Whitemeat 白肉

DRAFT 1

Black patches of grass stubble through the clearing under a torched sky. A remarkable feat, considering that the entire valley was razed to the ground just a few weeks prior.

Yes, it is true. You could say that even grass pushes through in anticipation when their soil remembers the day that graces it. How can it forget? Today is the annual day of celebration, where the Asli bestow blessings upon each other's vitality.

It is also the bright morning where they dance with all kind animals, black, brown, and even white. Remember their chorals? Or the way the Asli taught the animals one by one to sing? Indeed, it was a day to celebrate those who really come alive.

Yet, we should not get your hopes too high. There is no dancing today, and the flurry of celebration will continue to be absent for the first time in decades. The wind has died from holding its breath, and stale blessings still hang unspoken.

The animals are hidden too. Silent, save for the buzzing ones lavishing the arid air.

Oh, don't go! there is something to see. Look carefully, and you'll spot the lone Asli, squatting just at the top of the valley, hands reverently gripping the fence enclosing the farmer's field. This particular Asli is only known by the name of his tears—Heai—the spill of emotion.


Why, if you look closer, you would feel tears welling up and dripping down his square cheeks, nourishing the grass growing especially green below him.

It is a good fence, the Asli thought. Freshly made and strong in stature, with polished hardwood on each notch hammered true into the earth. But drink in his pain, lap it up, lap it up!
The Asli hurts because it is also a cursed fence.

Why? Well, listen closely. Here's what happened to the land of the Asli.

The farmer had come a few weeks before the drought, wet with a foreign musk settled deep into his stony skin. A mighty whip he held before him to measure as he surveyed the Asli's land. His fathers walked, two faces behind him thudding their granite jaws with every growl and grumble while his women, four faces and necks puckering with their husbands' crimson, held their offspring close in the rear. Above them rolled great carts with two loads of seed, one for the farmer's breed, and one for his flock.

The farmer's flock, the prized possession, screamed and squealed in fanfare as the largest procession ever seen in this part of the country. You could see, through each punctuation of his whip, that the farmer was very proud of them indeed. Each healthy cry, snort, and stomp sang the results of his successful rearing.

Content, the farmer leaped down into the knee-high grass and declared to no one in particular that he liked what he saw. From his purse he gave the first bewildered Asli he saw a sheaf of red leaves and promptly took over the valley land.

First, the farmer undid the sweeping groves one by one. His hands swiftly ravaged the nubs of smaller hills, grooming them flat. The Bayan trees, grown to keep in sacred spirits, were fully torn and undone.

Oh, he made sure to comb away the Asli as well. It would not do to have such uncivilized brats living off the farmland, he thought. And then, in a final act of thoroughness, the farmer fenced off the land.

The Asli watched from the valley rim as the fields of knee-length grass were shaved, mercilessly ploughed, and then lovingly tilled. The farmer quickly finished, spreading half a load of seed evenly over the fertile soil. Now that the valley was naked, the farmer proceeded to sink his poles into the tears of the earth. Then upon the shivering land, he erects a hot hell for his flock. Within days, the smell of stinking swine added to the gloom of the scene.

Right. Now look at how the Asli sways, drying out his face while feeling the whitened wood of the fence. He sees them as bones hacked and hewn out of bodies. It does not stop there, oh no. He sees hollow blackened shells of the sacred trees littering the base of the fence. The air tastes almost brittle as the Asli surveys the smoky stumps dotted here and there, like marred pins stretching the expanse of the field.


DRAFT 2

Black patches of grass stubbled through the clearing under a torched sky. A remarkable feat, considering that the entire valley was razed to the ground just a few weeks prior.  

Yes, it is true. You could say that even grass pushes through in anticipation when their soil remembers the day that graces it. How can the land forget?   

Today is the annual celebration, consecrated for the wise people of our soil—the Asli—to bestow blessings upon all kind living souls that walk the land. Remember their bright-tongued tunes? Or the way they taught the animals one by one to dance and sing? Indeed, it is a day to celebrate such awakened moments in those whose movements come alive.  

But there is no dancing today, and for the first time in decades, the flurry of celebration is absent. The wind has died from holding its breath, and stale blessings still hang unsung, unspoken.   

The animals are gone too. Silence yawns in a stupor of existence, broken only by the odd buzzfly sizzling its wings between waves of arid air.  

Wait, hold on. There is something to see. Look carefully, and you'll spot the lone Asli, squatting just atop the valley with hands reverently gripping the fence enclosing the farmer's field.  

This Asli is only known by the name of his tears—Heai—the spill of emotion.   

Why, if you look closer, you will feel Heai welling up in you as it drips down the Asli’s square cheeks, dampening the grass that turns green in his shadow.  

It is a good fence, the Asli thought. Freshly made and strong in stature, with polished hardwood on each notch hammered true into the earth. But it is also a cursed fence.   

That is why Heai burns a salty trail down his chin.   
Why cursed? Well, listen closely. Here's what happened to the land of the Asli.  

 

The farmer had come a few weeks before the drought, wet with a foreign musk settled deep into his stony skin. A mighty whip he held before him to measure as he surveyed the land of earthen beauty.   

His fathers walked, two faces behind him thudding their granite jaws with every growl and grumble while his women, four faces and necks puckering with matrimony crimson, held their offspring close in the rear. Above them rolled great carts with two loads of seed, one for the farmer's breed, and one for his flock.  

Behind them stretched a sea of golden hair—the farmer's flock, the prized possession, that screamed and squealed in fanfare as the largest procession ever seen in this part of the country. You could see through each punctuation of his whip that the farmer was very proud of them indeed. Each healthy cry, snort, and whimper sang the results of his successful rearing. As his fathers had jovially drummed into him, "A good, healthy animal serves a good, healthy meal. Premium in sustenance, and more so in taste.”   

 

Now content, the farmer leaped down into the knee-high grass and declared, to no one in particular, that he liked the land. With a wave he summoned the first bewildered Asli he saw, gave him a sheaf of red leaves, and promptly took over the valley.   

First, the farmer undid the sweeping groves one by one. His hands swiftly ravaged the nubs of smaller hills, grooming them flat. The Bayan trees, grown to keep in sacred spirits, were fully torn. Oh, he made sure to comb away the Asli as well. It would not do to have such uncivilized brats living off the farmland, he thought. And so, in a final act of thoroughness, the farmer fenced off the land.  

The Asli watched from the valley rim as the fields of knee-length grass were shaved, mercilessly ploughed, and then tilled. The farmer quickly finished by spreading half a load of his seed all over the fertile soil.   

Now that the valley was naked, the farmer went ahead to sink his poles into the tears of the earth. Then upon the shivering land, he erected a hot hell of cages for his flock, and a cool brick house for his rest. Within days, the smell of stinking swine added to the gloom of the scene.   

  

  

  

Right. Now look at how the Asli sways, drying out his tear strained face while clenching the whitened fence-wood, the bones hacked, and sinews are hewn out from tree limbs. After several breaths honoring the hollow blackened shells of the sacred trees littering the base of the fence, the Asli walks towards the farm. The air tastes almost brittle as the Asli surveys -the smoky stumps dotted here and there, like marred pins stretching the expanse of the field. 

prepping a weapon, connect everything to connect the dots with previous vignettes. giving him her heart which made her empty, and lost her sense of beauty

open the farm door. miasma. silent. no screaming or pain like a few days ago. describe the dead humans in their cages. some already bloated, hormone-filled bellies buzzing with flies.

open the farmer's door. 

Character only built in narrator, who? 

Fous on character. 

Sequence vignettes? Two sides of the same story 

CANNIBALISM

White man takes land from orange asli for dirt cheap and OA doesn't know how to use it. 

 The bayan trees, grown to keep in spirits, were cleared. Upon the now cursed land, White man builds factory farm for pigs. Within weeks, the smell of stinking swine added to the gloom of the scene.

One day,  he goes out hunting with his dogs and slave (rabbit) and SHOOTs a wild boar. Then hearing the commotion, the OA came, 

Seeing the white man with guns and got angry saying do not hunt are u hunting for sport???? 

White man 'this is my land i can do whatever I want' 

OA replies THIS IS NOT UR LAND U HAVE ONLY BOUGHT THE HONOURRRR TO CARE FOR IT 

AND THE BOAR COMES OUT OF THE FOREST AND WHITE MAN KILLS THE BOAR IN FRONT OF THE OA, 

fuming, the OA returns into the forest! 

THEN a week later,  the slave got grievously injured on another hunting expedition and he DIES. 

the white man throws his corpse at the edge of the forest to be cremated the next day. 

The next day, before the sun rose up, the OA man came to the white man door and asked for the slaves body. 

White man ask "for what reason do u want the slave's body." 

Animals that are ripe have been depleted and so i come for fresh meat. 

White man asks URE GONNA EAT HIS BOD???  

OA says you're not gonna use it anymore are uuu. 

White man condemns him as a cannibal and tells him to eat the bod and then gth! 

The OA takes the body and retaliates,  saying "at least I did not steal the body and asked for your permish. YOU WHITE MAN stole from the mountain and nature and YOU DIDNT ASK THO DID U?!!!! 

U created hell on ravaged earth, u play God, unnatural, every day we hear shrieks of the deed right behind our longhouses. The land was cursed when you came, and now it is beyond saving.

Orang asli Use the money 

Alternative storyline: replace OA with Zenith, White Man with Nadir, wild boar with exotic Asian, pigs with white women, slave with a black man.

use the same name as an animal, but when describing it in graphic detail, use human descriptions

Perspective
Third-person POV:

Farmer: can show twist in the plot, where can justify his actions and show his growth process in thoughts, the audience understands him better not making them human, Farmer's perspective (weird fcker terrorizing him from the woods, sympathize with)

Asli: can introduce nature's perspective, the classic 'good' narrative, show injustices

Humans: animal-minded, mental atrophy, not being able to utilize it in the first place.

WHITE-MEAT: what if humans decide that those who are less able are edible. giving the animals the weight that they are due by putting humans in their positions. 

Description of Main Characters: traits, flaws, aspirations 

Asli: low caste mixed woodsperson—emotive, stutters, later hotheaded, —wants peace and justice for nature 

Farmer: successful human farmer—coolheaded, calculative, overrationalizes—wants financial success and to maximise what his father has given him; the human farm. 

Main Conflict: what is obstacle, & what is at stake 

Asli: trying to get the farmer off the land, sacred lives in the factory farms need to be saved 

Farmer: having a hard time understanding and making friends with the woodsmen, conflict does not  provide best life for family. 

Realisation and change of character, when does it happen? 

Asli: when the wild-great-white gets killed, and when he sees the atrocities (torturing scenes) of white-farming in the factory. Becomes furious and lit with a blue fire. 
Farmer: the confrontation with the woodsman, begins to really hear screams (foregrounded) of the dying animals when eating fat, loses appetite. (plays music louder but does not work) 

Setting/s, and connection to character's development

The factory farm: gloom created because of development (affecting Nadir—as it was his safe space)

The Brick house: gloom trespassing into it, influencing thought (affecting Zenith—as it is his safe space)

Beginning

Farmer buying the land

Ending

Farmer abandoning the land, though fire flies wild and endless, spring comes 

How to sustain suspense (foreshadowing, multiple perspectives, limited/omniscient) 

“Violent, irrational, intolerant, allied to racism and tribalism and bigotry, invested in ignorance and hostile to free inquiry, contemptuous of women and coercive toward children: organized religion ought to have a great deal on its conscience.”

s famous for his precise language, this precision also leaves enormous ambiguities since it may tell the reader a great deal about something that is only an outcome of another unseen force. That is, the precision may trace the outline of omitted materials

s an omission from the text of overt descriptions of some crucial matter around which the emotions or themes of the text pivot. Most typically, students encounter this in his story “Hills Like White Elephants,” in which the characters argue without explicit resolution over an unplanned pregnancy and possible abortion that are never directly mentioned. In the popular phrasing, this is to “show not tell” a reader what is occurring, which requires an active form of reading in which the reader participates in and contributes to the texts rather than passively relying on narrative or self-explication. Hemingway’s “theory of omission” is a more nuanced extension of “show not tell” in which the absent matter can be detected by its influence on those things that do appear in the text.

extremely easy and extremely difficult. The contrast lies between his clear and simple prose versus his unstated or implicit concerns. This leads many readers to assume they have “understood” Hemingway by simply reading him when we must first recognize how he trains us to be more careful and more critical readers. In this respect, Hemingway is a pedagogical writer insofar as he teaches his readers a new form of attention, a new form of sensitivity to language.

Though stories are typically thought of as event focused, mature storytellers also relay experience in primarily descriptive terms. This form of storytelling is often called an observation (Plum 2004). Observations, unlike narratives and recounts, “feel frozen in time” as the storyteller describes an occurrence, typi- cally interjecting considerable personal commentary (Martin and Rose 2008; Rothery and Stenglin 1997). Observations prototypically unfold through an orientation that sets the stage for events, a descriptive stage, and an evaluation in which the storyteller makes the significance of the observation explicit. Observations rely on the power of description to give the listener an experiential sense of what an occurrence was like.

Erin Elizabeth Flynn*

Storying experience: Young children’s early use of story genres