OLD (A Prehistoric Short Fiction)

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Young And Old

Sex is always on the minds of men. The excitement of procreation and feeling of dominance over a woman fills their lucid dreams more often than any others. Urk, doubly so; he often had many a dream of such delights. When he was a young leader, he had lots of sex with many young females that caught his fancy (a few slightly older ones too). There were several occasions in his past where orgies would spontaneously blossom out of the sheer moment of ecstasy.

Sometimes there would be the odd male giving him anal pleasure in those heated throes of passion, but, Urk didn’t seem to care too much if it happened. Although, he did rather prefer being with the females, they simply had more to offer when it came to sex. And if one wanted to have children, well, it was just obvious which gender provided that. Yes, these dreams and memories were of his prime years; a manly figure of strength, vigorous with vitality, and days of glory he’d always remember fondly.

Urk continually dreams about all the ones in the tribe now he’d to have his way with; young girls that spark his interest, with shapely breasts and curved hips for birthing children. Even the ones he had before, long days past, returned to his fantasies. It was the drive for instant satisfaction that occupied his mind. Urk discovered that the older he got, the more sex he craved, the more it flooded his thoughts. And so, he would grow hard and pleasure himself while in mid—dream.

But soon, the sex dreams would fade (once they had served their purpose), and they’d shift to reflect on more personal memories of his family. Good moments that he shared with them all, and perhaps, a few of the bad ones as well; the joy of being with his children, helping them and teaching them of what he had learned, and watching them have fun as they hunted together.

A lifetime of experience and memories danced about in his dreams. He would never know if this was where he was, in that time, or if this was all an illusion and he was still just a small child in his loving mother’s arms. Back and forth, future and past, these all felt so real to him. It was hard to know where or when he was in them. But something didn’t feel right in one of those memories, a sharp pain that affected his leg, he looked down and saw it was open and bloody. He didn’t know what from, as one of the tribe members came over and poked at it with their fingers.

This was a fear he once had. After taking a bad fall one day off of a side of a rocky hill. He remembered the blood, the pain and the one tribe member who finally showed up after his long terrified screams. This one was always hanging around the injured. Urk yelled at him to get away. But the tribesman smiled and forced his hand inside, he pulled and tugged on the exposed femur.

This caused Urk to panic and shouted in terror. The tribesman chuckled, licking his lips with wide eyes as he watched Urk yelp from his forceful touch. He continued to yank, pull and rip the flesh even more. Urk couldn’t believe what was happening and finally tried to punch the man in the face. Two swipes never made contact, as the torturer laughed heartily at his attempts, but then Urk pulled back his arm and gave him the final blow.

* * *

What he was swinging at, in the real world, was a large vulture bird. His fist smacked the winged animal hard and the sharped beak predator fell off. It was stunned slightly from his brutal attack. Urk finally had woken up and shouted at the bird in horror. He gave it a few more hard punches until it was no longer twitching its head. The vulture, who tried to eat him thinking he was dead, was now dead itself.

Urk stood up as best he could. His right leg had been gnawed on by this vulture, and apparently the others still hanging about on some rocks and circling in the air. Urk shouted, screamed and kicked violently at them, hoping that would scare them off. And it did, for the most part. The ones circling in the air had little to fear seeing how he was on the ground. The old man tried hurling some stones at them (rather unsuccessfully), and cursed at his would-be attackers. If there was ever a moment in history where they could document man’s first middle finger salute, Urk would have been the founding father of that gesture.

Once the vultures gave up on having him as their meal, flying away from him, the old man returned to the one still dead on the ground, and kicked it with his foot. He was checking to see if it was living at all. Once he pounded on it few more times with the soles of his feet one last time, he grabbed hold of the bird by its legs and flung it over his shoulder. At least he would have a good meal on his journey.

As he took a step, he winced in pain, and looked down at his injury. The birds had sawed through the meat and a large gash was oozing out blood. He seemed frustrated looking at it. Not knowing how or with what he could do to stop it from bleeding. Plucking a few feathers from the vulture’s carcass, he tried mopping it up with it and then pressed some onto the wound (hoping it would stick).


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