The old man stared at the freshly carved carcass in the middle of his rickety dinner table. He should’ve had a smile on his face. He should’ve been proud that he had provided once again during this unusually harsh winter.
But nobody was happy.
“Father, what were you thinking?” asked one daughter.
“Clearly, he wasn’t…” a son chimed in.
In his defense, how was he to know that the blue-breasted frostwing was on the verge of extinction? Where was the proclamation from the Queen?
The old man leaned back and shook his head.
His family – ingrates, the lot of them.
The Weekday One Hundred 