By Sky Hedman (1630 words)

In the movies, the pig has dainty legs and a pink tongue and thinks deep thoughts with his friend the spider. This pig charged down the hall unconcerned with the shouts and pleas of the humans who followed him. He was named for the movie star pig, Wilbur, but his focus was entirely on a strong smell of blood and guts that lured him down the hall with Jen pleading him to stop. He rushed by Margaux, his stiff, coarse hair feeling like a wire brush and tearing the pant leg of her best suit.  

“Wilbur, Wilbur!” Jen called, as the pig ignored her completely, making snorting sounds and dodging Jen’s outstretched arms as he pushed open the swinging door to the unoccupied wing of the hotel. 

Jen, the leash dangling over her arm, shouted over her shoulder at Margaux. “Do you have any raspberry jello mix? That’s his favorite.”

Margaux had barely kept her balance as the duo charged past her. In all her anxiety about the success of this writer’s retreat, she had envisioned having the milieu of a graduate level literature class. She had not prepared for a loose pig in a seedy motel with a hung over brother dissolving into psychosis.

The sounds of the pig chase were muffled as the swinging doors to the hallway closed. Margaux returned to the grand salon to find that everyone was sitting in stunned silence. Pulling herself together with surprising brilliance, she looked at the assembled coven of writers, and said, “This is your first writer’s prompt for the day. We’ll adjourn for an hour and then return here to share each of your writings on the topic “The influence of media on the perception of pigs.” With that, she turned on her heels and headed to Jasper’s room.

Lucy rose from her seat and headed back to her room, unclear about taking the writing assignment seriously. Fumbling with her door key, she stepped inside just as she heard Jen’s loud voice yelling “Bad pig! Bad pig! Give me that bone!” Lucy closed the door behind her. 

As much as Lucy looked forward to a break from being mommy, she found herself missing her little girl and worrying about how Eleanor was doing. It was Saturday, and she had suggested to Paul that he take Eleanor to the park where she could climb monkey bars and slide down the big slide. Lucy had promised herself that she wouldn’t call home over the weekend, imagining herself deep in witty repartee with accomplished writers or dashing out a new piece inspired by the immersion in the beauties of a northwest forest. In fact, Lucy was still trying to figure out this gathering, wondering if it was all a staged writer’s prompt or if there really was a sociopath’s journal intentionally left for the group to find. She had expected specialty cheeses and carefully chosen wines in stemless glassware, not the cold sandwiches looking like they came from a Safeway deli a week ago, and nothing to drink but plastic cups full of forgettable wine. Lucy sat on the edge of her bed, looking out the fingerprint covered window. She was reluctant to lie on the well used quilted bedspread out of caution for human and insect remains with which she might come in contact.

Lucy had intentionally left her cell phone in her purse, powered down. She was challenging herself for this weekend to stay off electronic devices. She had even bought a new journal and an expensive pen to handwrite her inspired words, thinking that the medium would slow her thinking and allow deep thoughts or feelings to emerge.  

Despite that plan, Lucy dug around in her purse, found her cell phone underneath crumpled Kleenex, and turned it on. She looked at the home screen, hoping for messages, some little “Hi mom” video of her daughter or “I love you from your admirer”, but all she saw was the same image of the moon behind high clouds that she had chosen for her home screen last year. “Just a quick call,” she told herself, as she tapped on Paul’s phone number. The display changed to “No network found”. Lucy began to cry. 

Paul’s gift to her, this Writer’s retreat, was a surprise. Weekends were their only time together, and even then, Paul was usually busy playing pickle ball with his friends or watching football. Paul’s father was in real estate, but he was also a connoisseur of wine, so it really made sense for Paul to stop in to visit him on his way home from work and have a drink. Lucy was glad to see him enjoying himself and tried to shoulder the housework so he could relax. Her favorite times were the three of them together, even just watching TV and bouncing the baby on her knee. Paul was as handsome as ever, still had a full head of auburn hair and a broad smile with white teeth. He was a tall guy, something that Eleanor had inherited. The baby was in the top 10% of height charts for her age. It seemed like Paul hadn’t aged at all, and his strong hands still gave good backrubs, for which Lucy was grateful. 

Lucy was self conscious of having put on some weight but hoped that of course she would regain her pixie size over time. She only had a few gray hairs amidst her curly brown tresses. Unlike Paul, she fell sleep early. Waking up in the middle of the night when she could hear the baby fussing in the other room took its toll.

“Eleanor will grow up before you know it,” Lucy’s friends reminded her, and Lucy did relish being able to be home with her daughter, feeding her organic carrots and saving them money by not asking for babysitters, especially since they might not know to use the cloth diapers. Lucy had originally planned to do her writing while the baby was sleeping, so she felt guilty taking a nap too, and promised herself that soon she would get back to writing the long-planned novel.

The phone was still in her hand as Lucy looked out the window, trying to will herself to start on the writing prompt. She found her pen and the notebook under her sweater and coat on the dresser and piled the pillows so she could lean against them as she swung her legs up on the bed. From there she could see the path that she now knew led to the pig owner’s home. She could also see the parking lot, with the same cars that were there this morning. That made sense, since no one could get out of here because of the tree that was down across the road below them. 

Except, there was a new car in the parking lot. It was such a strange one that Lucy was sure she would have noticed it before. It was silver and looked like it was made in a shop class, all flat panels with small windows, very cold and off putting. Right, she remembered. A Tesla Cybertruck. She had seen them occasionally, and assumed that whoever chose it was as cold hearted as the vehicle looked. “Maybe it came from higher up on the hill,” Lucy mused, just as a dark figure ran out of the motel’s front door and unlocked the Tesla’s door. Inside was packed with white containers, as far as Lucy could tell. The driver’s long black hair was all she could see, as the driver closed the car door and noiselessly backed out, pointing the car down the hill.

“I should take a walk outside,” Lucy thought. “Maybe I can get cell phone coverage if I get higher on this mountain.”

Lucy was grateful for her purple all weather coat, since the rain had not yet let up, and the sun hadn’t been out to warm things up. She had let herself out the back door of the wing of rooms where the writers were staying, in the same direction from which the pig had come. What was her name? Well, the pig was Wilbur. And yes, Jen was the pig owner’s name. Lucy had wavered between surprise and relief when Wilbur and Jen had showed up, breaking the tension that hung in the air of the writers retreat members. It felt good to just walk along the path, slowly winding up through the forest, her steps muted by the carpet of golden pine needles and yellow Big Leaf Maple leaves. Pulling her hood up, Lucy found a good pace for walking, which was also a good pace for sifting through the events and textures of the last 24 hours. The group was hardly friendly, and at time, downright suspicious and guarded. The leader must be planning something big for tonight, since so far today, the only action was a pig running through the lobby with a bone.

That bone, Lucy thought. 

***

Unbeknownst to Lucy, another figure was on the same path, walking silently, careful to maintain enough distance to see Lucy but not to be seen by her. Jane wasn’t sure where Lucy was headed, but she needed to find out. “To hell with the writing prompt,” Jane thought. “If Lucy walks into our trap, it will be her fault. This is our livelihood, and we aren’t going to let her mess up our plans.”

Ahead, Jane watched as Lucy stood at a fork in the path. There were no signs to point the way. Only the path to the left looked well worn. That one must obviously be Jen’s home. Did Lucy realize what she would be walking into if she turned right?