Saturday, 1 March 2014


by Chris White

She rose, engulfed in the swarm, eyes ablaze, copper discs behind the crush of black bodies, devouring those scraps that remained.

You have summoned me. Her voice was like birdsong, like the droning of bees, like the howl of hunting wolves. Desperate times, desperate measures. Different seasons, different pleasures. Her chitin-flesh crawled, a living-dead mockery of a smile. The burghers pressed back, away from this dead thing they had impregnated with power.

Her price was too high, always too high.

In the end they paid it, with the flesh and blood and bones of another child.

Winter ended. Spring began.

Author bio: Chris White is a freelance writer of many styles (but mostly magic realism and science fiction.) He lives in Brisbane, Australia, on the other side of the world. An emerging writer, he pours out a flurry of flash fiction and short stories, mostly here:

Famine is part of 101 Fiction issue 3.

No comments:

Post a Comment