The old folk remember silos brimming with grain, harvested from golden fields that reached the horizons. ‘A feast for eyes, then for bellies,’ they reminisce.
We see only dead, grey acres now. Bellies stay empty.
I can see our silo from our garden plot. There are two or three viable plants. I have the day watch. Mostly our barbed wire and dogs keep the scavengers out, but occasionally they sneak in. The old folk say they’re desperate, but I say we’re all desperate.
I can hear last night’s intruder moaning inside the silo. His hunger will be short-lived.
My story is for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who posts a photo prompt each Wednesday. The challenge is to write a complete story in 100 words or less.