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The Day My Hunger Died

      Hunger. I awake, gasping for breath. Where am I? The mountain, I’m beneath the soft overhang of the mountain—I must have been out all day. I’m starving, when did I last eat? An hour ago? A day ago? A week ago? I’ve got to get something to eat before I collapse again from exhaustion and lack of food. It’s dark again; my senses perk up—food. I can barely see a thing in this blackness around me. I crawl away from my resting place, sending out feelers fumbling around in the pitch black, searching for nourishment—all the while that smell of some unidentified delectable alighting in my nose, urging me on. I can’t leave my hiding place and venture into The Open. Many a roach has been snatched away unawares never to be seen again for going out into The Open.

        The Enemy. It’s always there, ready to pounce—controlling the elements, turning light to dark and dark to light at will. How many has it taken? It must be thousands or more at least. Wasn’t it just the other day that I heard about the roach that was caught trying to climb into the tower of refuse? My own father disappeared while he sought to sate himself drinking from the fountain of sporadic waters, not only was the water boiling hot on that particular day but it gave away his position to his killer.  The thought of the faceless Enemy with its thundering approach, signaling doom to all who hear it, sends a shiver down my carapace. Enemy or no, I’ve got to eat—I need to find that food and quickly.

        Staying in the relative safety of the protective overhang, my antennae probing the ground in front of me, I search for my illusive meal. Crawling around the metal boulders of various shapes and sizes that litter my world their cold touch reminding me of the sad state I find myself in this night. I pick my way through the massive cavern that has been keeping me safe and out of sight, inching, always inching closer to life, food, the reason I exist.

        The food! I sense it. There, ahead of me. I rush toward it until I reach the outermost limit of the overhang that has been keeping me out of the ever-present gaze of The Enemy. I see it now in the dim light of the dark night; it looks like a piece of the orange, fish-shaped substance. Possibly one of the most plentiful finds to be found simply lying in the Open like this. Unless I was willing to risk life and limb scaling the plastic walls to the bounty of the silver bag, you take what you can get out here. Beggars can’t be choosers after all.

        By now the smell of the orange delicacy in front of me is unbearable, my stomach groans within me—speaking to me of its barren emptiness and pain. I can’t risk it! But I must, I’ll either die here for want of food or risk a suicide mission, setting off into the perilous no-man’s land known as The Open to get it—not the best scenario for a bug. I can imagine the savory saltiness of that orange treat, the crunch of it in my mandibles intoxicating me…I lull off into fantasies of chewing the crunchy, salted substance before me. If I don’t eat it someone else will. I’m going—there’s nothing to lose.

        I hesitantly emerge from the towering citadel of safety out into that vast dangerous expanse of unknown. Using extreme caution I creep toward my edible goal—all the time feeling around, listening for danger. Curse this darkness! I can hardly see anything. I’m close now and getting closer—my trusted antennae quickly groping the hard exterior shell of my prize. I can’t wait any longer; I take a bite and chew with ecstasy—savoring every mouthwatering crumb between my jaws. I lose myself in the abundant feast before me.

        What is that sound? Like the concussive and repetitive thud of distant thunder I detect the approach of The Enemy. One more bite, just one more—I can risk it for it may be my last. Before the salted deliciousness is upon my teeth I see it.

        The Light! I can’t see—my eyes are burning! I’m blinded for a moment as The Enemy utilizes its control over the sky and removes the shroud of darkness hugging the room. I’ve got to get back to the cave. I stumble right and then left—I’m disoriented, I don’t recognize surroundings in the sudden profusion of light. The deep rumbling grows louder and faster and draws closer.

        In an instant, before I can run, I am hoisted into the air with no degree of concern for my well-being or comfort. I’m enclosed in some kind of soft blanket of sorts, but unable to move. A moment later, a tremendous pressure is applied to my frame and closes in around me from all sides—I’m being crushed! My limbs and feelers are smashed without mercy and my lower body nearly severed from my upper half. The pain is exquisite—kill me now please! How am I not dead yet? My body has now become a tangled mess of limbs, innards and shards of exoskeleton. ‘I will not survive this’ I think to myself and then I begin to fall.

        Water! I’m sinking, I’m paralyzed to try and swim to safety, I can’t breathe—I’m drowning! I close my eyes as my lungs fill with cold water—letting the pain take me withersoever it will. Before I collapse from my broken body and liquid-filled lungs I hear the sound of a great rushing water and feel that I’m being pulled down, down into a place from I which I know I won’t return. Flushed out from existence.

"The Toughest Man I Ever Fought"

       Ron Lyle gingerly jumps up and down in quick succession, his eight-ounce boxer’s gloves dangling from his muscled arms like a pair of lead weights. Never since his first match at Colorado State Prison had he fought a more important match. George Foreman, the reigning heavyweight champion, could he win against a foe so formidable?

 DING! DING! DING! No time to think about that now. In a flash, Lyle is lunging toward his larger opponent. They meet, their gloves gently tapping, testing, looking for an opening to make the first move and take the offensive—all the time he is bounding around Foreman like some kind of hulking kangaroo. Lyle notes something; Foreman’s left side appears a tad weak. An opening? A chink in the impenetrable armor?

 In an instant, Lyle throws all he’s got into a right hook aiming for the mouth-guarded face of his assailant—a costly mistake for within moments Foreman’s own gloves briefly connect with Lyle’s jaw sending his mind into a brief reel, alerting him to his faux pas, promptly reminding him to keep his guard and his fists up. The two boxers still continue their dangerous dance around the ring, locked together for fear of each exposing an opening to his enemy—their sweat mixing and filling nostrils with the pungent odor of perspiration.

        They separate; straightaway both fighters are employing every ounce of their skill to beat the other to a pulp. With fists flying, the view in front Lyle is instantly bombarded with the mighty swings and jabs of his larger opponent—punctuated ever so briefly with split-second glimpses into the eyes of his attacker. He dodges and ducks; deftly maneuvering and feinting every which way to avoid the onslaught of punches, parrying, biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment.

NOW! A quick left jab hits home on Foreman’s face; he immediately follows his success with a powerful left swing to the side of his erstwhile attacker’s head. He’s got George on the run now—he presses the attack, unleashing a barrage of quick but painful punches to Foreman’s body and face. He’s got him scared now, his cocky arrogance that was so apparent at the beginning of the match is now gone, the mighty George Foreman is starting to feel something he hasn’t felt before. Slowly a feeling of fear and doubt creeps down his spine.