The Last Angel


On a hot summer’s night the roasted insides of the last angel screamed with hunger. Fists of hot pain pounded his stomach in, their claws tearing, ripping, gouging, until tears were wrenched from his eyes. His guts, so petrifyingly empty, convulsed.

He couldn’t stop himself.

Oh god, he couldn’t stop himself.

She lay there, a vision of silver wisps and dove-white skin. She lay still. Her breath came in little clouds of wintry bliss that reminded him of home.


A child to be protected.

Her blood sang to him.

“Forgive me,” he croaked.

The fire in his belly laughed.

(Image credit: Zeynel Cebeci)


3 thoughts on “The Last Angel

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s