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reathless, she steadies herself against the front door, turns to survey all she’s done. A clear path shoveled through the snow. She realizes she’s smiling, unforced. Her son hoists the head onto a snowman, the ground around him rubbed with snow angels. “Good job, Mom!â€? he calls. She does a little bow. There’s nothing of the past in this moment. No fearful future. Just the truth of clean, right-angles of concrete; the V of winter geese barking overhead; sky, cloudless and shockingly blue; melting snow dripping off the rooine. Her heart, bucking hard inside her chest, reminding her she’s alive.
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/*/,"4*#3&8*/( $0. t #3&8&% */ &6(&/& 03&(0/ JUDGE’S PICK, MICHAEL FAISON, $25
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PHIL A. MCCLELLIN, KUNA
JAMES MCCOLLY, BOISE
SUFFER THE REAPER
STRONGWILLED PIG
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palmed the buckling’s chin, he nuzzled my cheek; his coat stank of oats, urine. I smiled, pulled frost from his beard. The skeletal door clapped the house. Sister sobbed at the window; her breath frosted the glass and she wiped it with ragged white lace. Dad held a hand inside his patched jacket; his eyes heavy, worn. “Stop it,� he said. Then to me, “I’ll be in the barn.� I nodded, slipped a knot around the buckling’s neck. The goat shivered, bleated. I rubbed his nose, kissed his ear. Dad slouched, sighed. “Don’t tarry,� he said, and entered the barn.
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he pig woke to a world askew. His pen had collapsed, so he explored the jumbled farm at will. He saw no other animals, no farmer, no fences. Following the road into town, he found the city awash in rubble and pancaked buildings. The only sound was the soft click of his hooves on the broken road. He wandered the remains for days before he ďŹ nally caught the smell of rotting food, and ravenously ran to the scent. He found an overturned vegetable truck and two sows feeding. Suddenly he understood; this was the dawning of the planet of the pigs.
BOISEweekly | JANUARY 4–10, 2012 | 13