"Yes, yes, I am deeply sorry," the black wolf apologized to the farmer, anticipating his cold stare. "No, I really, really am..." the wolf insisted, settling into the chair next to the farmer. After the farmer nodded his head in benediction fully accepting his heartfelt apology, the wolf stretched his legs towards the fire so he could warm his large, furry paws.

After discussing the weather, the conversation moved to more weighty topics, such as where to hunt the juiciest rabbits in the forest. After giving the farmer a few tips on the best hunting grounds, the wolf announced, "I am sorry once again, but I am hungry and I must eat you." The farmer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "But when you came in my door, you said you would not harm me," the farmer stated factually. "Yes," replied the wolf, "but that was then and this is now. Besides, all the talk of rabbits has made me hungry." The farmer understood his need and shifted in his chair to face the wolf openly. "I will tell you what, here, have my right arm and see if that does it," the farmer offered generously. The wolf nodded his agreement and waited until the farmer had the opportunity to drain a bottle of whiskey before gnawing on his arm, the farmer staring into the fire and wincing slightly, especially when teeth hit bone. After his right arm was completely eaten off to its socket, the farmer walked to his kitchen, swaying off balance not so much from the whiskey but from the sudden lack of an appendage. After grabbing another bottle of whiskey, he sat back down in his favorite chair and let the wolf finish the job, since he still claimed to be hungry even after the wolf gnawed off his whole right arm.

After a nice nap in the farmer's favorite chair, the wolf awoke to the pleasant sensation of a full stomach and a roaring fire. He looked at the picture of the dear wife, asking her forgiveness for the terrible, brutal, disgusting things he had done to her body that evening in the woods. After feeling tears fall on his hairy cheeks, he looked down and saw to his complete surprise that he was wearing the farmer's black, cracked, blood spattered leather boots.

Submitted: April 13, 2012

© Copyright 2022 Jamie Durvel. All rights reserved.

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