Fugitive

 

Moonset.

The waves wish-wish-wish against the dock. Three slide out of the water, all long legs, short arms and small featurelessĀ heads. They slink smokelike through the dark air until they reach a small house on the dry side of town, slipping with ease through the breezy gap under the door, past the growling dog and up the stairs.

A brief silence broken by the ah-ah-ah of a last breath taken with stolenĀ lungs, and a roiling black wisp flows from an upstairs window and lurches back to the dock.

Four slide into the water.

Sunrise.

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