They Are Outside

Short psychological fiction

There are chalk cold moons that shift between the bare trunks above raw cold teeth. The red tongues lick at the hunger of those gaping wounds of wide white mouths and exhale to the skies of that need for flesh. In the dark, they pace, pace, eyes never leaving the dark of your pupils through the locked shutters. Fear that sound, the wet licking, gnawing, howling hunger that hums up to a lunar nothing. That is the sound of running, falling, red, white, nothing.