Quarry.

©2019-2021 Michael Raven

The beast extended a suckered and barbed proboscis towards the fallen leaves and other detritus scattered on the forest floor, snuffled and snorted. Little light made it this close to the ground in the woods, which had grown to towering heights, each tree trying to reach ever higher than it’s neighbor to touch the dim glow of a dying sun, which cast a ruddy red spots on light on the ground when it managed to filter downwards through the broad violet leaves.

The burbling sound halted without warning and the beast lifted the appendage skyward, a gentle sniffing of the air currents. With a daemon-touched howl, it ran riot in search of its quarry, its great hulk brushing heedlessly against the trunks of the trees, which groaned in protest over the abuse.

Agatha was now glad she’d laid the false trail; her pistol would do nothing more than irritate the beast if she’d used it and it’d be better if she saved the charge for her own brain pan if, and when, it started dining on her.


Published on social media on this date in 2019. Lightly edited and reposted on 28 June 2021. 182 words.

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