Flowers For Lambs
At the cockerels call, Ben woke, shot up, stretched his arms to the sky and yawned. The sky was splattered with orange and pink clouds, the sun was low, it was a perfect day to chase chickens and cuddle lambs. Opening the window, the cold spring air shuddered through his body.
He tossed on his dressing gown and rushed downstairs, enchanted by the fumes of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs. His mother had just placed his plate on the table. Gulping down his eggs, he barely noticed the postman knocking on the door. His mother answered and was given a large paper package. ‘Ben, can you take this to your dad? I’ve got to let the cows out. He’s with the chickens.’ He wolfed down his food and dressed in his denim overalls and plaid shirt. His mum tied his laces for him. He plucked daisies and buttercups in the cow fields, admired his collection and sighed. His breath sparkled in the morning sun as droplets hugged the flowers. The miniscule beads melted onto his hand, leaving a glossy glisten on the petals. The buttercups glowed like the honey his mother got from the market. The daisies would blend perfectly into the lamb’s cloudy fluff. Delicately, he put them in his pocket, he’d find 90C and adorn it with flowers. He passed the snoozing pigs, though a few of the piglets were up early and oinked cheerily as he passed. He oinked back, “Morning piggies!” There weren’t as many lambs in the field as there had been before. They must be sleeping with their mums. At the end of the field lay a lonely lamb. It shivered, panted and sprawled out. As Tim edged closer, it bolted up and darted to him. It gnawed at his denim overalls, bleating urgently. “I’ll be back to chat later, little one,” he said, “I have to give this parcel to dad.” The lamb tugged feverishly at his overalls and almost tripped him over. He tried to run, but the lamb held on. He fell and dropped the parcel. The lamb squirmed back. Ben shoved it. It bit his hand. He shrieked and the lamb ran off. He scrambled up, reached into his pocket and removed the clump of squished flowers. Disappointed, he placed the flowers on the ground, and picked up the parcel. Whatever was in there rattled, but didn’t seem broken. With slumped shoulders, he went on to find his father. At the chicken coops, he called out for his father, but only the chickens answered. In every coop he called for his father. A shrill screech pierced the air. It came from that barn, and he wasn’t allowed in that barn. The door was a tall, thick chunk of metal, the edges wrapped in flicks of mud and grime. It was ajar. Creeping forward, he heard water filling a bucket inside. Light and heat burned through the gap. Wires and chains hung from the walls. In the corner, there was a large open sink, two copper taps loomed above, the spouts covered in a black crust. A figure poured a dark, syrupy, liquid into the sink. Next to it, a big metal machine and black furnace. At the back, an array of sharp tools sat tentatively above a large concrete slab. The man chucked the bucket on the floor. Five chains dropped from the ceiling, where five lambs hung from their feet. The man approached the lamb nearest the door; its ear tag read 90C. Frozen in terror, black blood dripped from its little tongue into a bucket below The man came over to the lamb and shook it. Satisfied, he emptied the bucket in the sink. Dropping the bucket, he stepped to the back of the barn and picked up a small knife. Gathering the lamb’s front legs and holding them tight, he slit its stomach. The skin split. He pushed his knife under the skin. Over its muscle. Chunks of wool, skin and fat fell. A thin sheet of muscle draped over the lamb’s body, jewelled with beads of blood. He gathered the leftovers and put them in the machine. He unhooked the lamb, picked up the bucket, and went to the concrete counter. Slapping the lamb on the counter he took a wide, thick, knife and hacked at the lamb’s legs. Four snaps later and the lamb was left with shattered stubs. He tossed the legs in the bucket. The man flipped the lamb over and struck its neck. The head toppled onto the floor, rolled, stopped, and faced the door. It held Ben’s stare. If he let go, he wouldn’t notice there wasn’t a body attached to it. The man grunted, grabbed the head, and flung it into the machine. The man picked up a long, slim knife and pierced the stomach of the lamb, dragged out its guts, pushed them over the counter. He cracked open the chest, removed the heart and lungs; its body hollow like a cage. The man picked up the bucket and went over to the machine. He tipped the bowels, they mingled and merged, forming a gritty, rosy paste, squirming into the bucket below. The machine struggled. The man reached into the container and took out the skull. He placed it on the work bench, grabbed a hammer and beat it. One heavy blow was enough to split it into tiny pieces. Brain and eye gunk oozed onto the bench, the man scooped it up and dropped it in the grinder.Tears tumbled onto the parcel. A few more grinds and the slop was finished. He returned to the counter, pulled the bones back together, and inserted another knife. He sculpted the muscle into thin slices and positioned them in a pile. He whittled away the meat until only a few lumps were stuck on the bones. The carcass was flung into the machine. Ben stood, watching his father mutilate the lambs. Each one sliced, slammed, and squished into paste. When only a pile of meat slivers where left, his father took the buckets of remains out through the back door. He came round to the front and saw Ben. He gently put the buckets down and took a step towards his son. Through the gap in the door, he spotted the bloodied concrete slab. ‘You’re not meant to be here. Is that… Is that a package for me? Thank you for bringing it.’ Ben’s eyes were set on the buckets, his skin dull, his curly hair damp, sticking to his temples. Taking the parcel, the juices on his gloves stained the brown paper. ‘Is it for the lambs?’ Tim asked, still fixated on the buckets. His father’s lips tightened, the parcel crumpled in his grip. His mouth flapped around, eyes urgently searched for an escape. The sun rose higher, rays penetrating the glowing rosy goo in the buckets. ‘Why don’t you go and help your mother with the cows? I’m sure she could use your help.’ A breeze whipped around Tim, he swung with it. His father took off his gloves and wiped away the tears on Tim’s cheeks. Tim studied the glove. Fresh splotches of iridescent slime vaguely masked the deep maroon stains of lambs before. ‘Why don’t we talk about this later? After you’ve helped your mother?’ His father searched Tim’s face. A sniffle escaped Tim as he nodded and brushed his father’s hand off his face. Tim’s father stood, Tim drifted back to the coops. As he left the coops the breeze whirled round him, looped round his legs and arms and kept his head afloat. They stopped at the sheep field. Every sheep turned to him. The shivering lonely lamb moseyed over to him and plonked by his feet. Jaw slack, fresh tears sank onto the lamb’s face. It jumped back, flailed around, and ran. Staggering through, the sheep nudged back and fashioned an aisle for him. Their heads followed him through. Exiting the field, the pigs oinked heartlessly. Each pig went to the fence and grunted, hurled their heads up and down and jeered at him for his naivety. As Ben walked faster, they jumped with his steps, spattering mud over his clothes. Their smiles encrusted in mud. Snouts stuck through the wire fence sucking in the scent of fresh slop. At the end of the pig pens, he turned back. The pigs raced towards his father at the top of the pens as he poured the bucket waste into the troughs. They slurped and chomped uncontrollably. Tim keeled over and heaved out his breakfast, flecks of bacon intact.
Zoe Rees is a Drama & Creative Writing student at LJMU.
She says, 'I've never written gore before, so I thought I'd give it a shot.'
