A Meager Feast
They eat hungrily, hurriedly—but not much—then pay the bill in cravings. Their chair legs drag deep,
slow lines in the sandy substrate as they push back from the table and lugubriously float loose. Climb an
old wooden ladder speckled with flecks of bodily fluids, span the gaps of missing rungs, and exit through
thick cracks in a crystal sunroof. Walk across the surface. The late afternoon sunlight lies in rhombuses,
shining through the lattice that encircles the world; the vast shadow crosshatch creeps ever closer to
satiety, spared daily—just in time—by sundown.
His fat hangs from him like dripping wax that's starting to cool and resolidify. The village children flock
around him to squeeze and massage it with morbid fascination, their small greasy fingers swallowed into
the depressions they make. He's too laggard to giggle or protest or defend himself in any way, and really
all he wants is to go steal coins from the bottom of the fountain in the town square. A barrier of light from
the setting sun splays across the surface of its water like an oil slick. The birds' buttery warbling in the
trees reaffirms that dusk is coming. They won't take wing again.
Eric Mohrman is a writer living in Orlando, FL. He's the author of the chapbook "Prospectors" (Locofo Chaps, 2017), and his work has appeared in BlazeVOX, Ygdrasil, Prick of the Spindle, Moria, Portland Review and other journals.