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The stranger appeared on the ninth day of the hunt. At first I thought him a vision brought on by hunger, sleepless nights, and a week spent with no sign of game, but then the dogs took note, their ears wilting and tails curling beneath them in fear. HUNGRY NOW? the stranger asked, pointing at the smallest dog. NO, I replied, unsure how I was hearing him above the howl of wind. He nodded. HUNGRY SOON. And then he left, though I do not recall him walking away. I slept next to the dogs that night, and dreamed of teeth and blood and fur. When I awoke, the smallest dog was gone, and my mouth tasted of iron and rot. As I washed off the red, I thought of the stranger. How the wind that scoured my face never seemed to touch his clothes or hair. How his mouth never moved when he spoke. How I could not be sure which of us had said those words. HUNGRY SOON.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Aziz Acharki
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