The sun’s last moment of pinkish light came to an end. Mirrors strewn across a farmer’s porch became all but useless. The farmer shooed out a weasel from his front door and hustled himself to bed.
Across the pumpkin patch, a creature advanced. It moved at a hybrid walk-slither. Its wings beat at the crops spitefully.
The weasel sprang to alarm. He had heard rustling. Food, he thought.
Arriving at the first oak step to the farmer’s porch, the creature raised one foot, then the other. It could feel the vibrations of a violent snarl. A metallic taste filled its beak as blood splurged from its neck. The weasel swung from its throat.
Tearing through flesh was all the weasel was worried about. He had nearly died on many occasions for showing less brutality. Blood matted his fur.
The creature shook and flapped its wings. When that did nothing to the weasel’s death-grip, it swung its scaly tail. A thud revealed success.
Recovering, the weasel clawed at the creature’s chest, shedding yet more blood. He gave a final slash and bolted away toward the tomatoes.
Weakness filled the creature. It made chase toward the fleeing weasel. The effort brought a new round of cold, sticky blood. It stopped, let out a piercing crow, and collapsed, dead.