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.
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.
Comments