The sun lit the trees, a burst of light burning the cold away.
Run, run, as fast as you can.
An excerpt from The 9th Victim: This short piece takes place during a major plot point.
The knife sprung back gently, like a compressed sponge releasing a small and slow stream of blood. It was if some part of him didn’t want to make the cut or the knife itself was resisting. He furrowed his brow, intrigued and brought the knife back again.
The edge pressed deep into the throat, sharp. He drew it across to make his signature cut spreading the skin thinly with precision. The stream turned into a river as the blood poured out over his fingers, warm and as thick as molasses.
He felt his lips stretch across his face tightening the muscles in his cheek. He was smiling.
And that’s when he saw them.
The whites of two wide-set eyes staring at him from across the woods.
Anger flooded his senses, a red brighter than the blood that coated his hand, the knife still pressed deep into his next masterpiece.
The eyes blinked once, the first to break contact.
He was caught
The sun glistened still on the water, the mist hung low in the sky.
The calm before the storm?
We bonded quietly, content in the moment as the stream rushed alongside us and the moss squished beneath our toes.
“But I am such a fun guy,” sobbed the Fun Guy, alone in his home.