Jan/Feb 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 1 Fiction |

Three Parts of Hunger

The lion we called the "old man" was rail thin with ribs bulging like so many horns of animals he had devoured in a deep past that no longer belonged to him. Since he stretched his mangled neck forward and raised his lower jaw, dipping his heavy cranium briefly toward the ground, he sent his call out low across the land. Though his strong voice caromed, the scrub brush, the fossil river, the challenge of hills, even the loose sand itself all marred the sound as it wavered across the dune slopes. And the dry desert air made a poor vessel for that bellow. So during our first week at Bape when I would lie alone in the tent, listening, betting he was off patrolling the still distances, I'd be wrong. Instead, before I could move, the lion would be twelve feet out and his slow-swaying yellow eye would oval vertically too high above the dark earth for me to call, "brown hyena, you," whose eyes at night are nearly green, or "black-backed jackal with your silver flare," whose glance is rippe

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Wil Weitzel received his MFA at New York University’s Writers Workshop in Paris. His stories have appeared inEpoch, Kenyon Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, The O. Henry Prize Stories, and elsewhere. He was an NYC Emerging Writers Fellow at the Center for Fiction, won the Washington Square Review Flash Fiction Award, and is currently at work on a novel.

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