The following excerpt is from Scary Rednecks and Other Inbred Horrors by Weston Ochse and Davis Whitman available for pre-order from Delirium Books until Feb 2006

Sweet Little Piggy
By Weston Ochse

"Stick men, stick men, my little stick men," came the lispy singing from the shadowy corner of the living room.

"She ain't violent, is she?" asked the small woman, pointing toward the figure hunched on the carpet.

"No, my dear. Sweet Little Piggy is as placid and nice as a cool spring day," the old black woman said looking fondly on her granddaughter.

"I don't know..." said the woman, waffling like they all did the first time.

"Come over here and meet the nice lady, Sweet Little Piggy."

The hunched figure stopped its soft singing and froze.

"Grandma says come here," she repeated sternly.

Sweet Little Piggy clambered up and shambled over in a side-to-side sway. She wore a floor-length smock. Once pink, it was now covered with paint smears and pastel marks, proof of her crayon artistry. Her hands and head were the only pieces of skin visible, pure whiteness against the mosaic of childish color. In her arms, she held a large wicker basket of broken crayons, gripped lovingly, like a trophy. The young woman drew back, a hand to her mouth as she saw the figure's face. Paper-white skin was the canvas for a pug nose, two tiny triangular eyes containing tinier red orbs and a poorly corrected clef lip. Tight red curls topped her head like a cherry on a whipped cream desert. The woman stepped back involuntarily, causing Sweet Little Piggy to snort several times.

"Now, now. Don't tease the nice lady. Say hello, my dear. This is Miss Rosie and her daughter, Jenny Mae."

Close now, the woman could see the child stood nearly five feet tall and weighed almost 200 pounds.

Sweet Little Piggy stood smiling back at the woman, a look of childish pleasure on the deformed face. Rosie inhaled sharply as Piggy snorted again.

"There you go. Now, go on back and play some more," said Grandma Fletcher, apparently satisfied at the greeting. To the woman, "My granddaughter is an albino, so she doesn't get out in the sun very much. In fact, if it wasn't for me watchin' these children, she wouldn't have anyone to play with. She may look older, but my Sweet Little Piggy is about as smart as your sweet little daughter. Poor Piggy was shaken too much as a baby."

"But she's so big," said the woman, startling herself.

"Listen, honey," said the old woman changing the subject. "The Women's Center sent you to me. They wouldn't have done that if there'd been any real trouble at my place. Your daughter is gonna do fine here. Granted, this isn't one of those franchise places with fresh paint and them learnin' toys, but there's a lot of love in these walls. Put your trust in Grandma Fletcher."

The old woman's sad eyes embraced the younger in a clutch of warmth as Rosie once again studied the tenement's main room. Faded yellow velvet wallpaper hung in tatters high above the level of inquisitive hands. Below, the wall had been stripped and scrubbed clean, revealing a smooth off-white surface. The furniture was old and worn with decades of use, but appeared sturdy enough for even Grandma Fletcher's large frame. An oval carpet covered the greater part of the wooden floor. Once many colors, the fabric was now a washed-out gray. A pale yellow light came from the far corner, making shadows jump around the edges of its weak nimbus. The overhead light was dark, as were the windows, spray-painted black and draped with dark blue curtains. The only other light was a small table lamp with long maroon tassels dangling from a small brown shade sitting by the end of the couch.

Two other children, a black boy and a white girl, both near her daughter's age, sat semi-transfixed in front of a flickering console television that had seen its best days when disco was new. The children were quiet now, a far cry from their original clamor at Jenny Mae's appearance, but Grandma Fletcher had warned them away, giving her daughter a bit of space to adjust. In the corner, the object of Rosie's earlier concern, sat Sweet Little Piggy, adult sized, but child-like in her sing-song patter as she played with the large basket of broken crayons and stared longingly at the blank wall. Her legs moved frenetically beneath the smock to a private rhythm.

"And you're real sure everything is gonna be alright?" Rosie could barely control the trembling in her voice.

Tears had already moistened her eyes and threatened to burst upon darkly bruised cheeks.

"There, there. Listen to Grandma Fletcher," said the old woman resting a heavy arm around the young lady's shoulders. "I deal with many women from the Center. You ladies have had enough trouble and my job is to make the getting' back to livin' a little easier. You go find yourself a job and before no time, you'll be back on your feet and in charge of yourself. All this stuff that's been happenin'...well, it'll soon be just a bad memory."

"I don't know as to when I'm gonna be able to pay you." The entreating look from the woman's eyes begged not to be hit.

Grandma Fletcher's face softened. "You let me worry about that. Pay me what you can, when you can. The Lord will provide."

Within a minute, young Jenny Mae had been introduced to the two by the TV and joined them watching the adventures of a puppet and a train. Before the Rosie retreated, she left a knapsack containing a red blanket, a small battered box of crayons, some coloring books and a soiled white, stuffed kitten with a lonely glass blue eye.

xxx

Sweet Little Piggy glanced over to the couch where her grandma snored softly. The other children were likewise asleep, each curled around their own stuffed creature. All the lamps were off except the one in the far corner, making the room a comfortable gloom for her tiny, pinched eyes. On the coffee table were three plates, each had pieces of crust and smears of dark brown peanut butter left over from lunch. Sweet Little Piggy stared longingly for a moment, but remembrances of Grandma's complaints about eating too much directed her attention away.

Carrying her basket, she waddled over to the new girl who was sleeping fitfully with small jerks and tight hugs of her one-eyed cat. Sweet Little Piggy squatted and sat the basket down at her side. Her hand reached out, long slender fingers of an artist, and touched the forehead of the sleeping girl. She hummed to herself as images of violence and pain and sex strobed through her mind, each image vivid and real.

Grandma told her it was like TV, but Piggy couldn't watch real TV anymore. Grandma said it was the flickering that made Piggy fall down and do the trembles. But that was okay, because Sweet Little Piggy liked the new kids. They gave her a private TV that only she could watch-even if it was mostly the bad stuff.

She continued humming, greedily accepted the evil flashes from the sleeping child, cataloging them in her mind. Finally, Sweet Little Piggy stood and carried the basket of broken crayons back to the wall. She looked critically at the wallpaper-free surface, studying it like an artist would a canvas. She sunk her hand deep into the basket, came out with a broken red crayon and began to draw. As her hands moved hurriedly across the broad surface, exchanging colors at a frenzied pace, she began to sing, "Stick men, stick men, my little stick men."

xxx

A muffled sound brought Grandma Fletcher from her nap. She glared irritably at her Sweet Little Piggy, thinking it was she who had made the noise, but found her granddaughter sleeping in her corner, an arm curled lovingly around the basket. She sighed and felt her eyes drawn to the wall, and by the multicolored markings and broad swatches of pastel hues, she could tell her granddaughter had been drawing on the walls again.

She couldn't make out the blurry details and silently cursed her eyes, knowing blindness would come too soon. She reminded herself to get some more pine-oil at the store, tomorrow, and lay back hoping to return to her dreams of young men and better times.

The sound came again, this time more insistent. It was knocking from the front door. Grandma Fletcher levered herself up to a sitting position and took inventory of her flock. Her three wards were deep in sleepy land, but Jenny Mae was beginning to stir. The old woman's eyes embraced the figure lovingly. With new ones, she found herself both sad and happy. It was a shame that they had to travel through Hell to get to Grandma Fletcher, but once here, it was God and her that would make everything right again.

"Alright. Alright. I'm coming," she mumbled towards the intrusive knocking.

Grandma Fletcher, with several grunts and a long groan, brought her large frame up and into a standing position. She smoothed the rumpled front of her pale blue housecoat and stepped into her furry slippers, her bulbous knees cracking with age. She shuffled over to the door, a hand on her lower back in an effort to entreat a lifetime of pain away.

"I'm here, just a minute." She glanced through the peephole and then began to disengage the three shiny deadbolts and the heavy chain that secured the stout oaken door. "Back already, dear?" She asked when she saw Rosie."

"Yes, ma'am," said the woman trying to hide an embarrassed grin.

"I thought...I thought somethin' may have happened. No one answered, you know?"

"Happened? What could possibly happen with Grandma Fletcher around? I told you not to worry. We were just nappin' is all. Now tell me, did you find anythin'?"

The woman's face brightened into a beautiful smile that did much to camouflage the bruises. "Yes I did! The hotel the Center sent me too had an opening in their laundry room. They asked me if I had any experience. Ha. All I ever did was wash and iron Dicky's clothes. What's with doing a bunch of strangers' clothes too?" A sparkle danced in her eyes as she finished.

Grandma Fletcher stood back, arms crossed atop huge pillow-sized bosoms, beaming a dentured smile. She enjoyed watching the transformations in her mothers when the women discovered self-esteem again. The simple knowledge that they had skills was, enough sometimes, to get them back on track. The poor woman was so happy, she didn't even realize she had invoked her husband's name.

"Why that's absolutely wonderful, honey," she was going to continue, but paradoxical tears had begun to well up in the woman's eyes. Grandma Fletcher's face softened and she reached out and drew the woman to her. Rosie struggled slightly, but was no match for the older woman's maternal strength. "There, there, what else could possibly be the matter?"

Rosie greedily returned the hug. It had probably been years since she had received one with no expectations, but the small joy was short-lived. Rosie struggled for a moment, then succeeded in pushing herself away as Grandma Fletcher released her. Her face became serious.

"They wouldn't give me any advance. I ain't gonna be able to afford any child-care for two weeks, then maybe me and Jenny Mae can find someone." Her eyes had moved to the floor and she chewed her lip, leaving the unasked plea between them.

"Ahhh, but that's no problem. I'll take care of her for a little while longer. I do it all the time."

It was important for her to make the offer, otherwise all the good of a new job would be swept away. She had expected it, anyway. Nobody would ever give a woman like Rosie an advance. Backwoods. Bruised. They probably thought the woman had done something to deserve the abuse.

Rosie glanced up and began wiping away her tears with the backs of her hands. "God Bless You, Grandma Fletcher."

"He already has, my dear. He already has."

With bolstered confidence, Rosie swept into the room, her blue-flowered skirt catching air. She swung her handbag as if it was lighter somehow.

Grandma Fletcher leaned out into the hall and checked both ways. She thought she saw someone down at the far end, but it was just another dark blur with her old vision. She was on the fifth floor and the security system had stopped working twenty years ago making the place a refuge for junkies so she shut the door hurriedly and with stiff old hands slid the locks into place.

As she turned around to hear more about the woman's new job, she heard the first of Rosie's ear-shattering screams. Grandma Fletcher pressed her back against the door and brought a hand up to her mouth as Rosie let loose scream after scream. The young mother had fallen to her knees facing the wall, both hands to her head, fingers pushing and pulling at her tumble of thick black hair.

The children in front of the television awoke with a start. Two of them sat hugging each other, tears and sobs beginning to rack their bodies as they relived a Mommy in pain, again. Jenny Mae stood transfixed, her thumb firmly planted between tight lips. Her eyes stared blankly towards the wall as rivulets of urine darkened the front of her pink pants and made a path down the inside of her legs.

Sweet Little Piggy struggled to her feet and waddled over to the terrified woman. She began patting Rosie on the shoulder, a kind smile, repeating, "It's okay. It's okay," an eerie metronomic undertone to the high-pitched shrieks.

Grandma Fletcher followed Rosie's eyes and saw the blurry markings on the wall she'd dismissed earlier. She stumbled forward grudgingly, the images coming into focus with each painful step until finally they were seen in all their demented clarity. A montage of apparently inter-linked vignettes assaulted her from the child-like drawings of her granddaughter, each scene framed by zigzag multicolored ovals. Two stick-like figures starred in each.

One scarlet, large and looming.

The other pink, small and fragile.

In one, the larger held the smaller by its hair, legs far above the ground. Even though it was only a stick figure, Grandma Fletcher could make out the struggling pain experienced by the smaller pink figure with the impossible angles of the stick arms and stick legs.

In another, the scarlet figure stood hands empirically on hips. A dark colored three-dimensional square contained the pink one with knees drawn up. The head was lowered pitifully as the body, even in its cramped position, was too big for the confines.

In another, the pink figure was prone, while the larger figure kneeled above holding what must have been a cigar, the orange tip hovering menacingly above the smaller stick figure. Thin tendrils of smoky gray color curled from the tip of the cigar and the dozen orange colored spots on the pink figure's flattened back.

In yet another, the larger figure struck the smaller with a long supple-looking red strap, as the pink figure kneeled on all fours, head down, back pinstriped with thin red bands. To Grandma Fletcher, it was as if she could see the stick figure's shoulders shake with the pain and desperation of the moment.

In the last, and the one that fixated Rosie's entire attention, the small stick figure's head was buried deep in the broad crotch of the large scarlet figure whose arms were outstretched, head lolling back on a thin neck.

With a final agonizing peel, Rosie collapsed to the carpet, the vestiges of her scream tapering into nothing. Sweet Little Piggy stopped her patting and looked at her Grandma.

"Amama, lady sleep," came the lispy voice, confusion and concern both coloring her tone.

Grandma Fletcher shook herself out of her momentary shock and went into motion, a look of loving irritation towards her granddaughter. This had happened before. She didn't know why she hadn't been ready for it. She just prayed that the damage could still be repaired.