The vulture circles in the air waiting for its prey to die. The hunter and the hunted form an eternal, perpetually recurring partnership, with each one beholden to the other in a manner which, if the vulture or its prey could think or write or talk, would sully the purity of what is, in their voiceless, illiterate way, a perfectly symbiotic relationship. The vulture exists to tear, to bite, to rend, to gnash, to ravage skin and flesh and fur and organs, to feast on steaming warm meat and pulsing entrails, to bathe itself in warm blood, while the prey exists as the complete opposite, its newborn flesh impressed with the certainty that death will via teeth or claw or beak.
The vulture circles while its prey, a small mammal that has strayed from the security of its pack, lowers its head and croons softly in the primal knowledge that the inevitability of its death has become concrete, actualised in the form of the vulture high above, for it has seen the bird, and knows that it does not know how to return to the pack.
Fifty metres away two people, both men, writhe in pleasure as guitar music from their radio echoes out over the plains. One of the men, the smaller, gives a start as he hears a howl that belongs to neither him nor his partner, but soon forgets all about it as they continue on into the afternoon. These snatched times are brief, rare, and indescribably important to the two of them, who were not born with, but had come to learn that, the affection they felt was not appreciated or respected by their time and place. Nonetheless, compulsion cleaves them together, and they wouldn’t have it other way.
And the music plays on.
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The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website. I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.