The lion had seen better days. He should have been the king of the jungle; instead here he was in a place no larger than a farm, famished, ribs showing, his fur dull and waning. In his face was the lingering signs of regality, but the eyes showed a deep sense of loneliness.
Ria looked at the logo stamped on her lunch box. The majestic winged lion. What irony!
This was merely a glorified prison for animals. A testament to man’s vicious need to establish dominion over other sentient beings. We call them wild, yet we are the predators. All the claims about breeding programs, just a guise to help the modern mind cope with a nineteenth century idea.
The zoo was a lively place. Everyone was enjoying except the animals.
In response to the 186th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo provided by Wildverbs.