|Image © Rachel Bjerke|
The beast that roamed in from the moors that night was mad with hunger and painted black by myth. It took the children by the ruined forge, and when they found the bodies at the stone trough they wished they hadn’t.
By then they’d pushed the wolves out into the wild and empty places, but now and then their paths would cross with ours and the fireside tales the old folk told would not seem quite so distant.
MacDhuibh hefted his rifle and hitched up his breeches. There was blood on the air, and the hunt, he knew, had already begun.
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This is a 100-word flash fiction story, prompted by the ridiculously evocative picture you can see up there, as part of Friday Fictioneers.