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Collection of flash-fiction pieces - most 300/500 words, contest entries |
| Notes ▼ I've never felt so alone, or perhaps that's a lie. I'm not a social butterfly like my sister. I don't surround myself with others. I don't like people. I do not have friends - a completely useless social endeavour. I'm certainly not the type of girl... woman... to giggle over gossip and spill secrets while sipping tea and delicately biting into cucumber sandwiches. However, I confess that at this precise moment in time I can see the benefits of not being alone - if only so I could trip them up and outrun them. Does that make me a bad person - perhaps. It also makes me honest, which is a rarity around here. I have no hope of out running the beast before me. It looks like it is built for sprinting. Powerful hind quarters designed for quick acceleration. It would be on me instantly. But a person. Another human being. I'd definitely have a chance then. It's a pointless thought. There is no one else here. Just me and the giant, bear-like creature that is currently stalking me like I'm its next meal, which is a very high probability all things considered. It's not a bear. I’ve seen bears. It’s not a wolf either. It’s too small. And the cats – all the big ones died out long ago. Though there is something definitively feline about it. I’ve no doubt that this is what’s been shredding the cattle. Its muscular shoulders twitch and ripple under its black, dense fur as it bears down to a pounce. Its paws are hidden by the thick fog that’s rolled in from the across the lake, but even I can guess that its claws probably resemble a fist full of knives. Sharp, piecing, the type that can easily strip the flesh from my bones. I doubt I’d be difficult for it to unwrap. Its eyes watch me and track my every movement – or they would if I were stupid enough to move. I’m not stupid, nor am I brave enough to make a run for the rowdy tavern across the shingle beach. It's a stalemate. The beast is waiting for me to break. To run. To become its prey. I’m waiting for a miracle or a magical intervention. I’d settle for a drunken one – where are those blithering, mead filled idiots when you need them. Surely one of them could stumble out to take a piss and divert the creature's attention. A small fishing boat beaches on the shore. The fishermen are loud, barking orders to each other as they unpack their catch. It’s enough to break the creature’s focus. On my own, I’m an easy target. A convenient walking, talking happy meal. But the arrival of the burly men makes me more hassle than I’m worth. The beast turns and runs. The small pebbles under its feet flick up like the sprays of the sea as it bounds back into the forest and melts into the shadows of the trees. |
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