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Description
Drifting shadows from the barnyard fall as the sun’s light descends into dusk. As the light passes through crevices in the creaking planks, melancholic rays of the fleeting sun squeeze through the gaps within the enclosure.

They began to form shapes, stretching into cognitive figures.

From these aged eyes, I saw my mother in the back of my mind, dancing upon the streaming threads of light with her mane flitting in the entrancing dimness. Follow me, the dance seemed to convey as she disappeared in the darkness like so many years ago.

It was still a vivid memory in the past thirty years since I had seen her, an aged, compassionate dun jenny. My mother, Adelaide, and I had not been born into the farm and were instead sold into Manor Farm where we both toiled. Yet, despite the burden laid upon my maturing mother, she had thought of it her duty to help the surrounding animals around her at the cost of her own health.

Years passed and it the constant work steadily took its toll, eventually depriving her of her sight. The sunset the following Sunday evening had braced us with ominous blood-red clouds that blanketed the sky. My last memory of my mother been of a large white van carrying her away with Jones, the young tsar of the Manor Farm, watching it with almost regretful eyes, and the dust it left behind polluting my view, separating me from the only family I had left.

Dusk became dawn and master’s old dead body lay under the hooves, claws, and paws of a triumphant uprising of animal kin. They stood together, each on equal footing, sharing cheers of joy and revolution, and among their faces was my own doubtful countenance. By the fence, where crows were no longer welcome, a new sign had been put up, declaring the name of Petrograd to all who glanced upon it.
Upon the barn’s wall were scribbled the Marxist ideals of Old Major, the only other animal who at the time rivaled me in age. “All animals are equal.” (Orwell, 18) it read.

However, filchers and gluttons hid beneath sly facades as the ignorant masses set off to build upon their new creation. Only I knew of their true natures, yet said naught, for whom in such a youthful and revolutionary generation would pay heed? Life goes on and the morning treaded onwards.

Swine fought swine as a new dictator erupted and forced upon us his red spies. Nothing one said was secret; nothing one did was unknown. It was as if the very crops had eyes and ears with which they would immediately betray us. Even if the other animals did not realize that, I did, and kept my mouth shut, an effortless task I had already mastered.

As we slaved to build the windmill of which we were commanded to build under Napoleon’s order, I could hear my bones creaking and the muscle on my old bones tearing.

Every morning I awoke to the crying of my body and the moaning of my stomach, both of which grew more pronounced each day.

Yet all of the animals around me simply swallowed the baloney of the propaganda that spouted from the mouth that flanked our “great leader”. How idiotic they were to simply accept the garbage that was given to them. However, I could not help but admire and pity Boxer, whom I regarded almost as if he were my own flesh and blood, for his commitment to such a perverse leadership all the while saying “I must work harder.” He reminded me of my own mother who had killed herself in blind kindness in loyal service to the tsar.

During the afternoon one day, we were summoned to the yard only to be greeted with confetti of crimson ribbons spouting from the tearing of unbelievable confessions. Although I knew what I was seeing, I could hardly believe my eyes to accept that Napoleon, who I had witnessed being born, would command for an outright massacre. Among the fountains of scarlet rivers were the maternal hens who I thought brave yet foolish to not have been able to relinquish some of their eggs and paid dearly for the price. Though in my mind I knew that such was the way one would live, or rather die, when interfering with current events and straying away from the rules of the peaceful life.

Yet I could not stand to play the game when Boxer had been packaged for arrival to leave within a familiar white van. Memories came flushing back to me as I remembered the hopeful look on my mother’s strained face the day she was taken away, and I galloped as with a speed I never thought I could accomplish in my old age to the other animals.

“Quick! Quick! Come at once! They’re taking Boxer away!” (Orwell, 83) I brayed as loud as I could. They followed me without thought and surrounded the van.

“Good-bye, Boxer! Good-bye!” they chorused with amazing stupidity!

“Fools! Fools!” I shouted, livid at their incompetence. “Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of that van?”

Muriel started to spell out the words, but there was no time for her slowness! Could they not understand that Napoleon meant to sell Boxer for his own wealth?

“Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied,” I rushed with one breath. “Do you not understand what that means? They are taking Boxer to the knackers!” (Orwell, 84)

They had finally understood, but it was too late; the van had zoomed away, leaving behind only dust to pollute our views. Yet another member of my family was gone, truly the last and final one for there would definitely be no one else who I would open up to in the harsh world in which I lived in. Night had finally come.

Darkness continued as we labored, and it seemed as if there was no end. It was an endless cycle of work and hunger, and as I read to Clover the new and only commandment on the barn wall: “all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others” (Orwell, 92), I was not surprised for I had known this fact for a long time. There was no difference, I thought as I closed my eyes in the lightless night, between the fat-bellied, lazy swine and humans, only the change between oppressors like the cycle of a day.

Description
Drifting shadows from the barnyard fall as the sun’s light descends into dusk. As the light passes through crevices in the creaking planks, melancholic rays of the fleeting sun squeeze through the gaps within the enclosure.

They began to form shapes, stretching into cognitive figures.

From these aged eyes, I saw my mother in the back of my mind, dancing upon the streaming threads of light with her mane flitting in the entrancing dimness. Follow me, the dance seemed to convey as she disappeared in the darkness like so many years ago.

It was still a vivid memory in the past thirty years since I had seen her, an aged, compassionate dun jenny. My mother, Adelaide, and I had not been born into the farm and were instead sold into Manor Farm where we both toiled. Yet, despite the burden laid upon my maturing mother, she had thought of it her duty to help the surrounding animals around her at the cost of her own health.

Years passed and it the constant work steadily took its toll, eventually depriving her of her sight. The sunset the following Sunday evening had braced us with ominous blood-red clouds that blanketed the sky. My last memory of my mother been of a large white van carrying her away with Jones, the young tsar of the Manor Farm, watching it with almost regretful eyes, and the dust it left behind polluting my view, separating me from the only family I had left.

Dusk became dawn and master’s old dead body lay under the hooves, claws, and paws of a triumphant uprising of animal kin. They stood together, each on equal footing, sharing cheers of joy and revolution, and among their faces was my own doubtful countenance. By the fence, where crows were no longer welcome, a new sign had been put up, declaring the name of Petrograd to all who glanced upon it.
Upon the barn’s wall were scribbled the Marxist ideals of Old Major, the only other animal who at the time rivaled me in age. “All animals are equal.” (Orwell, 18) it read.

However, filchers and gluttons hid beneath sly facades as the ignorant masses set off to build upon their new creation. Only I knew of their true natures, yet said naught, for whom in such a youthful and revolutionary generation would pay heed? Life goes on and the morning treaded onwards.

Swine fought swine as a new dictator erupted and forced upon us his red spies. Nothing one said was secret; nothing one did was unknown. It was as if the very crops had eyes and ears with which they would immediately betray us. Even if the other animals did not realize that, I did, and kept my mouth shut, an effortless task I had already mastered.

As we slaved to build the windmill of which we were commanded to build under Napoleon’s order, I could hear my bones creaking and the muscle on my old bones tearing.

Every morning I awoke to the crying of my body and the moaning of my stomach, both of which grew more pronounced each day.

Yet all of the animals around me simply swallowed the baloney of the propaganda that spouted from the mouth that flanked our “great leader”. How idiotic they were to simply accept the garbage that was given to them. However, I could not help but admire and pity Boxer, whom I regarded almost as if he were my own flesh and blood, for his commitment to such a perverse leadership all the while saying “I must work harder.” He reminded me of my own mother who had killed herself in blind kindness in loyal service to the tsar.

During the afternoon one day, we were summoned to the yard only to be greeted with confetti of crimson ribbons spouting from the tearing of unbelievable confessions. Although I knew what I was seeing, I could hardly believe my eyes to accept that Napoleon, who I had witnessed being born, would command for an outright massacre. Among the fountains of scarlet rivers were the maternal hens who I thought brave yet foolish to not have been able to relinquish some of their eggs and paid dearly for the price. Though in my mind I knew that such was the way one would live, or rather die, when interfering with current events and straying away from the rules of the peaceful life.

Yet I could not stand to play the game when Boxer had been packaged for arrival to leave within a familiar white van. Memories came flushing back to me as I remembered the hopeful look on my mother’s strained face the day she was taken away, and I galloped as with a speed I never thought I could accomplish in my old age to the other animals.

“Quick! Quick! Come at once! They’re taking Boxer away!” (Orwell, 83) I brayed as loud as I could. They followed me without thought and surrounded the van.

“Good-bye, Boxer! Good-bye!” they chorused with amazing stupidity!

“Fools! Fools!” I shouted, livid at their incompetence. “Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of that van?”

Muriel started to spell out the words, but there was no time for her slowness! Could they not understand that Napoleon meant to sell Boxer for his own wealth?

“Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied,” I rushed with one breath. “Do you not understand what that means? They are taking Boxer to the knackers!” (Orwell, 84)

They had finally understood, but it was too late; the van had zoomed away, leaving behind only dust to pollute our views. Yet another member of my family was gone, truly the last and final one for there would definitely be no one else who I would open up to in the harsh world in which I lived in. Night had finally come.

Darkness continued as we labored, and it seemed as if there was no end. It was an endless cycle of work and hunger, and as I read to Clover the new and only commandment on the barn wall: “all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others” (Orwell, 92), I was not surprised for I had known this fact for a long time. There was no difference, I thought as I closed my eyes in the lightless night, between the fat-bellied, lazy swine and humans, only the change between oppressors like the cycle of a day.