Do Pigs eat honey, too?
Todd S. Mei
On the Puerko Platte, where the river runs cool, there dwelt furry pink fellows who enjoyed the fruits of the earth.
Playing and snorting, digging and dancing . . . so each day went singing along.
The pink fellows lived untouched by any other kinds of fellows—not flying fellows, not woof-woof fellows, not two-legged fellows. A magical place, there were only pink fellows.
This particular pink fellow played more than any other. He was the best at having fun and spreading fun to all others.
“Fun is not forever,” he would say. “The guts need fuel!”
So he, like all the other pink fellows, feasted daily on spindly grubbits and fuzzy fruzzits that grew near the river.
But life is full of change, and even the river that seems the same is not . . .
On a warm autumn day, when the sun’s rays dazzled and a dry heat dangled down, the little pink fellow went to slake his thirst . . . but was of a sudden swept away by a foamy sleeve of water that rolled down the river.
Hang on, pink fellow! Did anyone see him?