Hunger

A Story by Mysme

Not too sure on Genre.

Winds of change blow the autumn leaves in circles; the night is still and full of life.
The tree's are hollowed, housing sleeping babes and exhausted mothers. The sky's blue blanket and twinkling secrets framed by sparse cotton. A small grey blur betrays the portrait; hungry for food, hungry for change. He knows better than to expose himself but the world holds what his retreat can't provide; he twitches his nose and follows his heart. He scales the tree stump overlooking the canopy of grass, now nothing is left forbidden.

Disaster. A feathery villain stalks through the thick brush; the small one paralysed. With one swoop the mouse remembers all he could have been, maybe he could've had a family of his own, maybe he would have found something greater. He reconsiders as he sees the half moulted owl, each feather plucked by time; its talons barely with enough desire to grasp the stump but still dangerous enough to end his life.

"Don't fret little one"; the mouse is confused and tilts his head, the hunger has escaped him, but now he looks to an escape, everything is idle seldom the moving's of his chest and the darting of his eyes. "Why, wouldn't you eat me?" He knows it in his stomach that's all birds do to become so great. "If i was to eat someone as starving as you wouldn't that leave me just as empty?"; the mouse doesn't appreciate the intention, but his rhythm slows in brief relief.

"its true I've eaten mice before; and I've carved doves too, it never felt right and I fear it never will; your disgust pains me. The small yields from the grass never satisfied me". The grey mouse is convinced by the low croaking of the owl, there is regret there; it's strange; he only knew the wise and distinguished animals like owls as hunters, perhaps he has always been wrong about Them.

"How do i repent? I want to tell you that you can feast upon my remaining worth; i want to tell you taking from my empire of dirt doesn't make you any less..." the mouse recoils back. The tall statue of feathers and stoicism come crashing down upon the brown stump. The mouse is troubled; its tail nervously sways with the breeze.

He battles his thoughts; he would rather his friend back but his hunger conjures up the saliva and perverts his morality. The owl so wished had he not?
He approaches and embraces the corpse for the first and final time; slowly sinking into the Feathers to find nothing. The wanting fingers only meet skin and bones. Even with the adrenaline of fast approaching starvation his stomach cannot delude to gnawing on such a tragic pittance

A Shadow eclipses the moonlight. A dive and crash. The owls husk shatters as the vulture lands on his legacy; it begins devouring all not leaving a single fibre of feather. With each crack and peel the mouses sanity flees further; he has never seen something so large and so apathetic. The mouse's horror turns to rage; he leaps and bites into the vulture; he tastes blood and brief nourishment, the vulture whips the feeble yet valiant bundle against the tree a step yonder.

The mouse dies instantly, the last message through his mind is the thunder of his own back snapping and the sky grows a shade darker; the vulture finishes and looks upon the limp and exposed mouse, his bare ribs and bloodied grey fur. A pang of guilt for an instant causes him to hesitate however he continues on to satiate himself. Perhaps he was too overcome with hunger. Or maybe he will always hunger.