On moonless nights, Nian descends from his mountain lair to feed.
Last month, the beast took my lover.
Tonight, while the others tremble behind barricaded doors, I stand at the village gate, clutching a firecracker destined for Nian’s sensitive nose. The wind ripples my crimson dress as the monster approaches.
Just for the record, Devon R. Widmer would probably be one of the people trembling behind barricaded doors.