Mary C. Moore
Copyright 2010 by Mary C. Moore
I am Wolfman.
I am part wolf, maybe.
When the wolves run I sense them.
Teeth bared, tongues flickering. I sense them.
Paws heavy, fur thick. I sense them.
I sense her too. She is out there.
Her red cloak.
I howl. I begin to slobber. A greed for ownership, it rises inside me. How do we survive life? But I want her. I rumble. The twisted bones of my body urge the gorged muscles to move. Scraping the floor. Floor you ask? Do not forget, I am part man, part wolf, no.
Her grandmother, that evil witch. The old one stole her daughter—her love from me. She was mine, all mine, and I was hers. Love you ask? Can a freak not be loved? The witch’s daughter saw good, but the witch made her see evil.