Liliana Colanzi
translated by Chris Meade

Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a pig being killed. It was summer. Flies were launching themselves against the windows. I used to like to chew ice, and in the afternoon I would go up to the balcony with a glass brimming with little cubes to watch the neighbor, Mr. Casiano, breaking down old furniture with a handsaw on his patio. But not that day. I had just positioned myself against the bannister when a shriek struck me head-on. Mr. Casiano was crushing the creature with hammer blows. The pig howled—or grunted? or roared?—and ran for its life, half its face destroyed, but it was tethered by the neck to a starfruit tree and the rope only allowed it to run in frantic, ever-shortening circles around the tree. Mr. Casiano paused … Read More »