A Day No Pigs Would Die
By: Dannell Lites
Ah do not own Clark Kent/Superman, nor Martha Kent nor any of
the other inhabitants of Smallville, Kansas:):) That would be DC Comics and The
WB Network! This is a fanfic for entertainment purposes only and not intended to
infringe on copyrights held by DC Comics nor The WB! So don't sue moi! If'n
y'all do sue moi *Clark* is likely to be right po'd! And, trust moi, THIS Clark
is NOT someone y'all want to mess with:):)
Rated PG, but not for
language or adult sitches:):)
This fic is in praise
of two of the very nicest folks in the Known Universe: Jonathan and Martha Kent!
As Ah hope this little ficlet will demonstrate ... without them this little ol'
planet could be in just a *big* ol' world of hurt!:):) After all ... given the
right circumstances, Clark could have turned out like THIS
The bacon was
Martha Kent stared, blinking down in dismay at the charred mass
marring her well seasoned trusty iron skillet.
There was absolutely no
doubt about it. That bacon was burned beyond redemption of any kind. Martha bit
her bottom lip, drawing a tiny bead of blood.
Clark didn't like burned
And when Clark didn't like something ....
... bad things
*Very* bad things.
Hurridly, the housewife and mother
scraped the ruined breakfast down into the garbage disposal, then switched it
quickly on, destroying the evidence. She grabbed the can of Glade Rainscent air
freshener and sprayed liberally. Clark liked the fresh, tart odor of the
wretched stuff, so maybe ...
But then again ... maybe
She had little chance of deceiving Clark, she knew that much
very well by now. Not with his acute super-senses. He was going to *know* that
she'd burned the bacon. The smell was almost impossible to miss, after
There was just no way around that.
The last time his bacon was
burned, Martha recalled, Clark killed every last single pig in Smallville. Pork
was a rare and imported good in Smallville these days.
Like a good many
"Lord!" the farm wife moaned to herself. "I - I only turned
away for a *second*! Just a second ... to check on the toast. Honestly ...
Frantically she searched through her cubboards. With a small cry of
triumph she found it. Right behind the bright blue and yellow boxes of Kraft
Macaroni and cheese. With reverence, she grabbed the Family sized box of cereal
and clutched it to her chest as if it were a life preserver and she a drowning
Which was, she admitted to herself, extremely close to the truth,
Oh yes, it was.
Nervously,she glanced down at her
watch, pale faced.
Her eyes snapped almost against her
will to the stairs and lingered there for long moments.
Clark was an
early riser. She and Jonathan had taught him well about that, at least. Any
minute now, he was going to come flying down those stairs.
breakfast wasn't going to be ready.
threatening panic, Martha Kent carefully considered her options. Pray God she
could appease Clark with a bowl or two of Sugar Bombs. It might work, at that.
The gooey kiddie cereal had absolutely *no* nutritional value whatsoever. It
even said so on the colorful box, for God's sake! And enough sugar coating it,
of course, to gag a maggot in Martha's opinion.
Clark was awfully fond of
And Lord knew it wasn't as if eating too much sugar was
going to *hurt* Clark.
NOTHING hurt Clark.
As she had good reason to know. Closing her
eyes, Martha gulped, swallowing the lump of terror lodged in her constricted
throat; lost in the vise-like grip of despair.. Thank the Lord he'd never
suspected about the D-Con Rat poison in his spaghetti and meatballs. Spaghetti
and meatballs was Clark's favorite thing in the whole world to eat. Martha
cooked a lot of spaghetti. But, no. Clark was as invulnerable inside as he was
outside. Of course, he'd been rather angry that his special favorite dish
"tasted funny" ...
As if her body had a kinesthetic memory all its own,
the foster mother to a very sprcial alien child rubbed the livid burn scar on
the back of her left hand.
A close call that one.
A very close
"Morning, Ma," ten year old Clark Kent greeted her in a cheerful
voice. At the familiar sound Martha stiffened momentarily as if prodded with
electricity before she remembered what she was about. Turning slowly, she
plastered a smile on her face when facing her foster son. Her smile was bright,
automatic and quite false.
Not that Clark cared about that. That the
smile was there was sufficient for him. It was always wise to smile in front of
No, he didn't care about the smile.
But he *did* care that
his breakfast be on time and waiting for him.
He cared a lot about
"Good morning, sweetheart," answered Martha, broadening her smile.
"Sleep well last night?"
Clark frowned and Martha's heart seemed to
stutter in her chest, pounding painfully against her ribs. All of a sudden she
couldn't feel her feet. She forced her hand not to shake as she brushed a loose
strand of hair off her all at once sweaty forehead.
"Not really, Ma,"
said Clark, sad voiced. He stuffed his hands forcefully down into the pockets of
his blue jeans. A small gasp of fear escaped Martha Kent before she could
prevent it when she heard the heavy denim tear under the unknowing
":I - I had that dream again ... " Clark began to explain,
staring at the holes in his new jeans. The blood drained from Martha's pinched
face so quickly it left her dizzy.
It was always
the same, Martha knew. Always the same dream. Clark's bottom lip trembled for an
instant and Martha's heart felt as through it might burst in sympathy with the
small trembling boy before her. He looked so lost ... lost and
"There - there was fa- fire and smoke and I couldn't breath," her
foster son choked out the words. "Fire and smoke and heat and a loud noise like
a scream ... I was so scared!" The young boy covered his ears instictively with
his invulnerable hands as if to shut out the fury. Or perhaps to shutn out the
fear. He had large hands for such a young child, she noticed. Already tall, he
was going to be a big man someday. A very big man.
In more ways than one.
Those hands ...
Long and fine boned ... they looked so fragile,
so - so - *vulnerable* ...
Not deadly at all.
"The hands of a
great artist or a great lover," Martha's mother had declared upon first sight of
The memory drove the boy to his knees and Martha cried aloud at the
heart-rending sight. Clark covered his head, burying his head in his arms as if
to protect himself from something horrid that only he could see.
send me away, Daddy!" he wailed. "Please don't send me away! I don't want to go!
I don't want to go! Don't you and Momee love me anymore? PLEASE!"
instant Martha forgot all about the horribly burned body of Jonathan Kent - her
beloved Jonathan! - buried deep, deep within the loamy Kansas earth of their
cornfield. For a moment, no more, she forgot about ALL the bodies buried in the
cornfield. All her friends and neighbors. So many of them. Without any effort
she recalled Jonathan's joy, the smile on his face when they decided to keep
Clark. Their "little Gift From God", he'd called the angelic three years old who
found them after the meteor shower.
'He was such a sweet child,' Martha
thought. 'Such a beautiful, sweet child ... What happened? What in the Name of
Had it all really started with Jonathan's death? Could it
actually be that simple? Was *anything* ever that simple?
She would take
to her grave the sound of the horror in five year old Clark's voice on that day.
The horror ... and the fear. So much fear ...
"Maaaaaaaaaaaa! Ma, come
Weeding in her vegetable garden, Martha Kent dropped her well
used hoe, sprang to her feet, and came running. Fear seized her heart in an
arctic icy grip.
Clark! Had something happened to Clark? Dear God,
She was half way around the corner of the large barn before the smell
smote her. She was never going to forget that smell. Sickly sweet, reeking with
the now familar oder of charred meat -
... like burning bacon
it invaded her protesting nostrils, leaving her suddenly queasy
stomach roiling in protest. Bile rose up from her belly. But it wasn't until she
realized that the seared lump of burned flesh that lay still sizzling and
smoking on the ground was all that was left of Jonathan Kent that she
And screamed and screamed and screamed.
A sobbing Clark
threw himself into her cold arms, his small body shaking like a leaf in a Winter
gale blowing off the Kansas prairie.
"I don't mean to do it!" he
whimpered. "It was a accident. A accident!" Her flesh began to crawl where he
clung to her. She remembered that clearly.
"Pa - Pa told me I couldn't
play around the barn. Too dangerous he said," Clark sniffled, this suddenly
*alien* child she could no longer understand. Fear blossomed like a poisonous
weed in her gut and began to spread, paralysing her.
Clark clentched his
teeth. "He - he *yelled* at me! He shouldn't oughta have done that. I was only
playing. I wasn't doin' nothing wrong! Honest, I wasn't! I wasn't!" he insisted
with child like logic. "I got real mad ... and then everything got all hot and
red, and ... and .. and ... "
"Pa was all burned up," he whispered. His
grip upon Martha tightened almost painfully. Martha Clark Kent fainted dead
When she came back to herslf five year old Clark was still
screaming. Collecting herself with a great effort, Martha comforted the small
boy (her son! He was her son, dammit!) as best she could. Together, they buried
Jonathan in the cornfild.
Clark changed after that.
changed after that.
Inconsolable at first, Clark's grief and fear was
soon replaced by blazing anger.
"It's all Pa's fault!" he shouted. "I
wasn't doing nothin' wrong! Just playing is all. When a guy's not doing nothin'
wrong people shouldn't oughta yell at him, right? *Right*?"
Martha Kent could only nod slowly and beat down the rising tide of terror
steadily growing within her.
When Clark burned down the gymnasium in a
fit of pique after the Coach Walt accused him of cheating to win a footrace,
people stoppedasking questions.
Friends also stopped dropping by the Kent
home and Martha no longer insisted that Clark attend school.
anyone else, of course.
"Teachers!" Clark sneered. "They think they know
everything just 'cause they're grown up men. Well, they don't! *I'm* not a man
and *I* can do anything!"
Seven year old Kenny Braverman was the first
person Clark ever *deliberately* killed.
Kenny foolishly protest the loss
of his best catseye in a game of marbles and ...
Clark was genuininely regretful about that, Martha
Why, they even buried the disputed marble with
Over the years the cornfield had gotten rather crowded, hadn't
"I'm sorry, Ma! I didn't mean to do it! I didn't!" Tears glittered
like gemstones at the edges of Clark's huge blue on blue eyes. "It was an
accident!" It took Martha moment to realize that he was still talking about the
Clark had a lot of "accidents", didn't he? Martha mused in
Oh, yes. A *lot* of accidents.
"I didn't mean to make
more work for you fixing my jeans, Ma, honest," he sniffled. He wiped his eyes.
"It's just ... it's just ... " Anger clouded his smooth young face,
"Why is everything around here so - so - flimsy?" he cried in
despair, balling his small hands into fists at his side. "Why does everything
break so easily? WHY?!"
Martha stroked his dark hair. "I don't know,
sweetheart," she confessed. "I don't know." Closing her eyes, she kissed the top
of his head and smiled for all she was worth. That was always safest. "Why don't
you go change, okay? Don't worry about your jeans. It's no trouble to mend them,
honestly. You just need to be a little more careful is all."
glumly. "I'll - try," he promised his foster mother.
"I know you will,"
she acknowledged, keeping the hoplessness from staining her pleasant voice with
only great difficulty.
Oh, yes. Clark always *tried*.
brightened. "I''ll tell you what, honey. Why don't I call up a few of your
friends and see if they can come over and play? Would you like
THAT should keep him busy for a good long time, she
The boy paused on the stairs and flashed that devastating smile
that so melted the heart.
"Sure, that would be great, Ma!" he chirruped,
disappearing up the stairs.
Martha sighed with relief and the burden of
heavy decision at one and the same time. And just who was she going to endanger
today for Clark's amusement? Wearily, she approached the phone and began to
dial. Did it even matter anymore?
Likely not. In the end, she was sure,
Clark was going to kill them all.
Sooner or later.
It might almost
nearly cut herselfwith the sharp knife she was using to chop up the meat for the
beef stew she was preparing for dinner (Clark liked nice, small bite sized
pieces) when she heard the scream. Loud and shrill, Martha's first thought was
for the little Sullivan girl. Clohe and her divorced mother Bridget were new in
Smallville, after all, and not yet quite used to Clark's ... excentricities
But when she peered out the window Clohe's blond head was clearly
visible. As was the mahogany hued , coffee colored skin of the young Ross boy.
The hideously burned log of flesh still twitching on the ground must be Whitney
My, yes, that corfield *was* getting quite
Mighty crowded, indeed.
Pete Ross looked
Clohe looked terrified.
Somehow, Martha didn't think the
bright, vivacious young girl would be coming over to play with Clark
"Whitney shouldn't have said that," Clark insisted. "I'm NOT a
freak! I'm not!" He ground his teeth together so hard sparks flew. Composing
himself rapidly, Clark gazed at Pete Ross for confirmation. "Ma says I'm
perfectly normal. Perfectly normal ... for ... for ... whatever I am...
Ross nodded and smiled. "Sure, buddy," he affirmed. "Just a regular
guy; that's you!"
Clark smiled in return and, with a heavy heart, Martha
once more reached for the phone.
In the neat and tidy home of Anne
Fordham the phone rang. Anne listened carefully to the steady, dull, unwavering
voice of Martha Kent as she explained that fourteen year old Whitney wouldn't be
In what she could only hope and pray was the
privacy of her own home (but who knew how far Clark could see and hear?) Anne
Fordham, the mother of the luckless Whitney, burst into tears.
another day," she choked, hanging up the phone, "Just another *fine* day in
Smallville like all the others ... Just ... another fine day ...
next day it snowed, because Clark wanted to go sledding on Suicide Hill (it was
absolutely amazing what you could do with a little silver iodide and a judicious
application of arctic cold superbreath) and ruined half the crops.
was a *fine* day.