And now for a very teeny story:
Comes the Night
Comes the night, thin fingers reach past broken glass and grit. Warm asphalt oozes open; weeds part like thin gray ribbons. Brown bottles litter the ground. The yeasty odor of old beer clings to the soil.
Skin-taker’s blind face rises up. The head weaves from side to side, then suddenly stops.
The scent of cheap perfume, more alcohol than flowers, wafts through the air.
Roses at Midnight
Skin-taker slithers through the grass, toward the scent.
Comes the night, Skin-taker creeps past the rusted trailers set all in a row. There are steps: one-two-three. At the door, thin fingers start rapping, tapping—way down low where the paint flakes across the threshold.
The door opens. A sliver of light leaks through. It’s not much, but it is enough. Skin-taker flies up. It has one chance. This time it is lucky. It catches the woman in her eye. Plunging into the soft tissue, Skin-taker finds the nerve and flows into her brain.
The woman notices nothing more than a sting in her eye.
From the kitchen, a man asks, Who is it?
The woman returns to the kitchen. The butcher knife is too heavy and will not do. She takes up the boning knife. Moonlight catches the cold, silver blade.
The man turns. Honey?
Skin-taker smiles with woman’s mouth but not with her eyes.
Comes the night, Skin-taker takes some skin.