Editor's ChoiceMicro Fiction

The Night Worker

I was a night worker. Always waiting until others had gone to bed before I and my friends start our own day. We bade each other goodbye, knowing that it was possible that many wouldn’t come back.

I found my way into the room of seven-year-old Anselm. He had been my friend for the past week, and I was glad to say that since I met him, I could feel the change in my light system. Spending time with him, was the greatest feeling ever. Having to feed without being slapped at, having to sing without being flapped away by hard palms. There was this feeling of exhilaration I had while feeding on the always unconscious fat boy. He was young, his blood was fresh, and his skin was neat with a soft fragrance that pulled me to him everytime. As always, I found my way under the blanket and settled on my favorite spot, his fat fleshy legs. I sunk into him, relishing the warm liquid that passed through my proboscis. I ceased sucking as he stirred, and sunk back in when he settled.

It was going to be a long night, I thought as he began snoring.

Inspired by countless experiences with our night friends, the mosquitoes.

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