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“How do you like yours?” he asked, scrubbing the worn jackknife blade against his tattered jeans. He squatted, slowly, surveying the struggling campfire, stabbing the darkening embers with the knife. His words felt forced and tired, heavy.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought, what would the others say? They were 62 days out and the last surviving members of the party. Any hope of a rescue had long faded away.

“Well?” He gazed downward at the gelatinous pink mass and carved a thick pale slice. Their eyes locked in a sodium-saturated stare.

“Fried” she replied. “Fry, baby, fry”. 

By Melissa Kro.

100 word story
Fry

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