Lips curled back over deadly fangs. Powerful jaws snapped open and shut between yips and snarls. The gazelle’s heart slammed into its ribcage and adrenaline filled its veins as it ran, surrounded on all sides, through the tall, yellow grass of an open prairie. It searched wildly for an opening, but found none. Its strong legs grew heavier with every leap and bound. The four canines, distinguishable from wild wolves only by their shorter snouts and smaller frames, knew that their prey was tired. They pursued the faltering animal ruthlessly, nipping and biting at its calves and thighs. Finally, the largest of the predators, the Alpha, sank its fangs deep into the tan thigh of the fleeing animal.
The gazelle was dragged, stumbling, to a halt, and half-a-dozen thin sticks adorned with feathers and tipped with stone, penetrated its quivering flesh from neck to chest. In releasing their arrows, the hunters, who had trailed the canines closely during the chase, were careful to avoid injuring the Alpha, whose fangs still gripped their target. As the gazelle fell, lifeless, to the ground, yells of victory rose up amongst the tribe. They would eat well that night. Their wolf-like companions added their voices to the celebration, for they would share in the spoils of the hunt. The Alpha released its deathly grasp on its now still victim, and the canine’s tail swung as the hunters patted the head of their furry ally.
Thousands of years later, on the other side of the world, lips curled back over deadly fangs. Powerful jaws snapped open and shut between yips and snarls. No wild chase was necessary. The young calf was not swift like a gazelle, and it was surrounded in all directions by wooden fencing. The young animal could not have run far. Under the cover of night, the wolf pack singled out its target, and in the darkness, devoured it. Human yells followed the hunt, but the cries were not those of celebration. In the following days, the blades of helicopters whipped calm mountain air into a great, angry gale, and men hung from the metal sides with long range rifles at the ready. Old and great pine trees bent and shook as the wingless birds swept over the forests in search of their prey.
Flash Fiction by Dylan Foster
Illustrations by Kristen Lowe
Design by Lindsay Trombly