Story

image source He’s around forty-five, and he’s the oldest person anyone in the band has ever known. Most of his back teeth fell out years ago. He can’t chew tough food anymore. Someone pounds his meat soft for him, or he eats organ meat and marrow instead. His hip and spine are so arthritic he moves stiffly, like his joints are made of wood. He hasn’t brought in a single kill in more than five years. The band is nineteen people, living on the edge of survival. And still, they keep him. ...

I open my eyes and I am on a chair. It is a coffee shop, but very empty. Too clean. Only straight lines, and a long wooden bar. There is no one behind the bar. No coffee machine sounds. No sounds at all. There is only one man. He sits at the bar, looking at a small black cup of espresso. I want one. A hot one. He does not drink it. He does not look at me. ...

Snow covers the jungle. It turns all the heavy trees white. A lone Arab in white clothes rides a white camel across the quiet ground. Only the camel’s soft steps break the silence. Soothing. Suddenly, a white wolf steps slowly out of the bushes. Its eyes fix on them. A low growl fills the air. The wolf leaps forward, biting hard into the camel’s leg. Red blood spreads quickly across the white snow. ...

“You belong to me.” The voice comes from behind me, soft and close. I try to turn around but I cannot move. I know this feeling. I am dreaming, but knowing that does not help. The voice comes again, louder this time. “You belong to me.” Again. “You belong to me.” It gets closer with each word, until I can feel warm breath against the back of my neck. I start to cry. Not because the voice is cruel. Because some part of me believes it. ...