Liver blood dripped from its mouth. Its fangs glistened with the last of the secreted bile. There was another one gorging on the right kidney of our freshly deceased unborn second child. There were a score more squelching through the mud and scuttling round the side of the trench to join in the hunt for the coveted macula of the eye. The biggest of them all hissed as it jockeyed for position. It muscled its way in and started tearing. Its hairy snout twitched in lusty pleasure. The eye had popped out and now hung by its optic nerve connecting it to a retina long since clouded by brown mud and mustard gas. The chomp chomp chomp crescendoed till I could stand it no more and I reached for my bayonet. Despite the general prohibition, she shot off her rifle and got two or three, but the others were still loathe to leave the gorging. The succulence of soft, spongy liver always drove them wild. She was always less phobic than me. I could hardly look. But with my eyes shut it made fear worse. The pestilential bodies would crawl over my inert face. I often passed out with fear. They would sometimes gorge on it. They seemed to sense fear like they sensed an impending attack. Suddenly they scattered as quickly as they had come. It was because they likely knew what was about to happen better than we did.
Better even than our marriage counsellor did.
submitted at 8:38pm
9 May 2009
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