The Pig Book

The Prince wore a rose-pink velvet suit, bespoke and loved. As The Prince grew, so did his curiosity. An appetite that sought out things The Prince had never seen. Never had. Never tasted. An appetite for MUD. Mud that stained his velvet suit and clung to his ivory teeth. Yellowed tusks grinning and jutting at slop not meant for him. Food his body could not digest.

 A Prince with a crown set atop his head, held there by roots reaching deep into the soil of his soul. No world where The Prince wouldn’t be king, he drank from the long troughs like those around him and he pretended his troubles were the same. But they were not.

His ears shaped like spades; The Prince heard the soft fluttering of powdered wings. He followed the scent of peaches and honey and found himself nuzzled deep in the sweet whispers of woman. Hot cheeked, he drank from their cup until he was woozy and sick, and he found himself lost and drunk.

Growing too big and too old for his rose-pink velvet suit, he traded it for trousers not tailored to him and a mantle dusted in grime. His Nose turned down, sniffing out others dreams and ignoring his own. His head was heavy, dipping so low his crown fell off. The weight of their ways replacing the responsibility of what was meant for him. A crown replaced by a hat. His nose had grown long and dirty rooting in MUD and worms. Worms in his ears and worms in his eyes. Worms in his heart. The Prince traded his crown for a freedom he had never known. Wings that would never get him off the ground. At least until pigs fly.

The End