Letters From Isaac Cook

The dark of the night acted as a cloak to the secrets inside the deepest darkest area of the forest which lay at the end of an endless plain. A groan would be mustered every few seconds from what seemed to the naked eye to be a dark flash. A flick of a cape here, and a creak from beside. A splintering sound could be heard and a loud thump, and a silver flick could be perceived beside the broken tree. Another groan, and the figure slowly stood.

A man merged from the prison of the long Rowling tree, who seemed to be not of the people but of the beast. Long pearl white teeth tipped in dark red liquid lined his bleeding gums, his eyes were the same color as his teeth, white and bloodshot. On the side of his eye lay a large puncture to the side of the face, leaking blood and puss.

He emerged from the gale slowly, licking at the body entrails on his claws which grew all the way up to above the creatures rists. The farther he moved past a pool of blood he was laying on, it became more and more obvious that he was dragging something tied to his back. He inched farther, tripping over its own feat and drowning in the agony of its raw flesh.

Why do I speak of this creature? This dieing abomination? I speak of this creature in my letter to you, because I write what I see. What I see is the bloody death of my brother. The hanging hand over the beasts back.

A Short Letter, Yours Truly, Isaac Cook