Wendigo 4

“Jimmy, there is a dead deer down on the train track. Someone has to pull it off before any of the kids see it,” the teen said. The kiddie park hired teens during the summer, and none of them old enough to handle a job like that. Most of the deer were close to two hundred pounds and could total a car. If the small train it, all those kids would fly off, and someone would sue the small amusement park. Sales were already struggling this year. There was no way they could keep the gates open if an accident happened. Even though the place ran as a nonprofit through the city, the city was broke.

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Wedding night

“People are watching,” she whispered.

Sitting at a table for twelve, Gypsy knew she was there for a job, but what the hell. She was to be a dinner date for Domino Scarletta, but the room was full of guests, and the bride and groom hadn’t even cut the cake yet. Domino was the best man and thought attractive. He wanted an escort for a date tonight. Any girl in the room would have fucked him ten times by now, so this was awkward. When he slipped his hand under the table, forcing her legs to part, she dropped the salad fork.

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Sedate me

Eyes smoldering, her palms and knees scraped as she crawled to him. Salivating with hunger, the starvation was taking the better of her. With a tongue as pointed as a serpent, she drew fine lines of lust over her prey. He would sedate her thirst, and she would feed his need. Their desire as destructive as the earths end.

A.J. Luna


Feather strokes of his nails up and down her inner forearms. Her eyes closed, the indulgence of his touch almost to the point of intoxication. Chills left in the wake of his touch, his slender fingers laced with hers as he pulled her into his arms to welcome her home.

A.J. Luna

Wendigo 3

Maria Hightower was ten going on eighteen that summer. The only girl in the family, and all the kids teased her and told her that she would be just like her mother one day. The town whore. Kids can be mean at that age, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. She wore makeup, smoked when she could find half of a cigarette lying around and even took a sip of her mother’s alcohol-infused coffee from time to time. She was going nowhere fast and would be pregnant by the age of sixteen.

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The brush dripping with paint, the artist puts her soul into her work. Stark white, she held the tip of her finger over the bucket, piercing the skin with a needle. One drip, two, three, mesmerized as she watched strands of red taint the bucket. One person’s chaos is another person’s masterpiece.

A real artist puts her dark into the light.

A.J. Luna