The Waker

Plop!

It wakes, but cannot say why. It has no words, not even “I”. But it knows … something.

Plunk!

Something new. In the cold dark, it cannot even think “dry”, ‘rock”, “earth” - it has never known these things.

It knows only hunger.

With a flick and a slish it stretches out, seeking.

It is there, where the water thins and burns its eyes: an intoxicating, almost forgotten taste of prey, and with it … something else – a calling, a plea, and, almost … a name.

It has never had a name; it has never known it wanted one, so very badly.