Her Chicken Scratch / Short Stories

A Shrill

I heard him outside of my window again. His sounds a low mixture of growls and deep rumbles. It made something stir in me. Something full of unevenness that had me tip toeing across the flat carpet and over the chilled stone to the neighbouring land. And there he sat. On the very edge. Edge of the moon’s shrill – edge of being too close for my comfort. On the edge of me wanting to see him. His silver and gold streaked fur. Two perfect to be something that hunted, stole and roamed free in the night.

But just perfect enough.

Written by A. Writes

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