moonbird
02-23-2011, 05:24 PM
While the others wandered aimlessly around the cell, Lyra sat quietly in a corner, a thoughtful expression on her face, reminiscing about the day of her birth. The memories played on the backs of her eyelids like a silent movie. Every so often she would smile, remembering some pleasant sensation of her past, the sweet, milky smell of her mother or the calming way the darkness wrapped around their bodies, hugging them like a blanket. She could still feel her mother's soft lips on her forehead, and the way she had whispered her name over and over, so tenderly, Lyra, Lyra...
Nearby sat a girl as perfectly opposite as could be from the peaceful, introspective Lyra, and her name was Scribbles. She lay sprawled out on her back with her feet pressed against the wall, using a saliva-moistened finger to carefully trace the outlines of her toes onto the dusty brick. On her face was an amused little smile, and with the hand that was not busy creating her latest artistic masterpiece she traced little circles on her cheek, as was her habit when she was distracted.
The two girls were as best of friends as any, completely inseparable. To the other girls in their cell, there was never just Lyra or just Scribbles; they were always Lyra-and-Scribbles, Scribbles-and-Lyra. In fact, it was Lyra who had named Scribbles, who, like most of the girls, could not remember the name her mother had given her. Lyra was a rare exception. She had not had to name herself.
From above their heads there came a deep, slow rumbling. Any other sound of its low volume level would have been drowned out by the constant chattering of high, feminine voices. But the girls' ears had become finely-tuned to recognize this particular pitch of bass vibrations, and to them it meant only one thing: Food.
In half a second, there was not a single girl still squatting on the ground. There was a sort of stampede as everyone pushed in the same direction, panicked with desperation. Lyra and Scribbles, who had been sitting close to the trough, were among the first to reach it, and had reserved very good spots for themselves, right by the faucet. Their hands gripped the metal rim of the trough tightly, tense with anticipation. Their faces were grave.
The rumbling was growing steadily louder, and the big pipes running down the wall began to shake and clatter. Not a word was spoken as everyone listened to the familiar sound, many with heads cocked slightly, like wolves listening for prey.
Abruptly, the rumbling stopped.
There was a moment of complete silence and stillness as everyone stared wide-eyed at the faucet. It seemed to hesitate, but then, finally, it released its load.
There was a wet splat as the first heavy glob hit the metal bottom of the trough. It was quickly followed by another blob of goo, and then the individual drops were replaced by the torrent of a raging river. The huge trough was quickly filled with sticky, greenish-brown goo.
The girls let out a high, slightly feral cry of glee and dug in. They sunk their hands into the trough and began shoveling heaping handfuls of chunky slop. In seconds their faces were coated in slime from their noses to their chins, dripping off in sticky globs.
The cell was quickly filled with the sort of grunts, snorts, and sighs that could only be made by a mob of gluttonous animals greedily engorging themselves. Lyra snatched a chunk of meat, swallowed it whole, choked for a moment or two, and then reached for another. But Scribbles go to if first, snatching it and attempting to shove it down her throat. Lyra screamed with hysterical fury and lunged for the handful of slimy meat halfway into her best friend's mouth. For a few moments the two girls battled ferociously over the chunk, both bawling like screech owls and attempting to scratch at each other's faces with short-bitten fingernails, before finally it split in half, and they each crammed their share in their mouth and returned to digging through the gooey trough.
As they gorged themselves in a lake of revolting slop, their faces stretched taut with deliriously happy smiles, there was little difference between fifty or so human girls and a sty of pigs, blindly glutting themselves, blissfully unaware they were slowly sealing their own fates a little more tightly with every bite.
And the strange thing was, no one felt the least bit hungry.
It felt too soon that the huge trough had been emptied. The girls occupied themselves licking clean its metal sides. Once every green clump of slop had been consumed, they paired up and groomed each other. Lyra and Scribbles took turns licking the slime off the other's cheeks. They sucked on their fingertips distractedly, as if grieving for the food which was now gone. Scribbles sadly traced circles on her cheeks and sighed.
Several girls burped loudly. There was a second, less enthusiastic stampede for the water spigots, and then they all lay down in the piles of slowly rotting alfalfa scattered around the floor. For the next few hours, they slept off their heavy meal. Lyra and Scribbles napped in curled-up fetal positions, their foreheads touching gently. They no longer remembered their battle over the chunk of meat. They were once again best friends, two inseperable halves of a whole. They often said that nothing could ever come between them. There was only one exception to their vow of friendship that simply went without saying.
It was, of course, the slop trough.
Nearby sat a girl as perfectly opposite as could be from the peaceful, introspective Lyra, and her name was Scribbles. She lay sprawled out on her back with her feet pressed against the wall, using a saliva-moistened finger to carefully trace the outlines of her toes onto the dusty brick. On her face was an amused little smile, and with the hand that was not busy creating her latest artistic masterpiece she traced little circles on her cheek, as was her habit when she was distracted.
The two girls were as best of friends as any, completely inseparable. To the other girls in their cell, there was never just Lyra or just Scribbles; they were always Lyra-and-Scribbles, Scribbles-and-Lyra. In fact, it was Lyra who had named Scribbles, who, like most of the girls, could not remember the name her mother had given her. Lyra was a rare exception. She had not had to name herself.
From above their heads there came a deep, slow rumbling. Any other sound of its low volume level would have been drowned out by the constant chattering of high, feminine voices. But the girls' ears had become finely-tuned to recognize this particular pitch of bass vibrations, and to them it meant only one thing: Food.
In half a second, there was not a single girl still squatting on the ground. There was a sort of stampede as everyone pushed in the same direction, panicked with desperation. Lyra and Scribbles, who had been sitting close to the trough, were among the first to reach it, and had reserved very good spots for themselves, right by the faucet. Their hands gripped the metal rim of the trough tightly, tense with anticipation. Their faces were grave.
The rumbling was growing steadily louder, and the big pipes running down the wall began to shake and clatter. Not a word was spoken as everyone listened to the familiar sound, many with heads cocked slightly, like wolves listening for prey.
Abruptly, the rumbling stopped.
There was a moment of complete silence and stillness as everyone stared wide-eyed at the faucet. It seemed to hesitate, but then, finally, it released its load.
There was a wet splat as the first heavy glob hit the metal bottom of the trough. It was quickly followed by another blob of goo, and then the individual drops were replaced by the torrent of a raging river. The huge trough was quickly filled with sticky, greenish-brown goo.
The girls let out a high, slightly feral cry of glee and dug in. They sunk their hands into the trough and began shoveling heaping handfuls of chunky slop. In seconds their faces were coated in slime from their noses to their chins, dripping off in sticky globs.
The cell was quickly filled with the sort of grunts, snorts, and sighs that could only be made by a mob of gluttonous animals greedily engorging themselves. Lyra snatched a chunk of meat, swallowed it whole, choked for a moment or two, and then reached for another. But Scribbles go to if first, snatching it and attempting to shove it down her throat. Lyra screamed with hysterical fury and lunged for the handful of slimy meat halfway into her best friend's mouth. For a few moments the two girls battled ferociously over the chunk, both bawling like screech owls and attempting to scratch at each other's faces with short-bitten fingernails, before finally it split in half, and they each crammed their share in their mouth and returned to digging through the gooey trough.
As they gorged themselves in a lake of revolting slop, their faces stretched taut with deliriously happy smiles, there was little difference between fifty or so human girls and a sty of pigs, blindly glutting themselves, blissfully unaware they were slowly sealing their own fates a little more tightly with every bite.
And the strange thing was, no one felt the least bit hungry.
It felt too soon that the huge trough had been emptied. The girls occupied themselves licking clean its metal sides. Once every green clump of slop had been consumed, they paired up and groomed each other. Lyra and Scribbles took turns licking the slime off the other's cheeks. They sucked on their fingertips distractedly, as if grieving for the food which was now gone. Scribbles sadly traced circles on her cheeks and sighed.
Several girls burped loudly. There was a second, less enthusiastic stampede for the water spigots, and then they all lay down in the piles of slowly rotting alfalfa scattered around the floor. For the next few hours, they slept off their heavy meal. Lyra and Scribbles napped in curled-up fetal positions, their foreheads touching gently. They no longer remembered their battle over the chunk of meat. They were once again best friends, two inseperable halves of a whole. They often said that nothing could ever come between them. There was only one exception to their vow of friendship that simply went without saying.
It was, of course, the slop trough.