Inspired by a prompt from Donna Hole
The itching was the worst part. He lay sprawled on the forest floor and wished he could move. One by one, the gnats and flies and ticks came. One by one, they latched on and took their pound of flesh in drops of blood. His skin was a mass of welts, throbbing and swollen, and still they came.
He shifted and writhed against his intangible bonds. At last he managed to raise his head. The insects were almost finished, now, but behind them he saw a fuzzy brown line, stretching away through the trees.
The chipmunks waited for their turn.
That Pot Or Vase I Think
19 hours ago