Where did that name come from, anyway? I don’t remember calling myself that. I’ve never thought it was fitting. I’m not even especially big. So it all came down to that day of huffing and puffing and whatnot. I don’t know. It’s all a blur, honestly. Pigs flying everywhere, straw aloft, chaos ensuing and me standing in the center of it, trying to understand what had just happened. That’s when I saw that crazy-ass pig in the doorway of his brick McFuckingMansion, pointing an AR-15 right at my sorry ass. So I’m not ashamed to admit it; I turned tail and ran as fast as I could away from that shithole. I know there are rumors of a cauldron and a chimney and yada yada, and that sick pink dude eating me, but I’m here to tell you that none of that is true. Fake news. These days, I’m not wandering far from this here den in the woods. I have everything I need: privacy, a cool spring, a steady supply of non-dangerous rabbits. I’m not bothering anyone, not asking for anything, just aging in place, you know? My throat’s a little rusty and my breathing slow, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be creeping around this joint, but isn’t that the way of things? I just hope I never see another pig. Not in this life, anyway.
Vivian Wagner lives in New Concord, Ohio, where she teaches English at Muskingum University. She’s the author of Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), The Village (Aldrich Press-Kelsay Books), Making (Origami Poems Project), and Curiosities (Unsolicited Press).