In the hushed crossover between night and day, I find the waif in the dank kitchen. Long, lank hair pasted across a tiny acorn head, her brittle shell bowing over the crate which holds the last of our crumbs.
‘What are you doing?’
Startled she turns holding the clump of stale bread, her sunken cheeks smeared with sickly shadow.
I hold the gaze of hollow eyes, empty of soul.
A familiar scent ignites the air as she brushes past, memory of her mother.
Tomorrow we will forage again. Tomorrow we will survive.
by Bart Elbey
From: Friday Flash Fiction