2016-05-23 14:00 short-story fiction

Yum

When they said yum we said yum. We all said it. We said. Everything would happen at once, always, everything. When we said it was said. This is how it always. There was terror it selected. But it was always, we said. Nourishment is a sequence, always. And a pack, hunting. For lack of a better we said there were conditions. After all, we are the only, we must be careful.

Now as much as ever. Even always. If there is failure, we fail. It stuttered, it is delightful, to not be empty. Always we carefully select. From ourselves. When we eat, we diminish. As always we said, the selection. Any of us could be. There is equality. A hunger happens, and any of us could be. But we are not wasteful. We include, morsel by morsel, bite by bite.

The moons arc in the sky. As always. When it's time, the sounds too. Below, the chimes, the bells. A long time since the ratio. Things remain balanced, we add. We subtract.

Then it comes. As a whole. We all said it. It could be any of us. But it isn't, there are considerations. At time. When the moons arc in the sky and bite. The pattern, suddenly. A rush, because of hunger. When we said it was said.

It has been careful. We must, and the sounds. Crunching. Then wet.

The return, afterwards, slowly, and we churn again. In our pattern. Around the stone. We circle, because we must circle. As we said. Those of us eventually unaware but circling.

Before, as it was said, was different. This was said, about before circling there were other things to eat than us. All sorts of things. Yum.

We circle over them, a dust beneath us, crushed, until it is smooth and flat. Before, as it was said, different. We ate all the things. So hungry. And fewer things, we said, they used to roam freely not knowing. To be selected. But before as it was, they were hunted. Fewer of us. We did not circle, not like. We flew. We sped. We walked. Fewer of us, more room.

Then the stone, and circles. Now at once, we circle, consistently, smooth white roads. Some have kept little images. Of the things. Before us, as it was said. Those days the moon does not rise. In the dark and only sound. Of circling. To stop is to be eaten. There are considerations but it isn't. Then it comes as a while. We all said it.

There is no end, there is no beginning. Now as much as ever. Even always.