AbyssalRoadTrip
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Desperate times (Stand alone short story)
🕑 Added 2022-04-09 09:01:59 +0000 UTCSome prey is the most thrilling challenge, especially in desperate times seasoned by hunger. So much depends on my success today. I’m up for the hunt, but there will only be one chance.
Slowly creeping forward, I freeze as a breeze tickles its way through my whiskers, and I can but hope no scents betrays. Counting slow breaths, I pray that the wind does not condemn me to the sleeping alpha. I focus on the long slow breaths—faint to my hearing—lest a whisper of change goes astray. My weight glides with balanced grace; ready to leap, I creep closer to my mark.
The sudden sound of grunting and rasping hide drop me flat again. I am so close, so very close. He must not spot me now. The hunt must succeed, or hunger will chew through our bones, with the last time of plenty long since past.
With a final ignorant snort, he lets out a huff that leaves my ears twitching, and the deep snorting breaths of the great beast return. I raise my ears above cover, every creak and rustle considered in its tale.
Reading all the hunt signs could be the key to my victory, while a misstep doom. Slow movements carry me forward in a sliding poise crawl, careful lest I brush some astray, as the slightest rustle could betray me, with the prize now ahead. Deliberately, with nerves that would make my heart skip a beat. I do but ease towards the splendid beast and a well-earned feast.
Prey in sight. I must be true. For now, is not the time to hesitate in striking. My tail held still as I move in soft padding shifts. I am one with the prey, and suddenly with a swift blow, success!
At last, the prey is mine, and I sink my teeth in deep.
So juicy that its rich nectar of life fills my mouth, and with its flesh, famine shall fade to memory again.
The mate’s cry quakes the air, yet it is too little, too late.
“Jar’li, no.”
Rushing footsteps, too far to matter now, beat rapidly.
“That was your father’s honey cake!”
Spotted yet, the hunt remains a success. The feast is mine.
“Jar’li. I thought you’d already had two?”
Father’s sleepy gaze looks at me gravely, so I do what one must do. With the last bit eaten, I strike his nose with a lick and scamper off right quick.
The race is now, yet victory complete, for no tickles shall spell my defeat.
