By Matthew Morgan (702 words)

Wilbur, being as intelligent as his namesake but far less likely to need arachnid rescue, understood that the only sane human here, apart from his sister, Jen, and his mom, who ran the Inn, was this young lady, who had been bound foot and hand, most likely for being the canary in the coal mine.

Wilbur knew far too well that porcine syntax allowed for very long sentences that, while not run-ons from a grammatical point of view, would cause diagrammers of his internal monologue to run screaming and make them wish they could diagram the thoughts of human politicians instead. 

What Wilbur also knew was that this young lady needed to be liberated from her bonds, and he was the guy to do it.

Chomp! Chomp! The rope frankly tasted pretty good, though a nice Chianti would have helped. Nothing he had tasted today lived up to the flavor of the human femur he had snagged from the far end of the allegedly empty wing. But despite his food motivation, Wilbur was certain that the flavor of the rope was not the prize here. And sure enough, once the young lady rubbed her ankles  so she could stand, she rubbed feeling back into her wrists and gave him a scritch behind the ears, and for good measure, a nose-to-nose kiss that made him flutter his eyelashes. He had done well.

***

Lucy had no understanding of the situation she had been stupid enough to spy on. As a writer, she thought it was her duty to listen to conversations at nearby tables when she and Paul dined out, or to banter among high-schoolers who had just stepped off their bus in the afternoon. Why not see what was going on among her weekend companions?

Well, she had found out why not. The whole weekend seemed to be a huge cluster f*ck. Or, given the dead phone lines and the impassable road, maybe this was now a cloister f*ck. She was trying hard not to blame Paul for failing to see the red flags that must have surrounded this event like red capes at a bullfight. But he was so busy, and he was trying to give her what she needed creatively. 

She should get down to business.

First of all, she now knew how to handle the Pig Prompt. Whether or not anyone here would believe her, she knew Wilbur was smarter than most of her human companions. Certainly smarter than Charles, even if he had superior firepower. If she survived this mess, she would come visit Jen and Wilbur as often as she could. Eleanor would love him, and Lucy knew animals contributed to strong immune systems in toddlers.

She holed up in her room, door locked and defense mechanisms at the ready, and settled in to create.

She didn’t think she would need to turn in her prompt until far later today, and she wasn’t ready to work on the novel. But ever since Bunny had invoked the Beatles, a song had started percolating in Lucy’s mind. And while she was otherwise tied up, she had come up with the lyrics to her own new tune. She would get her friend Kristin to sing a demo. Again, if she made it home.

She opened her notebook and wrote:

I got an agent
I wrote my book
It’s a cozy thriller with a clever hook

My hopes and dreams
Really came alive
When my agent linked me to the Big Big Five

I’m a novelist
Not just a scribbler
Not just a writer
I’m a novelist

My early lessons
Were full of woe
Professors said
I had far to go

Some penulises
Choose the casting couch
But I never had to 
‘Cause I ain’t no slouch

I’m a novelist
Doing book signings
Hawking my hardbacks
I’m a novelist

I’m a novelist
Going to parties
Counting my royalties
I’m a novelist

She was gearing up to lay down another verse when the clatter of unpickled pig’s feet stopped outside her door, and Wilbur started oinking in menacing tones. Louder, more fervent, and then a man screamed and stumbled away down the hall.

Yeah, a cloister f*ck, Lucy thought.