Tag: werewolves

Flash Fiction No. 25

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The Best Offence

He’d only ever taken two lives. This one had been on purpose.

He stuffed his stained hands in his trousers. Footfalls echoed all around him on the pavement. He kept his head down, moving hurriedly but unnoticed in his grey suit. Wearing grey was like being invisible; you were too drab to pay attention to.

He fought the urge to ruffle back through his hair. Don’t show agitation and certainly do not show bloodied hands. Eyes surreptitiously scanned the crowd. His jacket was buttoned, hiding the sprays of crimson on his crisp white shirt. Never wear white when killing.

If only he’d remembered.

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Flash Fiction No. 21

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Tempted by Chickens

Teeth flashed in the dark, dazzling and sharp. Feet thundered through the undergrowth not far behind him. The noise was almost deafening to his sensitive ears, which quivered and rang with the smallest crackle of twigs underfoot.

He slid to the left, moonlight mirrored in the slick of blood dripping from his hind leg. Dogs howled behind him, too close to slacken his pace.

The hunters still followed through the dense trees.

His stomach churned. He hadn’t had an easy kill for miles. Those chickens had just been sat there, plump, prime for the picking. His jaws had slathered with drool when he’d spotted them. They’d been so uselessly protected. It only made sense that he showed the humans how easy it was for poachers…

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So This Was Christmas…

And what have I done?

Nothing illegal, if that’s what you’re asking. But I have had some rather lovely events transpire despite the wrinkles that my lovely brother, Master Berserker, has thrown into the mix. I guess you could say that it has, indeed, been a better Christmas than usual in our household. It’s certainly been cheerier at any rate.

And this was our house on the day in question:

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Flash Fiction No. 18

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Waking Up

Reddened eyes opened with the intensity of a subdued fever. The stench churned her stomach.

She couldn’t remember what had happened.

Cold settled on the back of her hand as something warm and soft snuggled against her, hot air curling into the back of her neck. Her lashes fluttered.

It was snowing.

She tried to remember where she was, how she’d gotten there and why she ached. The dog bite resurfaced in her mind with a strange hazy intensity. She looked at her hand where it lay across the paved floor. The bite had healed with only a dark purple mark under her skin. How could it have healed that quickly?

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