It was the perfect night. The moon was full. The bats and owls had not come out yet, they would rest for another hour or more. The humans, on the other hand, came out in droves. They always did when there was a full moon.
Some of them stared at the moon, stupid happy smiles on their faces. Some of them raised their binoculars to their faces, and looked in more detail. Some brought out there telescopes. Most just did human things. Like grilling burgers, or lounging on the front porch with the neighbors.
I cruised through the air, searching for the perfect target. One that wouldn’t notice I was there. I’d seen too many of my comrades attack the skinny humans. The ones with sensitive skin. And get smushed. A single human could smush hundreds of us. They were deadly. But their blood was the best there was.
I always looked for the cans of Off, the ThermaCells, the citronella lanterns. I was careful. I was cautious. I’d survived far longer than my comrades had.
That’s when I saw him. Face down on a lawn chair, on a deck, by a swimming pool. There was a nice, cushy layer of fat all over him. He wouldn’t feel a thing. As I dove, I screamed my war cry. “I will feast on your blood, human!” I landed on all six legs, and sunk my proboscis deep into the skin on the back of his hand. I feasted well that night.
I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 73. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.