by TB Schmid
--
The farmhouse leaned precariously into the wind. Overhead, thin clouds slid across the sky, a veil of silver torn from the face of the moon. He could hear the house grumbling from where he stood in the swaying shadows of the orchard, but the complaints sounded more habitual than the result of any true weakness. He sniffed the night air, confirming it: her timbers were dry, but strong. The lean was deceptive, and the wind was no threat to it.
But he was.
He left the shadows and padded silently across the empty field, being careful to avoid the warm squares of light spilling from the window. He wanted to surprise them this time.
He caught a glimpse of them at the dining room table, toasting one another, wine sloshing down their pale arms like blood - like a prophecy. His stomach rumbled.
The wind gusted as he took the steps leading up to the front porch, the night's searching fingers reaching beneath his coat. He shivered in delicious anticipation, fighting to hold back the ancient song rising in his powerful throat. That would come after, when it was done, for he had no wish to share. Instead, he drew himself up, puffed up his great chest, and pounded the door. It rattled and bucked in its frame, but held. He smiled, long teeth glinting in the moonlight.
He forced his throat and tongue to form the strange sounds they called words:
"Little pigs, little pigs..."
The farmhouse leaned precariously into the wind. Overhead, thin clouds slid across the sky, a veil of silver torn from the face of the moon. He could hear the house grumbling from where he stood in the swaying shadows of the orchard, but the complaints sounded more habitual than the result of any true weakness. He sniffed the night air, confirming it: her timbers were dry, but strong. The lean was deceptive, and the wind was no threat to it.
But he was.
He left the shadows and padded silently across the empty field, being careful to avoid the warm squares of light spilling from the window. He wanted to surprise them this time.
He caught a glimpse of them at the dining room table, toasting one another, wine sloshing down their pale arms like blood - like a prophecy. His stomach rumbled.
The wind gusted as he took the steps leading up to the front porch, the night's searching fingers reaching beneath his coat. He shivered in delicious anticipation, fighting to hold back the ancient song rising in his powerful throat. That would come after, when it was done, for he had no wish to share. Instead, he drew himself up, puffed up his great chest, and pounded the door. It rattled and bucked in its frame, but held. He smiled, long teeth glinting in the moonlight.
He forced his throat and tongue to form the strange sounds they called words:
"Little pigs, little pigs..."
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