by Ryan Bridger
Tristis readjusted himself on his perch, which at the moment consisted of a predatory creature’s exposed rib, blood streaking across its torn fur.
The irony never escaped the crows, that the Chaos brought with it such extravagant feasting. When the Watchers first disappeared, there was of course the inevitable panic. Who would provide the scraps? Who would carelessly discard boxes and bags—so easily ripped by opportunistic beaks—hiding such valuable delicacies? Who else could possibly act as such punctual providers?
As it turned out, the crows that called out to leave had squawked too soon: the chaos provided in its own way.
Tristis, unlike the cowards, never doubted. He sensed the coming feast soon after the Watchers had disappeared—perhaps the very day. Above him, cries of his Murder filled the air, reminding him what could have easily been disaster in the Watchers’ sudden absence was instead a tidal wave of good fortune.
He tore another strip of flesh from the carcass. In life, the beast would have been impressive, but now it was little more than an eyesore along the gravel path. Tristis, hungry, felt obligated to remove it.
A nearby cage rattled. The poor beast inside stared greedily at Tristis and his prize. In the old days, the Murder would have never been granted a cage—those were reserved for greater specimens, like the escapee he fed upon.
Tristis took another gulp, made sure the beast was Watching.
(Ryan Bridger wanders the deserts of Nevada lamenting the demise of the dinosaurs.)