The corner of Shemshaw and Fifth Street seemed to be a darker shade of black tonight; every shadow had a deeper purpose.
My mission was to live, yet everything inside me felt absent. I felt empty of mortality.
My stomach rumbled with an agonizing hunger as the waiter delivered the first round of food to my table.
He had ebony skin that glistened in the candlelight. His arms were a shaven muscular masterpiece and I could see them bulging from his dress shirt. I could barely contain myself.
And I found it horrifying that flesh seemed more appetizing then the appetizer.
A chilling little tale. Just my kind of story.
A friend of Hannibal Lecter, perhaps. Nicely done.