Fiction in 58, a story in small packaging

Hell Hath No Fury
Deception hung on his breath like garlic.
He whispered not an explanation into the nape of her neck, but platitudes to confuse, redirect.
His proximity, the heat of his breath drew a shudder; she ran her tongue across earlobe, bit down.
Blood, salty, filled her mouth; screams punctured the room.
She smiled, his flesh dangling in her teeth.

2 comments:

missalister said...

The first line is packed, so immediately I feel the disgust. And the slithering boa about my neck, so certain of its meal, pushes me over the edge. You da master of constricting fiction, my man!

Jason said...

This reminds me of True Blood a bit for some reason.