Poor monkeys

 

A poor monkey sat hunched beneath the withering shade of a leafless tree, his ribs pressing sharply against thinning fur. His eyes, once bright and curious, had grown dull and sunken. Days had passed since he last tasted anything more than a few bitter leaves or the crusted remains of fruit discarded by others. The forest around him, once bursting with life, had changed — trees bore no fruit, the streams ran dry, and the insects he used to chase had long vanished.

Each morning he searched, dragging his feet over cracked soil and brittle grass. He would climb weakly from branch to branch, sniffing for the scent of ripe figs or berries, but there was nothing. Hunger gnawed at his belly, a sharp and constant ache. When he came across other monkeys, they hissed and chased him away. There wasn’t enough for anyone, and certainly not for a feeble outsider.

He sat still now, curled up with his tail wrapped tightly around him, conserving what little strength remained. A breeze passed through, rustling the brittle leaves, but brought no comfort. A single droplet of rain landed on his nose, and he blinked slowly, lifting his head in tired hope. But it was only a tease — the sky remained dry and gray.

Once, he had been quick and clever, swinging from trees and chattering loudly. Now, he made no sound. The jungle had forgotten him. Even the birds no longer sang overhead. He dreamed, sometimes, of juicy mangos and sweet bananas, of playful chases and warm sunlight on his back. But dreams could not feed him.

As dusk settled in, he closed his eyes again, listening to the hush of the dying forest. He was still hungry. But more than that — he was alone.