"The Farm" by Deborah Cullins Smith

 
The old farmer leaned against the oak at the edge of his field. The large yellow sunflowers mingled with a rainbow of wild flowers that waved in the summer breeze. Rheumy eyes roved over his crop.

It’ll be a good year, he thought. Production was up and his flock cavorted between the happy blossoms. There had been problems last winter. Disease had decimated a large number of his breeders, but he still had a decent number of younglings and infants. He’d make it. He had to.

Cassandra, the designated matriarch of the tribe, had already dropped some not-so-subtle hints that all farmers not meeting their quotas could very well lose their homes, as well as their standing in the community. No room for the weak in this new progressive era.

A plump, pink-skinned infant, chubby belly tickled by grass, giggled as it gazed up at him. A slender youngling grabbed the child and scurried away from the farmer, eyes fearful.

The younglings caught on quickly. The old farmer knew there was intelligence in those wild brown eyes.

I wonder how soon they realize they are nothing more than food.

The old farmer sighed and stretched stiff, scaly muscles. Maybe he’d take that chubby infant for supper tonight. Infants were tender, and his teeth just weren’t what they used to be. Cassandra held the power over his crops, but maybe – just maybe – she wouldn’t notice one less infant…

The velociraptor chirped loudly as he herded his flock back to their pens. Alert eyes carefully tracked the plump human infant, his sharp hooked talon itching for the kill.