She waits, in ambush…
Her DNA matches an amber-enveloped relative, one who drew blood from the Tyrannosaurus Rex.
She is of the Clan Culicidae, razor proboscis, a highlander’s blade.
Sweating, hiding undercover, I fall asleep, exposing an ankle. She launches, a creature from a Bram Stoker novel.
Bloodlust… Ectoparasite prevails.
Paul Hock is an author, illustrator, and storyteller. See more of his writing at paulhock.com.
Why are there more crows? Global warming? More neighborhood carrion? The crow is not a solitary bird. Crows flock.
They communicate, these birds, now more than before. Loudly. The crow is a grumpy bird, a querulous bird. Increasingly loud.
Reports have been coming in. The crows are attacking.
Joe Malone was expelled from the Central African Republic and now lives in South Sudan, where there is nothing to do but write. Check out his blog.
The man stood on his lawn, scarf snug, hat pulled low. He watched children making snow angels, giggling.
Then, a scream.
The attacker tore into the man’s arm. He severed his head, mauled his face.
The assault lasted only seconds, but the memory remains. The day our dog ate Frosty.
Paul Amelchenko is a freelance creative director/copywriter and a lecturer at the University of Miami. He teaches courses in Copywriting for Digital & Traditional Media, Advertising Concept & Copywriting and Portfolio Development. www.paulamelchenko.com
The bear came through the door of his shack tent with a squeal of abused latchwork and snapping lumber.
He started up in his open sleeping bag. In the next frozen second, his eyes darted between his knife, hanging sheathed above his bed and the intruding bear.
Time ran out.
A longtime LRR fan, Alex works for a gold exploration and development company in Saskatchewan. This was written while in a shack tent, after having watched a bear safety video too late a night.
Editor: I worked with LRR for more than two years until I left in 2010 to finish school.
“When they open up that door, you’re gonna whop ’em on the knees with your shovel, okay, son?”
Little Harley nodded his freckled nose and gripped his shovel as tight as he could.
Jim leveled his shotgun. Wasn’t every year you got to do the surprising on your own birthday.
This story was based on the prompt “when they come” at TypeTrigger.
With feline grace, the household predator crept to the base of the table. Above, her prey slept, carefree.
With two quick hops, it was all over.
The cat smiled to herself through a crunchy mouthful of cat food. Yep, she still had it.
Her next sneak attack victim? The litterbox!