"Not even a nibble?"
Food Fight
Snowfall! Cold dots of angry winter thorns! Power mounds of the softest,, and the COLDEST thing, that Crumble had ever had the misfortune to trample. She was a chunky thing, despite her lack of food in this colder winter weather. As much as It bit on those colder winter nights, This was the first winter the little sty calf had ever seen. Ever experienced. The pitter patter of Styracosaurus paws patted and rolled through the muddy earth. A sniffle and snort could be heard as her beak pulled a root up from being buried in the snow, she blew off her beak. though. And she stomped the ground. “Not food.” She decided. Grunting, perhaps it WAS food. Perhaps she could swallow it down, but still, it smelled all wrong. Tasted like dirt. She had been barely managing it all with the morsels she’d been engrossing herself on throughout most of the season, when food was hard to find, – she went hungry, so whenever the opportunity arose, she searched, and sniffed, and dug at the ground, tree bark, buried roots, dead grass. And ate.
She had been fast enough to avoid the jaws of the bigger, biting monsters on many occasions. Though she had been separated from her mother for what felt like far too many nights, and day. She could barely remember the shape of her face, or the color of her eyes. A far off painting of the past. Stubby styra stompers continued though, searching, foraging, sniffing. She hadn’t a single doubt that the night hunter predators would be coming for her, a danger that existed too all herbivores. And Especially plump little babies in the mid crisis of a dinner shortage. WELL JOKES ON YOU EVIL BITING BAD GUYS! Crumble knew how to avoid them — for the most part. Soon the grey winter sky seemed to shine a small beacon of light on the styra’s, unsuccessful, unfruitful — so far — day. Her beak dug at snow, and sifted through mud, many moments passed of this, went something big, and sweet, and fresh, and busted open bonked against her nose horn, never before had the Styras eyes gone so wide, never before had the blue of those big round disc’s spread and dance and light up at the sight. A scent that made her beak water. A plump, half busted open melon. A fruit. A FRUIT. IN THE WINTER MONTHS!
It. was. PERFECT! Her eyes were so preoccupied on the melon that she didn't notice the big, round, deer like stare of a watching parasaur. Not until she had her maw half loped over the melon. The melon. Scrunched in her beak, That was apparently — this parasours lunch. Or dinner.. Who knew, Crumble Quite frankly, she might not have until she heard the offended sounds of the others offended bleating. Or cared. Big, ocean blue eyes blinked back at the parasaur calf. And squinted, but kept munching.
“Do you mind?” The parasaur honked, looking as offended as Crumble felt, and she lifted her face, in a purely uninterested blink. “Mind what..?” — “Getting your face out of my food!?”
“Not anymore”
“What??”
“This melon… is mine now” The Styra replied, taking a massive chomp, picking up the melon in her beak, and galloped away. Leaving the parasaur… puzzled?
…. What … in the world..?
“WAIT, HEY!”
“STOP, MELON THEIF!—THAT IS MINE!”
Time flashed by in a wink for the Styra though, She lived because she had a good nose and sense of direction, she wouldn't apologize or show any regret for snatching food that filled her belly. When she thought she was clear, she dropped the melon down on a particularly flat bed of dirt, but at least it wasn’t snow, or sleet of mud. A perfect melon of THIS quality, was to be savored! Respected! Eaten! ….Calm down, it's just a melon.
With a jaw hung over the fruit, the Styra prepared to take a big massive bite- licking her beak, practically drooling as she hung her head over the big, juicy, heavy snack. When suddenly…. she felt a sharp pain in her lungs, a lack of breath. and a flash of the scenery around her, dead grass, and dirt and snow flew up in the sky, as the styra went down, or knocked too her side — stunned. Incredulous, positively offended. she found herself falling away from that PERFECT. SWEET. DELICIOUS MELON!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Her heart cried, she had been.
SO CLOSE!
“That. is. MINE.” the parasaur hooted, lashing her tail, stomping her stompers to emphasize the point, she had — HEADBUTTED CRUMBLE? HOW DARE SHE!
The audacity!!!
“BUT–” The Styra gasped, tossing her crested head in disbelief, but the headbutt had certainly driven the point through her head, “Finders keepers! I found it fair and square!”
“Nuh uh!. You stole it! – That is not how finders keepers work.” the parasaur snorted. Rolling her big brown eyes. And crumble let out a hoot of defeat. “But it looookkkss ssooo good.” The Styra huffed, swaying her tail in a whiney grumble. “I don’t care! You can’t have it.”
“Why nooooot???” — “Because! It wasn't yours to begin with! And YOU tried to take it” the para pouted, tossing her head with a series of angry snorts and hatchling hoots. Hoots that, pretty much flew over the Styracosaurus crest. She clearly hadn’t been taught sharing was caring, and the Styra rolled her eyes. The para simply stared the strange one down, CLEARLY this one hadn’t been taught that taking somebody else's food was. VERY disrespectful. How dare she!
Crumble stopped for a moment, slumping over to sit in the snow, a stumpy cold tail rolling over her stubby paws, she considered the parasours bellows, squinting for a moment. And a moment only. – the headbutt seemed to have gotten through to the Styra calf’s head more than any bleats or garbles or chitters probably could? or would. Crumble could remember a time before the great blanket of winter thorns. A time when her hatch mates would do the same, she remembered that much. So much as so to get a point across, to fight, or really? to play in general. She studied the other, and dragged her stubbed paws over the snowy, mud – dirt. Mix, “Not even a nibble?” she lifted her chin, lake blue eyes looking hopeful at the para.
“Nuh uh — Not even a nibble.”
There was a long – audible moment of complete silence between the two, when the frantic sounds of a worried mother came crashing through the clearing. “DIRE??”
Dire ?
Crumble looked at the parasaur and shifted to her paws, leaping back like a frightened cat, something.. Or SOMEONE. VERY LARGE. Had come crashing through the shrubbery. Followed by the baby steps of another young dinosaur. Crumble was gone. Far beyond the point where the mother of Dire came flying in through winter white bushes and overgrowth. “DIRE THERE YOU ARE! Where did you run off too??”
Dire looked back to the would–be-place where the Styra had been only moments ago, her mouth dropped open as she went to answer, but was too taken aback, that the smaller, greedier, dino like her mama had been able to scramble off so quickly. All that was left was a pile of prints in the hatchlings' wake. Not even a nibble… hm.
