/lit/ - Literature

>>13482184
If you aren't happy with it, you're more than welcome to start Nixonposting, as I intend to do. Here's one to start your collection.

I was raised in the Society of Friends and of course there were certain obligations for a boy brought up in that faith. On our Yorba Linda ranch I was expected to release the hens from their hatch and collect their eggs in the morning. I remember they were mostly Wyandottes and Sebrites with that delicate spidery pattern to the feathers. One winter, before daybreak, I could here from a thousand yards out an unspeakable din of crows and almost human-sounding screams. I proceeded mechanically, ran up, threw open the door of the coop to find a pair of foxes mutually goring a fat hen named Dina. Dina was docile. She never put up much of a fight even when I would pull the eggs right out from under her. I remember thinking: "Dina doesn't deserve this." But there was nothing I could do. Most of the others were already dying or frozen in poses of blind animal panic. The impasto of blood, shit and feathers on the floor reminds me years later of Rembrandt's painterly style. I recall to this day the entire scene. The foxes looked bored and crazed at the same time, as if they themselves were surprised at how easy it was to kill nearly forty chickens. They regarded me with neither fear nor animus: they knew I could do nothing. Worst of all was the sound of Dina's cries attenuating as the sound of her ripping tissue grew to its final snap. Those chickens that did survive were never the same. It would not be an abuse of words to say that they were traumatized. I could see in their glances, and in the circumspect way they treated me thereafter, that I had failed them."