by Joseph Wheeler
The scattered remains of a dead possum kept the buzzards interested. They weaved back and forth across Crimson Canyon, a vile place that earned its moniker from the continual bloodshed that stained its dusty walls. An excited squawking began among the flock as a figure, back lit by the hazy veil of twilight, stepped into their view. His body was sculpted out of walnut, and his large figure conjured a shadow that stretched out miles behind him. The remains of his shirt clung to his massive figure, only held there by endlessly oozing wounds. The disgusting creatures and their grease-covered wings began to follow him. He gave them a quick glance and continued to push his way through the canyon. Time passed slowly. More buzzards appeared now. The smell of them lingered around him, coating him in their putrid perfume. The man’s dried lips let out a half-hearted cough. They began to get closer. The canyon had significantly narrowed at this point, and there was just enough room for the man to move through with his shoulders scraping the sides. One of the biggest buzzards figured that the man was about dead, and swooped down to begin the feast. When he was about a yard away, he opened his beak in anticipation. He had eaten man before, and he liked it. But the man was not as dead as he appeared. One of his arms shot toward the old scavenger. His massive hand tightly clenched around the bird’s neck. It had begun to desperately flap when its body was smashed into a lumpy protrusion jutting out from a boulder. The man took a long swig from the buzzard, drinking in as much of its blood as he could muster. He threw what remained of it behind him and continued his journey, leaving a sacrifice for the swarming mass above him. Dinner was served.
