Sunday, January 31, 2010
Werewolves in The Garden (Fiction)
I wrote this story a couple of years ago and I like it. It's a blend between horror and humor. Although enjoyable to read, it'll never be quite good enough to publish. But this is a fun, fun read.
I'm posting the full story here for my readers to read for their pleasure.
WEREWOLVES IN THE GARDEN
A large gray werewolf was taking a dump in my garden next to the oversized holly bush that I hated and couldn't afford to remove. I can only assume it is a werewolf. It was large, bigger than my ten-speed, with ragged gray hair and eyes that stared at me with offended intelligence.
I started to look away to give it the privacy it demanded but, hey, it was depositing a mammoth amount of poo into my backyard.
I rested both trembling hands against the sliding glass doors, reassuring myself that the cool wall of glass still stood between me and the beast. The hairy animal had now finished its delicate business and was loping in my direction. It's stride was long and easy, it's lean neck outstretched, mouth open, teeth flashing.
My trembling turned into violent shaking. Every instinct I had told me to run and to run fast.
I backed away from the approaching creature, back into my white and ivory living room, and wondered wildly where I'd left the cordless phone. I needed help. I could see the beasts sharp fangs flashing at me in a silent threat. Shaking, I froze in the middle of the perfectly lighted room.
For once, the lovliness didn't sooth me. What to do? What to do?
My terror was interrupted by the impatient ringing of the doorbell. Shaggy paws were leaving dirty streaks against the glass of the doors, it was standing on its back legs, pressing inward with it's front paws, wanting into my house, wanting to get me. My breath came in hard, heavy pants.
Oh God, I was going to die.
The doorbell rang again. Startled out of fear, I ran to the entry way, my strappy Jimmy Choo's clicking on the terra cotta tile, away from the werewolf. I flung open the door and crashed into the muscled chest of an irritated male. I tried to push past him, all human concern for my fellow man thrown aside in the hopes of saving my own life.
He looked like a tough guy, strong, with well-defined layers of muscle and a hard, intense face. I'm sure he'd be fine.
The man grabbed my arm and pulled me unwillingly back into my stylish monochromatic living room. If my body hadn't been throbbing with fear, it might have been throbbing for a different reason when I notice how attractive my dark-haired captor was. But no time to get his digits, I had to get out of here.
"Let-" I gulped air, "Let me go."
I tried to yank my arm loose from his grip but he didn't seem to notice. I heard a muted snarl followed by the thud of a large body being thrown against the glass. A strangled scream escaped my lips. We both wiped around toward the sliding glass doors.
The fanged animal was now throwing itself against the clear doors. The man growled low in his throat and kicked the front door closed.
"It found me," his voice was like double dark chocolate, attractive and bitter, sprinkled with danger, "Damn wolfhounds."
Still slightly confused, I asked, "It isn't a werewolf?"
He looked at me like I was a raging idiot. I'd never seen a werewolf before so how was I supposed to know what they looked like? So like a man. The 140 pound monster in my backyard looked like he'd qualify for the job as a creature of the night.
Especially since ropes of drool were now dripping from dog's fangs as he threw himself against the glass, over and over. The thump of his body made my skin tighten. Fear clawed at me, I needed go and go now.
"No, that's not a werewolf. That's a wolfhound. It belongs to a hunter."
What would they be doing in my subdivision? The Homeowners Association would have a fit. I stared dumbly at the man gripping my arm. I tried to tug free of him again but he didn't seem to notice.
"There isn't much time," he shoved me against wall, crowding me with his large, hot body.
His fingers came up, stroked down my throat, and then ripped my shirt and bra strap with one hard pull. I inhaled hard. I realized that a strange, large man was in my living room, looming over me.
I opened my mouth to call for help but it ended in a squeak when he ran his rough tongue across my jaw, then he dropped his head and nipped my shoulder. Confused, frightened, I began to try to squirm away but he trapped me with his weight and I could tell he liked it when I moved against him.
What was I doing? I went still against the solid warmth of his body then pushed hard against his chest but instead of letting me go, he licked a slow warm path up my neck. I trembled as he paused, nibbled at the curve of my jaw.
I opened my mouth to tell him to stop, to stop right now but the protest came out in a moan. He groaned in response, wedging his himself between my thighs. Oh my, this was really wrong. I'd stop in a minute. Probably. His mouth grazed mine and I parted my lips for him.
The most erotic moment of my life was shattered by breaking glass, my would-be lover turned just as the wolfhound leapt for us. He twisted, shoving me behind him. The animal sunk its canine teeth into his upthrust arm, their combined weight slammed back into me. Pain bloomed through my body as legs and claws kicked at me. Luckily, the man quickly rolled both of them off of me and back into the dining room.
I began to crawl, trying to reach the front door without being noticed. I paused, feeling guilty about leaving the fellow to be mauled to death on my berber carpet. I hesitated.
Just as the guilt started to make me do something stupid, the man began to change. He seemed to expand, bursting through his clothes, his teeth elongating, hair rippling across every exposed surface, his features contorting. The large dog now seemed small and weak as it confronted the larger monster. Oh crap.
I was whimpering, beyond any level of terror I had ever experienced. I scurried away on hands and knees, quickly moving away from the bloody nightmare that had taken over my house. Then I heard a thrumming noise, turning back to the action I saw an arrow sticking out of the chest of the wolf-man. He ripped the arrow with one hand, his snarls deep and furious. I opened my mouth to wail but I couldn't get any air.
The thrumming noise came again and again. Arrows piercing the wolf-man, walls, my Masterson's print of *The Windmills*. I was never going to be able to get another.
The man-wolf fell to his knees, bleeding from eight or nine arrow wounds when a smaller guy with a large bow stepped in from the garden and whistled for the wolfhound. The dog, a dirty, bleeding mess, limped past hunter and settled down on my new white armchair.
The archer pulled a small ax from his belt and threw it, end over end; it embedded deeply into the wolfman's throat, cutting cruelly through the flesh. Shuddering, I curled in a ball by the front door, wanting badly to run but afraid to attract the hunter's attention.
He planted a booted foot onto my would-be lover's now hairless chest and pulled loose the ax with a wet sucking sound. Then, the killer came toward me but there was no compassion in his eyes. My muscles tensed, wanting to run, wanting to be saved.
He readied the ax for his swing. I covered my head with my arms and he hesitated, "You're not changed yet."
His hard, green eyes burned into me, "No matter, nits make lice." I peeked at him from beneath my arms as he readied the ax for a killing blow. Just as I was sure of my painful death by ax, I heard the wolfhound snarl a warning.
The wolf-man, drenched with blood, slammed into the hunter, burying his pointed canines in the hunter's throat. I finally screamed, long and hard, and woke up, sweating on the couch in the living room.
I stared, confused, at the half-eaten slice of goat cheese pizza still sitting on the coffee table. I looked around the room, still uneasy. Then, relief poured through me like a river;a dream, a terrible dream.
I stood up unsteadily, walked over to the sliding glass doors, their unbroken beauty shining, and looked out to see a large wolfhound sniffing around my holly bush. I felt a tingle of awareness zing painfully down my spine, as I pressed a hand against the cold glass and watched in horror as rough claws sprang from my fingertips.
Okay, it's not Hemingway...lol...but it was fun, wasn't it?