No Chance

In the beginning, there was a horn. A little sharp horn on an orange beak jutting from a scaly reptilian head. This head was not pretty in the least: It was wet, glistening from never having felt fresh air in its brief existence, wrinkly and squashed against an equally soggy, crumpled body nestling in a dingy grey, leathery egg. The horn worked like a scalpel, head butting the shell again and again from within, until finally the creature had sliced a hole large enough to wriggle, slowly and with much effort, out of. It let out a shrill screech when freed, and was alone in a nest of plant stalks, two additional eggs sitting like twin pearls. Soon its mother came, a small pterosaur, just in time to prevent her newly-hatched offspring from rolling its siblings out of the nest, as the young dinosaur was actively attempting. He issued an angry screech before realizing she had brought scraps of meat for his growling stomach. Hungrily, the winged newborn filled himself before settling into the deep sleep of one who has worked so hard in his efforts at making his way into the wide world.

When the creature awoke, he was once again alone in the nest, his mother presumably out hunting for his next meal. For a while he waited, screeching in an effort to expedite his mother's return. Realizing this was useless, he set to work pushing the egg of an unhatched sibling out of his domain. His brown-orange beak prodded the egg, scrawny chicken-like legs straining, wings outstretched for balance. The egg pushed up the slope of the nest, nearing the top before the young dinosaur lost his footing and the egg rolled downward once more, a Sisyphean futility that hit him in the head. He shook his tired body out, gathered strength, and pushed once more, this time getting results for his hard work in the form of the egg dropping to its demise on the ground below. The young dinosaur fell exhausted into the nest and napped yet again.

The plantlike bouquet of fresh fish brought the youngster into awareness. He snapped greedily at the second meal of his short life, enjoying the scents and tastes that were regurgitated for him. His mother settled into the nest, resting now between hunts. Mother and child watched the quivering of the last egg. The mother pterosaur had already lamented her other lost baby, smashed on the rocks below. Now she cared wholly for the health of her remaining spawn. The hint of an egg-breaking horn disturbed the eggshell, and several hours later a brand new dinosaur emerged, wrinkled and wet, smaller than the firstborn. The mother cawed, setting out immediately in search of food for her newest. The firstborn pterosaur examined his new brother cautiously, suspiciously, selfishly. In one moment of horror, he bit at his new nest mate, still tired and not yet dry. He snapped and bit at the runt, bits of his kin's flesh swallowed the same as the fish, until only useless remains were left, thrown out of the nest, pieces sticking to the rim as if unwilling to let go of newly acquired life. The little pterosaur sat, satisfied, his birthright fulfilled as he digested his brother, alone.

The blood-stained sun sunk on the ancient horizon as the young dinosaur sat, waiting for his mother's return. It was evening... twilight... dusk. The first star winked in the night sky, then another, another, and finally the mother arrived. She was injured grievously, missing a part of her left leg, scratched up, wings battered. She made squeaks of suffering, sounds the youngster understood immediately, instinctually. She was too hurt to notice her third son was dead and gone. The youngster drifted to sleep, her cries resonating in his head.

The brilliance of the new day woke the young dinosaur. He blinked at the brightness of his first sunrise, and noticed the absence of his mother. He knew something was wrong. He looked around, out of the nest, to see the meat being pulled off his mother's bones by scavengers who had found her, fallen out of her nest. The pterosaur sharply recognized his own frailty and hunger. If only his mother hadn't left for a hunt; if only he hadn't killed his brothers, he wouldn't be alone in this world, alone in his young suffering. He sat waiting, starving, alone in his selfish dominance.