It was the last thing in the world he’d consider, and the first thing he’d run away from, but he was in a strange place, starving, and no other option had presented itself.

He stayed low to the ground, watching it.  His stomach growled with anticipation, yet his mind continued the compelling argument.

You can’t eat that.

He shook his head, and the thought, out of his mind.

The creature stood directly in front of him, waiting, clueless, rummaging through the debris left behind from the plane crash.

Somehow a smile of irony slid across his lips as he thought of his wife’s last words before leaving the house to go to the airport, “Make sure you take your emergency kit and put it back on the plane.”

He had been flying all his life.  Single prop engine Cessna’s since the age of nineteen.  It was standard procedure to trade out the items in the survival kit every so often.  He had taken it home to restock and then brought it back to the hanger, but left it in the trunk of the car.

Before his last flight, he had never flown without his survival kit.

Before his last flight, he had never come close to crashing.

Poetic.

Now he was forty-two, alone, in the middle of nowhere.  He kept telling himself he was just lucky to be alive, but that only worked for the first few days.  The thirst, hunger and fatigue were getting to him, not only physically.  He was starting to think irrationally.

He needed to eat and the closest thing that resembled food that he had seen in four days was ten yards in front of him.

You can’t eat that.

Yes.  Yes he could.  And he would, somehow.

He reached to his side for the makeshift spear and held it tight in his hands.

He moved closer and the animal remained.  Closer still and it raised it’s head for a moment and then went back to searching the debris.

Lunging, he rammed the spear and hit his mark.  Whaling and shrieking the creature fought, briefly.  He pushed the spear deeper, choking it more, and waited it out.

Then there was silence.  The beast lay motionless, a small pool of blood around the wound.  He poked the animal again for good measure.

Dead.

He didn’t know how it would taste, but he knew it would be the best meal he ever had, even if it might be his last.

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First sentence of this story submitted by Justin Y. Voted as top submission for week of September 10, 2012.  

This is my very first ‘Sentence to Start’.  Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!