The Hunted

Flash Fiction FridaysThe sun fell gently beneath the horizon at the edge of the forest, and at that exact moment soft snowflakes began to fall from the night sky. The hunter crouched amongst the brush, silent, and let the feather-light flakes gather on his body. He would not move, would not risk exposure, until he was certain he had the upper-hand on his prey.

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, just a little, coyly witnessing the scene. It shined just enough of its light to the ground to make the new-fallen snow glimmer.

A sound came from the trees ten meters to the left. The hunter did not move, but his fingers tensed around the shotgun in his hands. He would have to be fast, he knew. Faster even than he thought he was capable of being. His trigger-finger twitched, waiting, ready.

A bunny, still in his brown summer coat, burst forth from the berry bushes. The hunter’s heart almost gave out on him, but he’d been careful, he hadn’t moved. He would not move until he was certain.

“You’re certainly diligent…” a sultry voice whispered in his ear.

He was fast – faster even than he thought he was capable of being – but it wasn’t fast enough. By the time he’d twisted and shoved himself through the brush, his shotgun ringing out through the calm, quiet night, she had moved too. The gun was ripped from his hand, as if a candy from a child, and two cool, soft arms slithered around his chest from behind.

A few strands of raven-black hair blew past his face as onyx claws sunk into the skin of his chest and blood-red lips whispered in his ear.

“I’ll bet you’re tasty too.”

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