by Michael Crow
The bite wasn’t what I expected. A gentle wispy kiss just below the beard line, whispering honey-laced allurements in my ear. Languor took hold of me and warmth filled my body and before long I passed into darkness. It wasn’t the terror and pain that stories tell but gentleness and quittance.
There was plenty of scalding, piercing pain like being impaled by a thousand searing pikes. The pain came when I awoke from death. After pain came gelidity and nihility, a void in my being. A gnawing urge deep within to fill the void. A hunger for succulent satisfying blood.
Michael has been dabbling with writing for over a decade. His area of focus is dark fiction. He is also published sports writing having work published by USA Today and The Guillotine. He lives in Central Minnesota with his wife, daughter, and two cats.