Writing in the Midnight Hour

Poised, staring out into the silent darkness, the predator lurks. The fanged teeth. The crinkled brow that tents a hollow socket of the emaciated face. The crude slit of a mouth. All are the characteristics of that fiendish consort that creeps throughout chill, cerebral caverns, always searching for its prey.

It knows its victim too well. The sanctuaries that its prey regards as impenetrable, the predator has already probed. The defenses that its prey has employed, this predator knows how to thwart. It knows.

A toying menace, the predator will find its prey again and again. The head bowed in grief, the prey will know it has been trounced. A sharp sting to the abdomen will usher in a gasp of relief. Not because death was swift, but because death has not yet been welcomed.

The prey will heal. The meat will stay fresh. The predator will continue to feed.