Morsels by Richard Dickson

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But this is a meal to be savored. She is not one to gulp down her food like some uncouth beast. A piece here, a piece there a fine young thing like this could sustain her for weeks. They would have to be properly stored, of course, but in that, too, she is well-practiced. This is no amateur at work.

Warm satisfaction courses through her as she bundles them safely away. No one will see them there. No one will know the bounty she has stored. And now the days to come would be filled with breathless tantalization. Shall she take another bite now, or later? Will she sate her hunger, or tease it, like the wind on a summer day that may or may not bring rain?

Someone else approaches. She springs back to her place, watching. Ready.



"That was so fast!"

"Oh yeah, they're quick! They have to be, considering what they eat."

"Is it going to do it again?"

"Probably, but we'd best get inside. Your mother will have lunch ready soon."

"Aw, okay."

Disappointed, the boy gives one last look at the web and the dark fat spider perched at its center before following his father into the house.

He's suddenly hungrier than he can ever remember.