Prompt Day #1: Narrate a gory feasting from the point-of-view of a flock of vultures (third person plural; e.g., “We peck…”)Be sure to appeal to all five senses. Ok, I won’t lie. This one was tough. Great start, eh? Tried to make it creepy. See what you think…..
The Eaters of Death
We are the eaters of death. The perfume of decay, intoxicating, calls to us on the breeze. The air that carries its scent is thicker, tangible and we follow it like the road home. At times, we hear it calling, warning us of its imminent arrival. The screech of tires, a yelp of pain, perhaps the mourning cry of a baby whose mother lies on the asphalt; a feast awaiting the dinner guests, we heed the call. Death comes in stages and flavors. We turn away from none. Heeding the call, we circle and wait. Death at its freshest, when we are the first to arrive, is more than food to us. Here, we are companions, keeping the corpse company as its soul departs. Our banquet is a ceremony. We drink in the metallic fluids, still warm from the life that so recently mingled there. The flesh tears away easily, supple and tender. If we are very lucky, our feast was once a beloved pet. Pampered and lazy, but well fed, their tissues are plump. We eat as one, devouring in silence. There is plenty for all and every bite, a delicacy. When we are late to arrive, and other carrion feeders crawl about the bloated, fetid remains, there is a bustling, buzzing about the air. The hum of survival can be felt as well as heard. One creature subsisting upon another as it is meant to be. The overripe meat writhes with the frenzy of those that take nourishment from it. We take in beak-fulls of reeking, putrid tapioca filled with briny larvae still feeding on their birthright as they themselves are eaten. Before we move on, bones and fur are brought up and left behind, mementos of Nature’s carousel; round and round, life to death to life again. You mustn’t fear us. We do not bring death; we only reap the spoils of it. This is not to say, that if given the opportunity, we would not feed upon your human flesh. Sweet and salty, your smooth skin peels from its connections in strips and we greedily slurp it down. Humans do not eat to survive like we do. You all eat as if you know no other use for your soft, succulent bodies. The fat below your skin is gelatinous honey custard to be savored before reaching the muscles you do not use. Each bite of the soft, velvety fibers caresses our throats like a lover. Ah, yes. You are a rare delicacy because humans foolishly hide their dead in wooden boxes, under slabs of concrete buried far beneath the surface of the Earth where you think you can escape us. Let us remind you that we vultures are not the only eaters of death. Eaters are all around you, within you, biding their time until you, too, board Nature’s carousel and that which you have consumed, consumes you.