The Hunt - a very short story.
The rain stopped just as the sun fell below the trees. It left the fresh sweet smell of humid jungle heavy on the air. Gradually the shadows lengthened and blended into the solid darkness of a moonless night that suited me so well.
I was hungry, and it was time to hunt.
Lazily my tongue sampled the cool night air and, as I drew it back into the moist, pale pink cavern of my mouth, the taste of decaying leaves was almost overwhelming, but there was also a hint of something else. Something that triggered me to lift my head and move out from the protection of the dank, musty tree roots that had been my home since my last kill.
There it was again, but much stronger now. My tongue flickered faster, transferring the taste higher. It changed into a scent that, at last, I recognised. It was a deep, heady aroma of mammal, and I could feel the glands in the side of my head begin to swell in anticipation. A bitter essence started to flow into fangs that rose in readiness from the soft pillows that protected them. Each needlepoint displaying a pearl of clear liquid, ready to deliver paralysing oblivion.
The odour was tantalising close, and I picked up speed, gliding silently over the uneven ground. I felt the vibrations of soft tiny feet. My prey glowed with a sensual warmth in front of me, better than any visual image. As my head pulled back, there was a new smell. I knew what it was but tasted the air again, just to be sure. It was the acrid scent of released adrenal fear. I had been discovered, but it was too late.
I struck.
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