Food

The sparks were made in desperation, with shaking hands from wet flint, in a dark patch of a black forest where a beast with four legs stalked a beast with two.

The beast with two legs never thought itself food. It couldn't be. Because it had words and smarts and love.

But the smarts, like the sparks disappeared in the darkness. The words evaporated; just noise and breath like all the beasts make. And the love? Not kindness nor loyalty nor sacrifice mean anything to the dripping teeth.

Hunger trumps all.

2014 © Eric Jolley