Murder on Christmas
I grew up in a small town where men still hoe the land and carry their burden on their head and back. I was once a king; a king to my kind. Though we were all owned; I ruled, just like my father before me. I am a descendant of the great Kwa, of the Kwa-dynasty. My name is Kwa-kio. I was one king with the largest brood in the whole of birdkind. I had the most beautiful hens. If not for mankind, I would rule the world. At least that was what I thought; all I know now are faded dreams and stale memories of passions, of freedom, as I await the wrath of the human knife. The human knife: How would it feel? My friend Kuk has just been murdered. Though he was my friend for only two sunrises, it felt like I had known him all of my life. I witnessed his head being separated from his body. The cannibals, devour of the highest order, they had the sense of indecency, among other things, to let me watch as they sliced his innocent throat. I still remember his last words; run, Kio run! And the