By | 8 June 2020

Passing by the quiet morning street on June 4th, in one shop there were three young hogs lying dead, streaked in their own blood next to the crimson family shrine, the last of the incense burned to the base.

One corpse was splayed, split to the spine, as the butcher stripped and carved his remains, heavy eyebrows knit in deep focus as strips of moist flesh came away, the disappearance timed and deliberate, to re-appear under a mild orange sweet and sour glaze, or the roast crispness of siu yuhk on cotton-white rice, gardened by verdant, steamed choi sum.

Their deaths were for public consumption, but since most never saw the massacre, the squeals of agitation, the throes of agony, the desperation of the sacrifice, the meat, to most, remained un-tinged by bitterness, only a curious absence.

Further on, at the curb of the sidewalk, a small, grey mouse, crushed by what she had seen, also lay dead. Her demise provoked consternation among the passersby, for who knows, if left unchecked and exposed, what these vermin will spread!


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