Flick, Flick, Flick
By Axel Blackwell
The thing under the chicken coop is tall and ragged, pale and rank like an old dishtowel, and it bleeds green.
Its teeth shred flesh like paper, snap bones like match sticks.
It doesn’t fear men or dogs or electric light.
It didn’t used to fear guns.
I can still smell its mildew stench over the reek of gasoline.
I’m out of bullets and I’ve lost too much blood to see the next sun rise…but if I can get this damn lighter to work, that thing won’t see it either.