She hated Sundays. Breakfast was always late on Sundays. Things had changed lately and she did not quite understand what was going on.
There used to be food at all times. Now she can go hours on end without a bite.
She had grown a new mouth now, and she knew that as time goes by her mouth will grow bigger and hungrier and new mouths will develop.
She was a fine creation. The perfect predator in an imperfect ecosystem.
She wanted to grow as big as some of her relatives. She had heard so many stories of relatives of hers that had swallowed whole cars and people. So far, she had just chewed bits and pieces. Usually motorcycles at night, an occasional drunk, or a careless kid.
That’s the problem with late breakfast. It fills her soul with noises and ideas that do not belong to her. Waiting is not good for the soul; it makes you hungrier and desperate.
This was my entry to 
