The Famine

Her ancient mahogany rocking chair creaked as it floated in the evening breeze, and as the seat who had learned to hold her frail body so well that they might have even been merged together groaned at the loss of her weight, Sage leaned her tearstained face against the windowsill, and watched on as the buntings whom grandma had fed so well let out pitiful noises as they found no seed awaiting them.

The cold had arrived a few weeks ago, but the signs had arrived a month before, and as the world was readying for a d crisis, Sage’s family had been – as humans do – fighting over things that matter little. When the feuding passed it was too late. The frigid air, which pounded against the aged framework like no tomorrow, was the same air that claimed her life.

Sage, with her mind in a lapse of thought from sorrow, cast her own food insecurity aside, and tore off a chunk of bread she was carrying, creaked the door open a crack, and tossed it to the birds. The food floated through the air before landing with a soft thud on the icy surface, and the buntings all chirped excitedly, fluttered over, and ravenously tore at the food that they were not made to eat.

“I’ll find some seeds tomorrow, Sage murmured half-heartedly, knowing all the while that this was an almost impossible task.

The sun fell quickly, and that night Sage lay awake an old cot bursting with goose down. Sage shivered – the quilt Ma had hastily sewn together was made too thin and offered little warmth. Despite the odds, she was just managing to drift off when she heard voices. First they were hushed, just whispers bouncing off the walls, but then as Sage’s eyes widened with recognition they became audible. Sage crept down the stairwell and peered into the kitchen. Two silhouettes sat around the kitchen table, talking in the moonlight.

“Food is scarce, everyone’s terrified, and… you heard what happened to the baker's son.”

“You want us to leave? We met here, we lived here—”

“We can’t stay here, you know that just as well as me.”

“Yes we can! My mothe—”

“Jacob…” There was a pause and the sounds of agonized sobbing drifted into the air.

“To stay is a death sentence!”

“I-I-I can’t leave.”

“Jacob…”

“I CAN'T LEAVE!” Another pause. And a deep, deep breath.

“T-then, well then I have no choice.”

Sage bolted. She ran to her room, slammed the door behind her and dove under the covers. There she lay sobbing, as she listened to the sounds of hurried packing and eventually, a slamming door.

Sage didn’t sleep that night. She only got out of bed because she heard the bunting’s hungry chirps. As she climbed down the stairs, she saw her father sitting in the very same chair he had that night. He sat, unmoving, staring straight into space.

“Pa?” No answer. Sage considered just walking by him, but a question popped into her head.

“Pa? What happened to the baker’s son? For a moment there was silence. But then, to Sage’s horror, he started laughing – it wasn’t the nice warm chuckle Sage was used to though – this was something else, this was maniacal.

With a deep, raspy voice Pa answered. “Said he was so hungry that he started seeing things. Just walked out last night, he didn’t even bother putting on a coat. Said they found him the next morning face down in the snow.”

Sage turned away. Stepping outside, she traced a set of footprints leading away from the house. Following her mother's footsteps she walked out into an abyssal cold.

They found her the next morning, face down in the snow.