Meat Factory
You can smell it. That’s the worst thing. Worse than the sights of stretched, cured skin or of bodies being fed into the grinder. Worse than the sound of bone snapping and crunching or of children and men sobbing in the pens. It’s the smell that really gets to you in this place, not of rotting flesh but of fresh, treated and lovely for the consumer.
No matter how hard you look, it doesn’t actually seem there’s a door to this place. There must be some sort of way in because you weren’t always here but, perhaps more distressingly, there doesn’t seem to be a way out. And every step you take from where you started takes you past further horrors. A pile of bodies waiting to be tossed into the hungry grinder. Men and women chained like cattle in a line to have their throats slit. Some weep, some scream but others are ghostly silent as the grave, dead already.
There’s another smell in this place, just as strong as the flesh. Saltwater.
Tears.
Notations & Nihilism 
Yes, this smell we know all too well; the smell of sorrows.
April 17, 2011 at 3:18 pm
I like the idea of a world where humans too are being mass produced for slaughter. Where women are raped repeatedly until they become pregnant, nine months later they remove the child, if it’s a girl, she goes off to be a future dairy girl. A boy? Straight to that delicacy of eating baby boy, well still call it veal. Well milk the mother for a year til then do it again.
April 19, 2011 at 11:52 pm