Amber Waves of Pain


The spot on the rack that had been holding that last loaf was empty. He had planned to feed his children for a week on that loaf, only to find his oasis in a desert of hunger dried and barren.

He wept.

He returned home and found his children sleeping, but even then the grumbling was apparent, and the tiny hands clutching tiny, empty stomachs was very visible even in the dimly lighted room. He had failed them, again, with what could be deadly consequences.

When the children woke the next morning, their father’s prized rifle had been taken from the wall. A note to “be good” was all that had been left.

One way, or another, they would not go hungry tonight.

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