Sebastian Pearce – Flash fiction with an Edge

A story by Sebastian Pearce based on the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt:

People always ask me what gets better with age. I tell them wisdom, wine, cheese—the usual answers. But I know the real truth now. What gets better with age is the hunger.

It started when I turned sixty. A gnawing emptiness that food couldn’t fill. My doctor ran tests, found nothing wrong. “Sometimes appetite changes as we age,” she said, prescribing vitamins and suggesting I eat smaller, more frequent meals. I nodded and smiled, but I knew she wouldn’t understand. This wasn’t about food.

The hunger grew stronger each year. By sixty-five, I’d lost thirty pounds despite eating constantly. My family worried, staging interventions, bringing casseroles, begging me to see specialists. I went through the motions—blood work, scans, consultations. Everything came back normal. Perfect health, they said. Remarkable for someone my age.

That’s when I started noticing the others. In grocery stores, at the senior center, walking their dogs in the park. They had the same hollow look in their eyes, the same careful way of moving, like they were conserving energy for something important. We’d nod at each other in recognition, members of an exclusive club we never asked to join.

Mrs. Chen from down the street was the first to explain it to me. I found her in her garden at midnight, digging with her bare hands, dirt caked under her fingernails. “The hunger,” she whispered when she saw me watching. “It’s not for what you think.”

She showed me the bones she’d buried—small ones, delicate. “Birds,” she said. “They’re enough for now. But it gets stronger.” Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “The hunger gets so much better with age.”

I thought she was losing her mind until I woke up three nights later with feathers in my mouth and blood under my nails. A dead sparrow lay on my nightstand, its tiny chest torn open. I had no memory of catching it, of bringing it inside. But I felt satisfied for the first time in years.

The progression was predictable. Squirrels, then cats, then larger prey. Each kill brought deeper satisfaction, longer periods of contentment. The hunger was evolving, becoming more sophisticated. More discerning.

My family stopped visiting after I moved to the isolated cabin. They thought I was becoming a hermit, sliding into dementia. If only they knew how sharp my mind had become, how acute my senses were. I could smell fear from miles away, hear a heartbeat through walls.

The others and I would meet sometimes, sharing techniques, comparing notes. We were like wine connoisseurs, developing refined palates. Youth had a sweetness to it, but experience brought complexity. Fear added spice. Desperation was intoxicating.

Mrs. Chen was right—it does get better with age. The hunger becomes an art form, a calling. We’re not monsters, we’re evolved. Perfected. The young ones will understand someday, when their own hunger awakens.

I’m eighty-seven now, and I’ve never felt more alive. The hunger has become my greatest teacher, my most faithful companion. Tonight, I’m expecting visitors—some nice young people who saw my classified ad for “elderly gentleman seeking companionship.” They think they’re doing charity work, keeping a lonely old man company.

They have no idea what really gets better with age.

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© Sebastian Pearce 2025