Work Text:
Moonscape
We run through the forest. The shadows, deep pools beneath the trees, turn silver-gray where the moon peeks through the canopy of leaves. The wind in the trees is like the sound of surf, like the creak of timber-hulled ships riding the waves. Our breath is warm and wet; the cool, dry air makes it steam for just a second. We run through the forest. The scent of damp earth, moldering leaf and wood, the fragrance of sleeping flowers, and the sweet, sharp smell of blood; the scent of our prey fills our nostrils. We run through the forest. Closer, the smell of the prey grows strong; the blood smell mixes with nervous sweat, the stink of fear, and the acidic aroma of wet fur. We run, coming closer, we break out of the trees and into a clearing. We see the prey, all silvery-gray in the moonlight; we gain on it. The far edge of the forest comes close. We run harder. The prey falters and we catch it. A spray of dark blood, a scream of pain, and the final shudder of the body as we tear at it send a thrill of pleasure though our bodies. We devour the raw flesh, the blood hot and salty; the metallic taste of it so satisfying to us. We howl at the moon, singing our primal song of a successful hunt. Tomorrow we’ll go back to our lives of bankers, gardeners, office workers, housewives, and students. But tonight, under the moon, we run.