Stephen Craig

Momentarily, through one good eye, he could see the moon. Something below moved and he span around to where he could see the house. His family were in there. Alone. He could not protect them and he would not see them again.

As if grabbed by strong arms that were not there, he felt himself being lifted. Raising skyward and spinning, he fought to regain orientation. The winds were holding him and carrying him higher. Spinning him sickeningly, senses askew, his focus was being lost.

One deep breath, one last step and out into oblivion where death held out its arms into a welcoming embrace.

He had heard many of his customers talking about 'repetitive strain injury' over the years and he was sure that, if he was capable, he too would suffer this - especially with the industrial tooling he carried around everywhere that he went.

Am Anfang war Gott? It may have been true, but it was not germane.

Hand in hand they whispered for a while. The girl nodded and the bear laughed. Together, they made their way down the corridor and to the foot of the stairs.

In his imagination, he grabbed his dad by the throat and squeezed until an old mans face turned purple. No pleading, no begging, simply... nothing.

In fact, until the last moments of his life, until the last seconds as he gasped for breath, he never realised how much he wanted to live. But, at that point, death was inevitable and nothing that had happened could be changed.

With heightened senses it remained motionless and looked through bulbous eyes. It could taste fear in the air. Pheromones. Sweat. Food was near, but more importantly, so was its new home.

His voice was oily and slick as it poured from his mouth like liquid acid, threatening to hook onto the woman's hair like a fishing hook and drag her back to death.