Dreamed 1995/2/15 by Chris Wayan
I meet a young composer I think is brilliant. He plays me his newest piece. It's beautiful, though I can't recall it now (if only I'd focused on it when I woke, I might have caught at least the theme. But I had practical distractions. You'll see.)
Like many composers, he's poor. So poor he's starving--no food or money at all.
So I use my dreamer's power, and slip inside his skin for a while, curious: for I sensed he has a dark, shameful secret.
As I live his life, I learn his secret. It's nothing I suspected, nothing I've ever heard of. He's a were-pig. He turns into a pig at odd times. Constantly, in fact; often he stays human only with effort. It doesn't take a full moon, as with all the werewolves I have known. The lovely smell of garbage is enough! And he's a composer; the housing he can afford isn't on the rosy side of town.
If he's so hungry as a man, why not gorge while he's a pig? There are farms nearby, he could forage. As long as he doesn't think about what he ate, later, as a man... that could lead to cross-species bulemia.
But he hides himself when he's a pig, out of fear he might be caught and caged and slaughtered.
One day, though, he gets an inspiration. He writes up a flyer and posts it all over. "Barns cleaned free! Trash cleared, free!" Farmers hire him, he says "Okay, now lemme alone." Then he slips into hogdom, and eats all the trash!
Who says "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch"? Why, they even PAY him to gorge on luscious swill!
And so his belly fills--and his music survives.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
When a real artist will do anything to feed his or her work.
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