Scavengers

Writing Prompt: 1.1 from "Instigation: Creative Prompts on the Dark Side" by Michael Arnzen.

Writing Prompt: 1.1

The sun beats overhead on our wake as we leave our perch. Like a sun dial, we circle, our shadows casting on the bleached sand below. It has been some time since our last meal, the pangs of hunger making us agitated. Our eyes scan the desert terrain, seeking out the dead and the dying to quell our need. The land is scarce, the only life around is sparse, resilient vegetation that we have no interest in. Only dead flesh and blood will do.

Only dead flesh and blood ever does.

The minutes drag by, worsening our hunger. Our shrieks are that of frustration. Seriously, why is it so hard to find something dead right now? The raptors in the forests clearly have it easier. They get to kill their prey. Apparently, it was ordained that we must take whatever is left. Quite unfair, really.

It seems best that we change course, but the Fates soon smile down on us. The succulent scent of the carrion is carried to our nostrils by a desert zephyr. High noon is so kind to us on most days, and this day it does not disappoint despite earlier doubt. Voracity charges us forward. In perfect synchronicity we swoop to the source of the mouth-watering decay. As one, each of our mouths moisten with the promise of the meal to come as we dive like a human’s missile.

Our claws land in the scorching sand, but the thermal discomfort is naught in comparison to our hunger. We are only a few feet from the festering feast, the flies having beaten us to it by more than a few days. But it is fine by us. Their incessant buzzing is like a homosapian’s dinner bell for us.

Today’s lunch is in the form of an echidna. No, not the human fairy tale of half serpent, half one of their shrill females. No, this is an aardvark’s angry cousin, and today it is our sustenance.

The flies buzz excitedly as they feast, the sound a siren’s call to our longing. The stench whets our appetites further as we imagine the sweet rot waiting our eager mouths. Our eyes widen as ravenous desire courses through our veins. The clueless maggots slither along the corpse, weaving through its sinew as consumes the atrophied meat.

Sweet Avia, we cannot wait!

Temptation bests us and one of our posse takes the first strip from the corpse without permeable. The rest of us follow. It is glorious! The delicious putrescence on our tongues is nothing short of orgasmic. The sound of each rip of flesh from the carcass heightening the sensation. Writhing larvae make for a delightful garnish. Buzzing flies a lovely seasoning. Congealed blood a perfect wine pairing.

Our screeches fill the air again, both in pleasure and challenge to each other. Each of us wanting the best portions for ourselves, despite our wake working as a pack. We peck at each other, claw at each other, shriek at each other. It is fleeting though, as or attention goes back to the task. We really are like humans in a lot of ways.

But, if we were humans, we’d think of some nonsense like savoring the feel of it. But our life spans our fleeting. Feeding on the dead, we scavengers know limited time better than all others.

We peck through the quills. Strip away the flesh. Swallow viscera like spaghetti. Hours pass and organs are consumed, leaving the mammal’s bones laid bare and our bellies full. Our wings spread and we soar into the sky, content for the time being.