PHOTO PROMPT – © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
All season they march out, culinary soldiers, to our raised bed, pillaging our peppery leaves and primary-colored blossoms. Armed with birchwood baskets, their hands reach with harvesting intent, plucking at-will, collecting our dismembered corpses with bright smiles. Some even whistle as they work. Then back they trudge to dissect and torture their plunder.
When sun reaches zenith, their generals come, line along the windows, make us watch as they grind our friends between their molars, washing them down with the crushed corpses of our neighbors who’ve been culled from the vines.
Ghosts of the fallen line the tables, never released.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the smiling host of Friday Fictioneers.