Flash Fiction Frenzy

The scab remained lodged under my fingernail; I regretted picking it off now, and my rare-type blood just wouldn’t stop, running in rivulets down my leg, so I had no choice but to look about for something to staunch it. But as the rasp of a tongue snagged the skin of my leg, and travelled up my thigh to the site of that damned headless spot, I knew I’d run out of time—a connoisseur had found me.

Crusty Bits.

I used to pick the crusty bits from my eyes, nose and toenails and discard them in the same bedroom bin. I woke tonight to find a prickly little creature, that stank of mucus and wax and sweaty feet, choking me to death while it scratched its way down my throat.