More

chickenMore.

She wants more.

She wants to crunch bones and rend flesh. She wants to use her teeth and hands to tear and grind.

A cacophony of sound rushes around her, high pitched and frantic. The others, unaware of her desire, have yet to realize the danger they are in. They move around in slow, lumbering circles of interaction. The young ones frolic together in screeching piles of limbs, too young to be wary, too distracted to sense her presence.

She prowls the edges of the space, watching with narrowed eyes.

She wants more.

She can still taste the juices of the first one, still recall the way it gave under the strength of her jaw. He can almost feel her teeth sinking into the meat of it. She groans with remembered pleasure.

She wants more.

She’s almost there. Just a few more steps, slow and measured, to avoid scaring those gathered around her chosen prey.

She will have more.

She snags the barbecue chicken wings from the tray just before the neighbor’s greedy kid gets his dirty fingers on them.

“Hey!”

She bares her teeth slightly and narrows her eyes, holding her plate out of the kids reach. His eyes widen a little. He turns without uttering another sound and waddles back to the picnic table where he tugs at his mother sleeve and points back toward the grill.

She doesn’t care. Barbecue sauce drips down her chin as she sinks her teeth in.

She has more.

*7/17/17 prompt: gluttony, victory, addiction

(I am way prouder of this than it deserves.)

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