My favourite haunt; all stopped here, under the light, to peer into the grim river, guess their bearings, steal a kiss. I merely hide, trying to hold the buzz and squeal of excitement inside til that perfect moment.
Exposed flesh – curve of her neck, stubble on his cheek, sockless ankle, hat-less head. All exposed, all waiting. I can smell the blood pulsating just below the surface, in wide-rivered arteries, and veined creeks and streams.
Then I hunt. My prey unaware I stalk until the sting of my blade, the first driplet of blood, the exquisite pain of . . .
Smack. Splat. “Damn mosquitoes. Something wicked this time of the year.”
For Sunday Photo Fiction, August 21, 2016.