Thursday, April 10, 2008

Craven


The vampire’s eyes flickered from red to black, a trick she’s seen in films that had taken her almost a week of practice to master. Harold stepped back, recognizing it as a sign she was craving to feed and not wishing to be dinner.

“Help me, Harold,” she said, “I have a craving… an unhealthy craving…”

“Oh dogs,” he said. “Not Mexican again? We had to go all the way to Basingstoke to find you a Mexican immigrant last time.”

“Nothing like that.” Gillian clutched the dining chair for support, her fingers leaving indentations in the pine. “Worse… I want… drive-through burgers and street corner hot dogs.”

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