Eastward, as black horizon domes with pink birth, animals stir on cold concrete. I am one of them; I am a lion. Sharing the hunger pangs of my cub that is nestled in her mother's mane beyond the jagged mountain, I flex my paws and wait, sensing victory. The others, too, shaking off the night's chill and stiffness, smell the hunt, and position themselves to explode. Enshrouded in breathy steam pouring from our faces, we are quiet within a collective mist of savagery.
  
The sun's blooming rays show the breach, and we are quick to exploit. Squeezing shoulder to shoulder among the mob, the grunts of bears intertwine with bleating sheep as I muscle into the cave, pinned in a funnel of stampeding agendas. Muddy hoofs and crimson talons rush toward my face as I keep my head low and legs churning. Once through the bottleneck, the pack sprays in all directions, keen to devour.
  
The glare of artificial dawn is blinding, and I rely on instinct to guide me. I think only of my cub's hunger. Brightly-colored beach balls jiggle in their cages as I rush past. The breeze off my back kicks up the blue smocks of terrified clerks who clutch and weep as they stumble from my path. Locked on my prey, I surge through a clearing of white tile. As the sinewy claw of a wrinkled buzzard stretches for my prize, I loose a deep roar and pounce.

The gray-haired bird, feeling the weight of my flight, hunkers down. I greedily snatch what's mine. Curved beak agape, her eyes harden. With echoes of youth, she flaps her aged wing wildly. A leather purse grazes my brow.
        “Asshole!” she cries. “I wanted that Ballerina Barbie for my granddaughter!”
        I boom triumphant, unfazed by her laments, and then swat a Hanna Montana doll into her hands.
  
  
               About the Author
  
        Mel Bosworth lives and breathes in Massachusetts.  In addition to writing, he enjoys quiet time with his cat, shoveling snow, nude sunbathing, and drinking chocolate milk.  His work has appeared in Atomjack Magazine, Debris Magazine, and Residential Aliens, to name a few. For links to these publications and others, please visit eddiesocko.blogspot.com  (ages 18 and older, unless accompanied by an adult), where you can also read work that he just couldn’t kick out of the house.
    
    
    
    
                                  Copyright © Mel Bosworth