Short Poem: 150 words
Last night, in dreams, I dreamt I was the slaughterhouse man. Sheep were bleating passively; no clue what was in store–one by one, into the chute, following friends to the killing floor. I was covered in gore. Lifting the pneumatic piston to their foreheads; I’d be covered more.
I disliked the monotony, but didn’t mind the task: fire the bolt, hear the hiss, the sheep stares back, eyes lifeless. They slump down to the floor, then get piled with the last.
I woke to find myself no longer in the pen where I had slept. I was in the chute with the rest; only one sheep separated me from the man from my dream. I was next. I watched my friend splatter red across his chest and apathetically moved forward, to embrace his gift upon my forehead. That cold metal kiss, whispering the quiet hiss, of following friends to death.
These are little exercises I do occasionally, where I pick a topic and a word count and see what comes out.
Here’s another version, 100 words this time:
I dream I am the slaughterhouse man. Bleating, clueless to what the end of the chute bore, one by one, sheep follow friends to the killing floor. Pneumatic piston hissing; my smock: covered in gore.
Unbothered by slaughter, repetition dulls the mind. Fire the bolt, slumping down, they stare with lifeless eyes.
Yawning, I repeat.
Awaking in the chute, not the pen where I sleep, one sheep separates me and the man from my slaughterhouse dreams. Gore splatters his chest. His gift rests between my eyes. The metal will hiss and following friends, Death will greet me with a sigh.
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