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I've been writing since 2003. I've dabbled with marketing over the years, but I felt like I've always been pushing great stories that have a gazillion flaws.
I'm planning on changing that bell curve.
I write genre fiction. A couple of my short stories are literary. All the books are Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror-Comedy. I cannot write scary horror, so more comedy. I definitely cannot write an entire book of scary horror.
All my books contain adult language and some sexual content. My short stories to a degree do also.
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BANE WARRIOR
GENRE: Bounty Hunter
BANE WARRIOR
By Geoffrey C Porter
The Soul Harvester had been at work for at least three weeks, and the body count kept rising. Some friends in the department kept me posted on the situation. I waited for the fateful call from Barrister that they set the bounty. When I get the call, I go to work. The bounty would be big. This Harvester had taken down three cops already. He tore them to pieces. I assumed the Harvester was a male, good odds.
My name is Derek Sawyer, and I used to be a cop. Now I'm known as a Bane Warrior. For all dark magic there is a bane, some are simple, some require a magic spell. There are banes for light magic as well, but the Order does a much better job of keeping those banes secret. The Red Hand, an organized crime syndicate, ancient as recorded history, claims to have dark magic that has no banes. I had yet to see any of it, and the Red Hand sent assassins to take me out twice.
The phone rang, and I smiled. The caller ID showed the prosecutor's office. That will be my bounty, I thought greedily. I pushed the answer button on the phone. "Barrister?"
"No. Assistant D.A. Brown. There's a Harvester."
"Yes, I read the paper, Mr. Brown."
"We've set a bounty. How soon can you bring him in?"
"What's the bounty?" I asked.
"Fifty grand, alive. How soon?"
Fifty grand would keep me in booze and cigarettes for another year, not that I drank. "I need access to a fresh crime scene, half hour or forty-five minutes within the kill. He's been hitting mostly public places? Seems to like bars on the south-side?"
"That wasn't released to the papers."
"I do more than read the paper, Brown. Why fifty? Usually they're twenty-five."
"He took down one of our Bane Warriors this morning. Wasn't much left of the detective–scraped up as much as we could to bury."
"Who was it?"
"Jericho."
"Damn, the fifty grand is for the harvester alive. How much if I kill him?"
"None if you kill him, Sawyer."
I take some pride in bringing them in alive, but Jericho was my friend. Still, I won't know until the very end if I need to kill.
Brown interrupted my silence. "It says in your file you spent six years with the Order, and most people that stay that long never leave. Why did you, Sawyer?"
"The Order refuses to take sides. I like to stand and fight." On that note, I pushed the end call button on the phone and started to mentally prepare a list of all the banes I'd need to lug around. Jericho had been one of the best. I needed to pack the heavy guns. I had a rather expensive custom coat with extra pockets and loops for various rods. Most magic users had something to carry their components with, either a coat, or a satchel with lots of pockets.
Once I had everything stashed in my coat, I locked up the office and headed to my car. I would tell you about the car, but likely you would be jealous. I had a hangout on the south side, a sushi-bar-coffee-house. They had lost their liquor license years ago, but they catered to smokers, and I could drink coffee and snack on wasabi piled high on sushi. I didn't speed on my way there, no need to. I took a parking spot right in front of the joint and walked inside, taking my usual booth by the door.
A tired old Japanese lady came up to me. "Coffee? California rolls?"
"Yes, both please."
She nodded and wandered off. I set my cell phone on the table and waited for my coffee and rolls. I wasn't big on raw fish most of the time, so I went for the California rolls. I just liked having something to pile wasabi and soy sauce on and eat. After a while the old Japanese lady brought me eight rolls and hazelnut coffee, and I proceeded to snack. I lit up a cigarette and tried to relax. This Soul Harvester would be a tough takedown. An hour passed, and another, the sun set in its usual, casual way.
As I went to open a fresh pack of cigarettes, my phone rang. I snaked it up. "Where?"
"Joe's Pub, on Wayne, you know the place?"
"I'll be right there."
I disconnected and threw a twenty down on the table and darted out to my car. Sixteen blocks or so, made in record time. When I had a bounty, I had a license to speed from the city. I hopped out of the car and sprinted into Joe's Pub; the police at the door waved me on through. They had cleared the bar of civilians. A police Sergeant, named Dawson, saw me and said, "In the men's room."
I turned towards the wall with the restrooms and went in. An overweight, white male lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood with his throat cut, but with a smile on his face. He had been in bliss. He had been charmed before the Harvester finished him off. I looked around, detectives filled the room, collecting and looking for evidence. I cleared my throat, then, "Leave, all of you."
I needed a bead on the killer's aura and having a half dozen humans in the room with me would mean trying to sort them all out. The room emptied, and I started to chant TrueSight, a simple spell for auras and the like. A blue and green mist-like aura filled the room, odd I thought as Soul Harvesters are almost always red and black aura. This guy had once been with the Order. I pulled an inch diameter pearl out of my left pocket and focused on the aura. In my mind's eye, I could see the killer walking casually down the street about eight blocks away carrying a large bag. I walked out of the bathroom and nodded to the waiting detectives.
I stepped out of the bar and hopped in my car. I punched the accelerator down heading towards the Harvester. After a few blocks, I pulled up next to him and growled. "Hey, you there!"
He turned. A short, pudgy, pale-skinned magic-user, he pointed at himself with his right index finger, as if asking, "Me?"
"Yeah, you." I slammed the car in park and jumped out of it. The killer looked around himself as if checking to see if he was surrounded.
He smiled. "Watch the pretty lights…"
Just then a spiral of flashing lights emanated from the magic-user's eyes, a simple charm spell. I am highly immune to charms. I raised my right hand, palm outward, as if to say, "Talk to the hand," and projected blackness into his eyes.
The killer realized his charm wasn't going to work, and he turned and bolted down an alleyway. I ran after, shouting, "You don't want to make me run!"
I am a fast runner. I know how to push my muscles with the aid of magical strength, and I soon caught up to the killer and grabbed him from behind. He howled. He turned and faced me tossing four rocks to the ground and starting a chant. I reached inside my coat and pulled out a silver rod with a rubber grip and started focusing magical energy.
As the Harvester chanted, the rocks grew into humanoid shapes—Rock Demons. They snarled and hissed as they took shape and charged me. I aimed at the left-most one and whacked it on the leg with the silver rod. It created a resonating frequency vibration shattering the Rock Demon. I focused great strength into my hit and swung backhanded at the right one catching it on the head. The head and shoulders shattered, and the body crumbled. A third one came at me in the center, and I brought the rod down on his right shoulder, rending it into two big pieces.
The fourth Demon loomed taller than me and had a look of sheer determination on its gnarled face. I focused my magic and aimed for its knee, but it didn't shatter. The Demon smiled and reached out for me. I pulled in arcane power from around me and aimed for the midsection, two quick shots, "Whack! Whack!" And the beast turned to pebbles and jagged stones. Simple matter of the second hit the rod still had a resonating frequency, and hitting with a vibrating object creates a significantly stronger vibration.
The Harvester took off in a run again. This time I chased after him and pushed him down to the ground. "You're coming with me."
He rolled over and pulled something out of his pocket, a cigarette lighter. He struck fire with it and started a chant to summon a Lava Demon. I snaked my hand into one of my pockets and pulled out a vial of simple water, pulled the plug, and poured it on the ground while simultaneously calling out, "Jacqueline!"
The water from the vial stopped in midair and fine mists started swishing past me from all around towards the water. Jacqueline is a friendly Elemental I knew from when she was still human. She started to take shape as a humanoid statue of water while the Lava Demon rose to its whole height of lava and fire.
Jacqueline smiled. "He's mine!"
She walked closer to the Demon and put her water hands out in front of her and projected a water stream from them at the Demon. Jacqueline sucked in all the water from the air for blocks around, and it became like a strong wind. The water threw up debris of stone and steam off the Lava Demon. I started to approach the Harvester with one intent, getting close enough to cast a Frost spell on him. Then I could get the choker on him and bind his hands.
The Harvester drew a ninja sword and hissed. "Come and get me, Bane Warrior."
"Come along quietly, and maybe I can talk them into a life sentence."
The Harvester charged me, and I pulled a bit of pulverized salt out of my pocket and blew it in his direction while imagining a snowflake and focusing on cold. The Harvester stopped dead in his tracks. I walked up to him and connected a collar to his throat, so he couldn't incant any more spells. Then I bound his hands behind his back. I looked to Jacqueline and the Lava Demon. Jacqueline had clearly won, and she stood there grinning.
I pulled out my cell-phone and rang headquarters, letting them know I had the Harvester.
Jacqueline walked up to me and put one of her water hands on my cheek. "Still doing good deeds for a living, eh, Derek?"
"This one took out Jericho."
"And you let him live?"
"I wouldn't get paid if I killed him."
"When are you going to find the one who murdered me?" She asked.
"It was the Red Hand, you know that, and I can't fight an army."
"You could, Derek, you could."
By Geoffrey C Porter
The Soul Harvester had been at work for at least three weeks, and the body count kept rising. Some friends in the department kept me posted on the situation. I waited for the fateful call from Barrister that they set the bounty. When I get the call, I go to work. The bounty would be big. This Harvester had taken down three cops already. He tore them to pieces. I assumed the Harvester was a male, good odds.
My name is Derek Sawyer, and I used to be a cop. Now I'm known as a Bane Warrior. For all dark magic there is a bane, some are simple, some require a magic spell. There are banes for light magic as well, but the Order does a much better job of keeping those banes secret. The Red Hand, an organized crime syndicate, ancient as recorded history, claims to have dark magic that has no banes. I had yet to see any of it, and the Red Hand sent assassins to take me out twice.
The phone rang, and I smiled. The caller ID showed the prosecutor's office. That will be my bounty, I thought greedily. I pushed the answer button on the phone. "Barrister?"
"No. Assistant D.A. Brown. There's a Harvester."
"Yes, I read the paper, Mr. Brown."
"We've set a bounty. How soon can you bring him in?"
"What's the bounty?" I asked.
"Fifty grand, alive. How soon?"
Fifty grand would keep me in booze and cigarettes for another year, not that I drank. "I need access to a fresh crime scene, half hour or forty-five minutes within the kill. He's been hitting mostly public places? Seems to like bars on the south-side?"
"That wasn't released to the papers."
"I do more than read the paper, Brown. Why fifty? Usually they're twenty-five."
"He took down one of our Bane Warriors this morning. Wasn't much left of the detective–scraped up as much as we could to bury."
"Who was it?"
"Jericho."
"Damn, the fifty grand is for the harvester alive. How much if I kill him?"
"None if you kill him, Sawyer."
I take some pride in bringing them in alive, but Jericho was my friend. Still, I won't know until the very end if I need to kill.
Brown interrupted my silence. "It says in your file you spent six years with the Order, and most people that stay that long never leave. Why did you, Sawyer?"
"The Order refuses to take sides. I like to stand and fight." On that note, I pushed the end call button on the phone and started to mentally prepare a list of all the banes I'd need to lug around. Jericho had been one of the best. I needed to pack the heavy guns. I had a rather expensive custom coat with extra pockets and loops for various rods. Most magic users had something to carry their components with, either a coat, or a satchel with lots of pockets.
Once I had everything stashed in my coat, I locked up the office and headed to my car. I would tell you about the car, but likely you would be jealous. I had a hangout on the south side, a sushi-bar-coffee-house. They had lost their liquor license years ago, but they catered to smokers, and I could drink coffee and snack on wasabi piled high on sushi. I didn't speed on my way there, no need to. I took a parking spot right in front of the joint and walked inside, taking my usual booth by the door.
A tired old Japanese lady came up to me. "Coffee? California rolls?"
"Yes, both please."
She nodded and wandered off. I set my cell phone on the table and waited for my coffee and rolls. I wasn't big on raw fish most of the time, so I went for the California rolls. I just liked having something to pile wasabi and soy sauce on and eat. After a while the old Japanese lady brought me eight rolls and hazelnut coffee, and I proceeded to snack. I lit up a cigarette and tried to relax. This Soul Harvester would be a tough takedown. An hour passed, and another, the sun set in its usual, casual way.
As I went to open a fresh pack of cigarettes, my phone rang. I snaked it up. "Where?"
"Joe's Pub, on Wayne, you know the place?"
"I'll be right there."
I disconnected and threw a twenty down on the table and darted out to my car. Sixteen blocks or so, made in record time. When I had a bounty, I had a license to speed from the city. I hopped out of the car and sprinted into Joe's Pub; the police at the door waved me on through. They had cleared the bar of civilians. A police Sergeant, named Dawson, saw me and said, "In the men's room."
I turned towards the wall with the restrooms and went in. An overweight, white male lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood with his throat cut, but with a smile on his face. He had been in bliss. He had been charmed before the Harvester finished him off. I looked around, detectives filled the room, collecting and looking for evidence. I cleared my throat, then, "Leave, all of you."
I needed a bead on the killer's aura and having a half dozen humans in the room with me would mean trying to sort them all out. The room emptied, and I started to chant TrueSight, a simple spell for auras and the like. A blue and green mist-like aura filled the room, odd I thought as Soul Harvesters are almost always red and black aura. This guy had once been with the Order. I pulled an inch diameter pearl out of my left pocket and focused on the aura. In my mind's eye, I could see the killer walking casually down the street about eight blocks away carrying a large bag. I walked out of the bathroom and nodded to the waiting detectives.
I stepped out of the bar and hopped in my car. I punched the accelerator down heading towards the Harvester. After a few blocks, I pulled up next to him and growled. "Hey, you there!"
He turned. A short, pudgy, pale-skinned magic-user, he pointed at himself with his right index finger, as if asking, "Me?"
"Yeah, you." I slammed the car in park and jumped out of it. The killer looked around himself as if checking to see if he was surrounded.
He smiled. "Watch the pretty lights…"
Just then a spiral of flashing lights emanated from the magic-user's eyes, a simple charm spell. I am highly immune to charms. I raised my right hand, palm outward, as if to say, "Talk to the hand," and projected blackness into his eyes.
The killer realized his charm wasn't going to work, and he turned and bolted down an alleyway. I ran after, shouting, "You don't want to make me run!"
I am a fast runner. I know how to push my muscles with the aid of magical strength, and I soon caught up to the killer and grabbed him from behind. He howled. He turned and faced me tossing four rocks to the ground and starting a chant. I reached inside my coat and pulled out a silver rod with a rubber grip and started focusing magical energy.
As the Harvester chanted, the rocks grew into humanoid shapes—Rock Demons. They snarled and hissed as they took shape and charged me. I aimed at the left-most one and whacked it on the leg with the silver rod. It created a resonating frequency vibration shattering the Rock Demon. I focused great strength into my hit and swung backhanded at the right one catching it on the head. The head and shoulders shattered, and the body crumbled. A third one came at me in the center, and I brought the rod down on his right shoulder, rending it into two big pieces.
The fourth Demon loomed taller than me and had a look of sheer determination on its gnarled face. I focused my magic and aimed for its knee, but it didn't shatter. The Demon smiled and reached out for me. I pulled in arcane power from around me and aimed for the midsection, two quick shots, "Whack! Whack!" And the beast turned to pebbles and jagged stones. Simple matter of the second hit the rod still had a resonating frequency, and hitting with a vibrating object creates a significantly stronger vibration.
The Harvester took off in a run again. This time I chased after him and pushed him down to the ground. "You're coming with me."
He rolled over and pulled something out of his pocket, a cigarette lighter. He struck fire with it and started a chant to summon a Lava Demon. I snaked my hand into one of my pockets and pulled out a vial of simple water, pulled the plug, and poured it on the ground while simultaneously calling out, "Jacqueline!"
The water from the vial stopped in midair and fine mists started swishing past me from all around towards the water. Jacqueline is a friendly Elemental I knew from when she was still human. She started to take shape as a humanoid statue of water while the Lava Demon rose to its whole height of lava and fire.
Jacqueline smiled. "He's mine!"
She walked closer to the Demon and put her water hands out in front of her and projected a water stream from them at the Demon. Jacqueline sucked in all the water from the air for blocks around, and it became like a strong wind. The water threw up debris of stone and steam off the Lava Demon. I started to approach the Harvester with one intent, getting close enough to cast a Frost spell on him. Then I could get the choker on him and bind his hands.
The Harvester drew a ninja sword and hissed. "Come and get me, Bane Warrior."
"Come along quietly, and maybe I can talk them into a life sentence."
The Harvester charged me, and I pulled a bit of pulverized salt out of my pocket and blew it in his direction while imagining a snowflake and focusing on cold. The Harvester stopped dead in his tracks. I walked up to him and connected a collar to his throat, so he couldn't incant any more spells. Then I bound his hands behind his back. I looked to Jacqueline and the Lava Demon. Jacqueline had clearly won, and she stood there grinning.
I pulled out my cell-phone and rang headquarters, letting them know I had the Harvester.
Jacqueline walked up to me and put one of her water hands on my cheek. "Still doing good deeds for a living, eh, Derek?"
"This one took out Jericho."
"And you let him live?"
"I wouldn't get paid if I killed him."
"When are you going to find the one who murdered me?" She asked.
"It was the Red Hand, you know that, and I can't fight an army."
"You could, Derek, you could."
Moondance
GENRE: Fantasy Romance
Moondance
By Geoffrey C Porter
John marked the day on the calendar with a black x. The day after his 83rd birthday. Weary old hands, he thought. His hands were of note because they were marked with wrinkles and age spots. In fact, his whole body bore the marks, but he always promised himself not to regret days spent, even if spent idly. He climbed out of bed and counted his extremities to make sure he still had everything he was born with. The aches were bad in the morning for him, but he took his Aleve and wandered to the bathroom. He had only been up twice in the night to pee anyhow. He climbed in the shower careful to hold the handrails. John summoned his will and forced his hands to scrub soap all over his body, careful to only brush against the few open sores he had.
He dressed, not in completely fresh clothes, but only worn once or twice since being washed. He grabbed his four-legged cane in his good hand, and began the brisk walk to the dining hall. Years ago, they offered to deliver his food directly to his room, but he said, no. Oatmeal, toast, and a single turkey sausage link waited on him in the eatery. They allowed him a quarter teaspoon of brown sugar in his oatmeal since he never acquired any form of diabetes. He eyed the room as he ate.
Miss Taylor, the recreations officer, walked briskly into the room and stapled a pink piece of paper to the bulletin board. Only John called her the recreations officer. Years ago, he reverted to the mentality he possessed as a young man serving the world in World War II. John returned his empty tray to the bins unlike so many of his aged mates, and he rubbed his chin as he walked up to the bulletin board.
The pink flyer quite simply advertised an evening of camaraderie. It said there would be live music and dancing. Three different old folks' homes were chipping in and renting a hall. Miss Taylor noticed his interest and smiled at him. He glanced at her. She stood up and approached him.
"Will there be liquor?" John asked.
Miss Taylor tilted her head to the side. "What?"
"If there's going to be live music and dancing, there should be liquor."
"John, there will be beer from America, and ale from Ireland. I expect they will have whiskey and vodka and every manner of mixable concoction you could imagine."
John sighed. "No booze?"
Miss Taylor shook her head. "You don't need booze to have a good time, and didn't you quit drinking twenty years ago?"
"I drink on and off. Sure, I haven't touched the stuff in 23 years, but sometimes I get the urge."
Miss Taylor smiled. "Are you going to dance?"
John winked. "With you? Certainly."
Miss Taylor glared with wicked pinheads for eyes. "We're shipping women in from all over town to keep you company, and you want to dance with somebody half your age."
"Once you reach thirty," John said, "the goal is always to dance with a girl half your age."
"So, you'll attend?"
"What kind of band is it going to be?"
"We got a metal thrasher band. They call themselves Cyclops."
John glared in turn. "If I wanted to hear lies, I'd watch the television!"
Miss Taylor nodded and smiled. "We got a good band. We spent thousands to rent a hall and have special food prepared. We're paying them. You're going to attend. The buses leave at 3pm on the Saturday before Easter."
* * *
Marianne climbed out of the tub. She almost slipped on the cold floor, but she caught herself with her arm. She put on a fresh clean dress and fixed her strands of grey hair into a bow. She asked herself, makeup? Then her stomach growled and she whispered, "Breakfast." She walked down the hallway. She grabbed her tray of food and sat at a table with her friends. They had given her half an orange, and she savored every last juicy bite of the fruit.
Jessica, the only black-haired woman in the room, and why she dyed it nobody knew, opened her mouth and whispered, "You know Bill Jenkins had another stroke."
Samantha nodded. "That man has a stroke every week."
Marianne simply finished off her cereal. She stared off in the distance wondering if her son would visit her soon. Her son seemed content to visit at random and wait patiently for her to die. Well, in her mind, at 84, she wasn't due to be dying anytime soon.
Jen spoke very slowly and with a slight stutter, "I had a stroke."
Marianne patted her on the hand and whispered the Lord's Prayer.
"You know the fools who run this place plan a dance, on the day before Easter, no less," Jessica said.
"Dance?" Marianne asked.
"They're renting a hall and getting a live band. The idiots."
"I look around this place, and I don't see any men worth dancing with," Samantha said.
"No," Marianne said, "there aren't any good ones here."
Jessica pointed towards the outside. "They're shipping people in from Northbrook Assisted Care and Willow Hospice."
Samantha shrugged. "There aren't going to be any good men from those places either. They need to go to the local college and round up some young men for us."
Marianne smiled. "I wouldn't know what to do with a college student. I might hurt the poor thing."
"I know exactly what I'd do with a college student," Jessica said. "I've got handcuffs that I've been saving for years."
Marianne laughed.
* * *
Easter weekend quickly approached. John's arthritis kept doing a number on his legs, but Miss Taylor convinced him to go out to socialize. He climbed with a grimace into the bus. His hands shook, and he had to remind himself all the women at the dance would be ancient and haggard. They arrived at the hall, and John leaned heavily on his crutch as he wandered the course of the buffet line. A woman caught his eyes for a fleeting moment. She had grey hair and spiderweb wrinkles around her eyes. John's eyes wandered down to her torso, and she still had breasts. He sat down to eat while the musicians began hauling instruments to the stage.
John ate his roast beef and smiled. The horseradish sauce tasted nearly perfect. He looked over the crowd of aged and infirm. His eyes stopped on the ancient woman with spiderwebs around her eyes. Her eyes were green and shined with vigor darting about from person to person and place to place. They fell on John's eyes and stayed there. Out of nowhere, she winked at him, and he looked away.
The band finished their setup, and the singer tapped his microphone, "Evening ladies and gents! We're here to entertain you. I hope at least a few of you have the get up and go to dance! We'll start with something nice and slow."
The piano began to play a slow dark tune. The drums whispered along with the melody. A guitar chimed as if from far away. John looked around. For the third time, his eyes fell on the ancient hag with the bright eyes and tangible breasts. She met his eyes, and after a few moments, her eyes narrowed into a grimace, and she frowned.
John sighed. The band played its dire tune. The singer didn't sing. He simply stood their tapping his feet. The tune's melody picked up a little bit, and the singer began to slowly chant, "Dance. Dance. Dance."
No one danced. John remembered the woman's wink and forgot her frown. He leaned his cane against the table and pushed himself to his feet. He walked over to her table. The women all stared wide eyed.
John held out his hand. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
"Do you fancy yourself a gentleman?" Marianne asked.
"I'd rather be a horny teen." John smiled. "But alas, I think perhaps I am a gentleman."
Marianne nodded.
John reached his hand closer to her. "Will you dance?"
"I have an artificial hip."
"I promise I won't drop you."
The woman next to Marianne said, "Go and dance, Marianne."
John straightened up his body and puffed out his chest like a piece of rock. "Now I know your name, my dear. In the past, I've always found that's half the battle."
"Are you a warrior?"
"I'm simply tired, and tonight may be my last opportunity to dance with a beautiful woman in this lifetime."
"So, you expect there'll be dancing in the next life?"
"I say my prayers."
The song master on the stage said, "We're going to be playing for hours. Dance."
Marianne pushed herself up and approached John. He took her hand in his and kissed it.
"I'm too old for this," she said.
"If it kills us, so be it," John said. "I've waited long enough for death. If I must die in the hands of a woman, then that would be as good a way as any."
Marianne smiled. They walked out alone onto the dance floor. The band began to play another slow methodical tune etched with dark notes like a deep red wine. John held Marianne close with a touch of familiarity as if they were old comrades in arms. They stepped in time to the beat of the music as pain wracked their bodies in their joints and muscles. Marianne smiled.
She felt his strong hands on her body. "Were you ever married?"
"What?" John asked.
"It's a simple question, or are you hard of hearing?"
"No. I never married."
"That's ok," Marianne said. "Marriage isn't always a good thing."
"I always hoped to marry, but the girls always said no."
She squeezed him.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Squeeze you?"
"Yes, I could break."
"You said you were ready to die."
John laughed. The music stopped. The singer looked over the room. He spoke quietly, "How about something with a beat?"
The crowd laughed.
The music began to play a fiery thumping tune with high notes strung along like links in a chain. Marianne and John stepped up their pace following the beat and both pretending it was 1945. Pain shot through their bodies, but they ignored it and pushed themselves as hard as their frail flesh would allow and then some.
"You dance beautifully," Marianne said.
"My dear, you're a beauty like no other."
Marianne smiled. "Are you trying to get in my pants?"
"If I had to, I could find some Viagra."
Marianne laughed. "Dear lord, I don't even know your name."
"It's Johnathon Hickle."
"Can I call you John?"
"Everybody does."
"I always liked that name."
"Thank you. Every seventeenth person is named John."
Marianne laughed so hard she worried about her spleen.
They danced in time to the quick beat of the music, and when it died down, Marianne pushed John away. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her by the waist.
The singer called out, "Any requests?"
"I'm done dancing," Marianne said. "These tired bones ache and my legs pulse with spikes of pain."
"It may be our last chance to dance, my dear. If you fall over dead, will it not be worth it?"
Marianne shouted to the stage, "Play Van Morrison's Moondance."
The singer smiled wide. The band members began to play. John and Marianne danced. Slowly, the pains began to edge away. The swelling in their joints began to shrink. Their skin began to grow smooth. The marks of age on their bodies evaporated like dew under the heat of a bright sun. Her hair began to bleed blonde until no grey showed. His hair began in spots to turn black. Slowly, as they danced to the beat, they became young again.
The music stopped, and the crowds broke out in applause and howls. John stared into her wrinkleless eyes and kissed her smooth lips. Men and women put their canes and walkers aside and stood up from their tables and approached each other to dance.
By Geoffrey C Porter
John marked the day on the calendar with a black x. The day after his 83rd birthday. Weary old hands, he thought. His hands were of note because they were marked with wrinkles and age spots. In fact, his whole body bore the marks, but he always promised himself not to regret days spent, even if spent idly. He climbed out of bed and counted his extremities to make sure he still had everything he was born with. The aches were bad in the morning for him, but he took his Aleve and wandered to the bathroom. He had only been up twice in the night to pee anyhow. He climbed in the shower careful to hold the handrails. John summoned his will and forced his hands to scrub soap all over his body, careful to only brush against the few open sores he had.
He dressed, not in completely fresh clothes, but only worn once or twice since being washed. He grabbed his four-legged cane in his good hand, and began the brisk walk to the dining hall. Years ago, they offered to deliver his food directly to his room, but he said, no. Oatmeal, toast, and a single turkey sausage link waited on him in the eatery. They allowed him a quarter teaspoon of brown sugar in his oatmeal since he never acquired any form of diabetes. He eyed the room as he ate.
Miss Taylor, the recreations officer, walked briskly into the room and stapled a pink piece of paper to the bulletin board. Only John called her the recreations officer. Years ago, he reverted to the mentality he possessed as a young man serving the world in World War II. John returned his empty tray to the bins unlike so many of his aged mates, and he rubbed his chin as he walked up to the bulletin board.
The pink flyer quite simply advertised an evening of camaraderie. It said there would be live music and dancing. Three different old folks' homes were chipping in and renting a hall. Miss Taylor noticed his interest and smiled at him. He glanced at her. She stood up and approached him.
"Will there be liquor?" John asked.
Miss Taylor tilted her head to the side. "What?"
"If there's going to be live music and dancing, there should be liquor."
"John, there will be beer from America, and ale from Ireland. I expect they will have whiskey and vodka and every manner of mixable concoction you could imagine."
John sighed. "No booze?"
Miss Taylor shook her head. "You don't need booze to have a good time, and didn't you quit drinking twenty years ago?"
"I drink on and off. Sure, I haven't touched the stuff in 23 years, but sometimes I get the urge."
Miss Taylor smiled. "Are you going to dance?"
John winked. "With you? Certainly."
Miss Taylor glared with wicked pinheads for eyes. "We're shipping women in from all over town to keep you company, and you want to dance with somebody half your age."
"Once you reach thirty," John said, "the goal is always to dance with a girl half your age."
"So, you'll attend?"
"What kind of band is it going to be?"
"We got a metal thrasher band. They call themselves Cyclops."
John glared in turn. "If I wanted to hear lies, I'd watch the television!"
Miss Taylor nodded and smiled. "We got a good band. We spent thousands to rent a hall and have special food prepared. We're paying them. You're going to attend. The buses leave at 3pm on the Saturday before Easter."
* * *
Marianne climbed out of the tub. She almost slipped on the cold floor, but she caught herself with her arm. She put on a fresh clean dress and fixed her strands of grey hair into a bow. She asked herself, makeup? Then her stomach growled and she whispered, "Breakfast." She walked down the hallway. She grabbed her tray of food and sat at a table with her friends. They had given her half an orange, and she savored every last juicy bite of the fruit.
Jessica, the only black-haired woman in the room, and why she dyed it nobody knew, opened her mouth and whispered, "You know Bill Jenkins had another stroke."
Samantha nodded. "That man has a stroke every week."
Marianne simply finished off her cereal. She stared off in the distance wondering if her son would visit her soon. Her son seemed content to visit at random and wait patiently for her to die. Well, in her mind, at 84, she wasn't due to be dying anytime soon.
Jen spoke very slowly and with a slight stutter, "I had a stroke."
Marianne patted her on the hand and whispered the Lord's Prayer.
"You know the fools who run this place plan a dance, on the day before Easter, no less," Jessica said.
"Dance?" Marianne asked.
"They're renting a hall and getting a live band. The idiots."
"I look around this place, and I don't see any men worth dancing with," Samantha said.
"No," Marianne said, "there aren't any good ones here."
Jessica pointed towards the outside. "They're shipping people in from Northbrook Assisted Care and Willow Hospice."
Samantha shrugged. "There aren't going to be any good men from those places either. They need to go to the local college and round up some young men for us."
Marianne smiled. "I wouldn't know what to do with a college student. I might hurt the poor thing."
"I know exactly what I'd do with a college student," Jessica said. "I've got handcuffs that I've been saving for years."
Marianne laughed.
* * *
Easter weekend quickly approached. John's arthritis kept doing a number on his legs, but Miss Taylor convinced him to go out to socialize. He climbed with a grimace into the bus. His hands shook, and he had to remind himself all the women at the dance would be ancient and haggard. They arrived at the hall, and John leaned heavily on his crutch as he wandered the course of the buffet line. A woman caught his eyes for a fleeting moment. She had grey hair and spiderweb wrinkles around her eyes. John's eyes wandered down to her torso, and she still had breasts. He sat down to eat while the musicians began hauling instruments to the stage.
John ate his roast beef and smiled. The horseradish sauce tasted nearly perfect. He looked over the crowd of aged and infirm. His eyes stopped on the ancient woman with spiderwebs around her eyes. Her eyes were green and shined with vigor darting about from person to person and place to place. They fell on John's eyes and stayed there. Out of nowhere, she winked at him, and he looked away.
The band finished their setup, and the singer tapped his microphone, "Evening ladies and gents! We're here to entertain you. I hope at least a few of you have the get up and go to dance! We'll start with something nice and slow."
The piano began to play a slow dark tune. The drums whispered along with the melody. A guitar chimed as if from far away. John looked around. For the third time, his eyes fell on the ancient hag with the bright eyes and tangible breasts. She met his eyes, and after a few moments, her eyes narrowed into a grimace, and she frowned.
John sighed. The band played its dire tune. The singer didn't sing. He simply stood their tapping his feet. The tune's melody picked up a little bit, and the singer began to slowly chant, "Dance. Dance. Dance."
No one danced. John remembered the woman's wink and forgot her frown. He leaned his cane against the table and pushed himself to his feet. He walked over to her table. The women all stared wide eyed.
John held out his hand. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
"Do you fancy yourself a gentleman?" Marianne asked.
"I'd rather be a horny teen." John smiled. "But alas, I think perhaps I am a gentleman."
Marianne nodded.
John reached his hand closer to her. "Will you dance?"
"I have an artificial hip."
"I promise I won't drop you."
The woman next to Marianne said, "Go and dance, Marianne."
John straightened up his body and puffed out his chest like a piece of rock. "Now I know your name, my dear. In the past, I've always found that's half the battle."
"Are you a warrior?"
"I'm simply tired, and tonight may be my last opportunity to dance with a beautiful woman in this lifetime."
"So, you expect there'll be dancing in the next life?"
"I say my prayers."
The song master on the stage said, "We're going to be playing for hours. Dance."
Marianne pushed herself up and approached John. He took her hand in his and kissed it.
"I'm too old for this," she said.
"If it kills us, so be it," John said. "I've waited long enough for death. If I must die in the hands of a woman, then that would be as good a way as any."
Marianne smiled. They walked out alone onto the dance floor. The band began to play another slow methodical tune etched with dark notes like a deep red wine. John held Marianne close with a touch of familiarity as if they were old comrades in arms. They stepped in time to the beat of the music as pain wracked their bodies in their joints and muscles. Marianne smiled.
She felt his strong hands on her body. "Were you ever married?"
"What?" John asked.
"It's a simple question, or are you hard of hearing?"
"No. I never married."
"That's ok," Marianne said. "Marriage isn't always a good thing."
"I always hoped to marry, but the girls always said no."
She squeezed him.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Squeeze you?"
"Yes, I could break."
"You said you were ready to die."
John laughed. The music stopped. The singer looked over the room. He spoke quietly, "How about something with a beat?"
The crowd laughed.
The music began to play a fiery thumping tune with high notes strung along like links in a chain. Marianne and John stepped up their pace following the beat and both pretending it was 1945. Pain shot through their bodies, but they ignored it and pushed themselves as hard as their frail flesh would allow and then some.
"You dance beautifully," Marianne said.
"My dear, you're a beauty like no other."
Marianne smiled. "Are you trying to get in my pants?"
"If I had to, I could find some Viagra."
Marianne laughed. "Dear lord, I don't even know your name."
"It's Johnathon Hickle."
"Can I call you John?"
"Everybody does."
"I always liked that name."
"Thank you. Every seventeenth person is named John."
Marianne laughed so hard she worried about her spleen.
They danced in time to the quick beat of the music, and when it died down, Marianne pushed John away. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her by the waist.
The singer called out, "Any requests?"
"I'm done dancing," Marianne said. "These tired bones ache and my legs pulse with spikes of pain."
"It may be our last chance to dance, my dear. If you fall over dead, will it not be worth it?"
Marianne shouted to the stage, "Play Van Morrison's Moondance."
The singer smiled wide. The band members began to play. John and Marianne danced. Slowly, the pains began to edge away. The swelling in their joints began to shrink. Their skin began to grow smooth. The marks of age on their bodies evaporated like dew under the heat of a bright sun. Her hair began to bleed blonde until no grey showed. His hair began in spots to turn black. Slowly, as they danced to the beat, they became young again.
The music stopped, and the crowds broke out in applause and howls. John stared into her wrinkleless eyes and kissed her smooth lips. Men and women put their canes and walkers aside and stood up from their tables and approached each other to dance.
Gypsy Camp
GENRE: Comedy, with a side of torture
Gypsy Camp
By Geoffrey C Porter
Tracy walked up to her sister's front door and let herself in. Tim vaulted down the stairs shouting, "Aunt Tracy! Aunt Tracy!"
He grabbed her in a hug. Tracy's sister stepped into the hallway grinning from ear-to-ear.
"You know, Tim, you're to be good for Aunt Tracy today," Beth said. "It's just a short trip to OSU to drop off your cousin's laptop, and then Tracy is taking you shopping for some new clothes for your birthday yesterday."
"I know I know."
"Don't be running off or nothing!" Beth said.
"I'll be good!" Tim cried and began running around the room with his arms out like an airplane.
"He'll be fine," Tracy said. "I'm going to do what grandmother did to us at his age."
"What are you going to do to me?" Tim asked; his arms dropping down as he stood still.
Beth looked at Tracy with a wicked grin. "Good, make sure you get the money. You know how they can be. I want my cut."
"You'll get your share, sister of mine."
Tim looked to his mother and then back at his aunt.
Tracy grabbed Tim's ten-year-old hand and pulled him out of the house. "Come on, Tim. To the bat mobile!"
Tim and Tracy ran to her vintage black Corvette convertible and climbed inside. Tracy gunned the machine to life and started speeding down the road.
"We're getting at least one video game for my birthday along with clothes, right?" Tim asked.
Tracy laughed violently. "I have bad news for you."
"Aww."
Tracy plotted her next move with methodological precision. "You've heard of the gypsies in school, haven't you?"
"Gypsies?"
"They are tribal nomads traveling the earth moving from place to place. They are originally from India, but they migrated through Europe and to North America."
"Oh," Tim said.
"They live in camps and have a rich heritage."
"Ok."
"After we drop off the laptop at your cousins, we'll stop and get clothes as promised, and then we'll stop at a gypsy camp, and I'm selling you to them."
"What?" Tim asked.
"It's time we sold you to the gypsies, so you can start earning your keep harvesting in the fields and rooting out weeds."
"You are not!"
"Harvesting the Jalapeno and Habanero peppers will be the worst of it for you. The spicy oil gets on your hands, and the smell makes your eyes water. Most people can't help but rub their eyes, and that makes them burn even worse."
"You lie!"
"Your mother and I were both sold to gypsies as slave labor when we were ten. Parents get one hundred dollars for every year of life of the child. You're worth a cool grand. Your mother and I stole from travelers and merchants in order to make enough to buy our way out of slavery. You're a bright kid. I'm sure you can do the same."
"You did not!"
"We did."
Tim's eyes were wide, and he very slowly started shaking his head back and forth.
"It's not all bad. They'll feed you well, and they are great cooks."
Neither said anything for miles and miles as highway raced past them. They parked at OSU and Tracy fished the laptop out of the trunk. They rode the elevator up 16 floors to Jen's dorm room and knocked. It took a moment before she answered, but when she did, her eyes lit up brilliantly when she saw the laptop. "Oh, mom. Thank you SO much. I can't believe I forgot my laptop."
Tracy nodded. "This is why I wanted you to go to school close to home, my dear."
Jen knelt down to Tim and poked him in the stomach. He giggled.
"And this one is ten now, prime time to sell him off," Jen said.
Tim cocked his head to the side, mouth gaping wide. His eyes shifted left and right between aunt and cousin.
"Yes, we were thinking the same thing," Tracy said.
"You're not going to sell me!"
Jen rolled her eyes. "It isn't that bad, Tim. You'll find ingenious ways to make money with the gypsies, and if you scrimp and save, you'll be able to buy your freedom. And food, oh my god, the food is so good."
"We have to go," Tracy said. "We're buying him his work clothes today."
"Yes, he'll need good strong jeans and thick cotton or wool shirts. And boots, those are essential. Oh, and get him a good knife. I was so glad grandma packed a sturdy knife with my things."
"He's kind of clumsy. He might cut himself."
Tim stared at Jen.
"Yes, all boys are clumsy," Jen said, "but he'll need a knife for sure."
"What am I going to need a knife for?"
"To fight off bandits and thieves, Tim," Tracy said.
"Huh?"
"Enjoy school, Jen. I'll see you at thanksgiving."
"Thanks again, Mom."
Tim seemed rather distracted, so Tracy grabbed his hand and pulled him along to the elevators. They made it back to the Corvette, and they headed south on the interstate.
"You know, after you've been with the gypsies," Tracy said. "They'll likely teach you how to put a gypsy curse on someone."
"A curse?"
"Gypsy curses are quite powerful. I've seen a man with a gypsy curse lose his leg over it."
"What?"
"A thief once broke into an old gypsy's house and stole her life savings. The old woman put such a strong curse on him that they had to amputate below the knee. They call him Pegleg now."
Tim didn't say anything, but he seemed lost in thought. The flea market signs started to appear by the side of the road. Tracy pulled the vehicle into a parking space, and they started wandering around. Tracy had Tim try on blue jeans and thick cotton shirts. They purchased a number of articles. Tim carried the bags while Tracy searched the aisles of the flea market moving from booth to booth. Tim trailed behind her burdened by the heavy clothes and work boots. She finally stopped at the booth of a knife seller and began to examine each item with hell-bent eyes.
"There, that one," she said, "with the bone handle, curved blade, and leather sheath."
"That's a nice knife," the merchant said. "It's a discontinued model, so it's on sale."
"You're getting me a knife?" Tim asked.
"Jen was right. You're going to need one."
Tim whimpered a little quite quietly.
"Selling him to the gypsies, eh?" The seller asked.
"That's right," Tracy said. "I want you to throw in a whetstone and oil."
"My pleasure."
Tracy paid the thirty-two dollars and stuffed the knife into one of the bags of clothes. The look on Tim's face was utterly priceless.
"Come on, Tim. To the bat mobile!" Tracy said.
Tim didn't move.
Tracy grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him along to the car. Once they were moving again, Tracy said, "You're going to behave when we get to the gypsy camp? You're not going to make a fuss or run away? I'll have to take less than a full thousand for you if you give them trouble."
Tim didn't say anything.
"You don't want to give them trouble, Tim. You're always giving your mother trouble, and that's no good. You don't want to mess with the gypsies."
Tim started to cry. "Please don't sell me! I'll be good!"
Tracy laughed and pushed the accelerator down on the Corvette.
Tim tried to wipe the tears out of his eyes, but there were entirely too many.
"We're not going to sell you," Tracy said.
"Really?"
"Yes. I was just teasing you. The knife you can keep since your father says you're old enough."
"You tricked me!"
"And you got a new knife out of the deal."
"You shouldn't trick me like that!"
Tracy smiled as the hand painted sign saying "Gypsy Camp" loomed in the distance. She took the exit and steered the car in the direction the signs pointed.
By Geoffrey C Porter
Tracy walked up to her sister's front door and let herself in. Tim vaulted down the stairs shouting, "Aunt Tracy! Aunt Tracy!"
He grabbed her in a hug. Tracy's sister stepped into the hallway grinning from ear-to-ear.
"You know, Tim, you're to be good for Aunt Tracy today," Beth said. "It's just a short trip to OSU to drop off your cousin's laptop, and then Tracy is taking you shopping for some new clothes for your birthday yesterday."
"I know I know."
"Don't be running off or nothing!" Beth said.
"I'll be good!" Tim cried and began running around the room with his arms out like an airplane.
"He'll be fine," Tracy said. "I'm going to do what grandmother did to us at his age."
"What are you going to do to me?" Tim asked; his arms dropping down as he stood still.
Beth looked at Tracy with a wicked grin. "Good, make sure you get the money. You know how they can be. I want my cut."
"You'll get your share, sister of mine."
Tim looked to his mother and then back at his aunt.
Tracy grabbed Tim's ten-year-old hand and pulled him out of the house. "Come on, Tim. To the bat mobile!"
Tim and Tracy ran to her vintage black Corvette convertible and climbed inside. Tracy gunned the machine to life and started speeding down the road.
"We're getting at least one video game for my birthday along with clothes, right?" Tim asked.
Tracy laughed violently. "I have bad news for you."
"Aww."
Tracy plotted her next move with methodological precision. "You've heard of the gypsies in school, haven't you?"
"Gypsies?"
"They are tribal nomads traveling the earth moving from place to place. They are originally from India, but they migrated through Europe and to North America."
"Oh," Tim said.
"They live in camps and have a rich heritage."
"Ok."
"After we drop off the laptop at your cousins, we'll stop and get clothes as promised, and then we'll stop at a gypsy camp, and I'm selling you to them."
"What?" Tim asked.
"It's time we sold you to the gypsies, so you can start earning your keep harvesting in the fields and rooting out weeds."
"You are not!"
"Harvesting the Jalapeno and Habanero peppers will be the worst of it for you. The spicy oil gets on your hands, and the smell makes your eyes water. Most people can't help but rub their eyes, and that makes them burn even worse."
"You lie!"
"Your mother and I were both sold to gypsies as slave labor when we were ten. Parents get one hundred dollars for every year of life of the child. You're worth a cool grand. Your mother and I stole from travelers and merchants in order to make enough to buy our way out of slavery. You're a bright kid. I'm sure you can do the same."
"You did not!"
"We did."
Tim's eyes were wide, and he very slowly started shaking his head back and forth.
"It's not all bad. They'll feed you well, and they are great cooks."
Neither said anything for miles and miles as highway raced past them. They parked at OSU and Tracy fished the laptop out of the trunk. They rode the elevator up 16 floors to Jen's dorm room and knocked. It took a moment before she answered, but when she did, her eyes lit up brilliantly when she saw the laptop. "Oh, mom. Thank you SO much. I can't believe I forgot my laptop."
Tracy nodded. "This is why I wanted you to go to school close to home, my dear."
Jen knelt down to Tim and poked him in the stomach. He giggled.
"And this one is ten now, prime time to sell him off," Jen said.
Tim cocked his head to the side, mouth gaping wide. His eyes shifted left and right between aunt and cousin.
"Yes, we were thinking the same thing," Tracy said.
"You're not going to sell me!"
Jen rolled her eyes. "It isn't that bad, Tim. You'll find ingenious ways to make money with the gypsies, and if you scrimp and save, you'll be able to buy your freedom. And food, oh my god, the food is so good."
"We have to go," Tracy said. "We're buying him his work clothes today."
"Yes, he'll need good strong jeans and thick cotton or wool shirts. And boots, those are essential. Oh, and get him a good knife. I was so glad grandma packed a sturdy knife with my things."
"He's kind of clumsy. He might cut himself."
Tim stared at Jen.
"Yes, all boys are clumsy," Jen said, "but he'll need a knife for sure."
"What am I going to need a knife for?"
"To fight off bandits and thieves, Tim," Tracy said.
"Huh?"
"Enjoy school, Jen. I'll see you at thanksgiving."
"Thanks again, Mom."
Tim seemed rather distracted, so Tracy grabbed his hand and pulled him along to the elevators. They made it back to the Corvette, and they headed south on the interstate.
"You know, after you've been with the gypsies," Tracy said. "They'll likely teach you how to put a gypsy curse on someone."
"A curse?"
"Gypsy curses are quite powerful. I've seen a man with a gypsy curse lose his leg over it."
"What?"
"A thief once broke into an old gypsy's house and stole her life savings. The old woman put such a strong curse on him that they had to amputate below the knee. They call him Pegleg now."
Tim didn't say anything, but he seemed lost in thought. The flea market signs started to appear by the side of the road. Tracy pulled the vehicle into a parking space, and they started wandering around. Tracy had Tim try on blue jeans and thick cotton shirts. They purchased a number of articles. Tim carried the bags while Tracy searched the aisles of the flea market moving from booth to booth. Tim trailed behind her burdened by the heavy clothes and work boots. She finally stopped at the booth of a knife seller and began to examine each item with hell-bent eyes.
"There, that one," she said, "with the bone handle, curved blade, and leather sheath."
"That's a nice knife," the merchant said. "It's a discontinued model, so it's on sale."
"You're getting me a knife?" Tim asked.
"Jen was right. You're going to need one."
Tim whimpered a little quite quietly.
"Selling him to the gypsies, eh?" The seller asked.
"That's right," Tracy said. "I want you to throw in a whetstone and oil."
"My pleasure."
Tracy paid the thirty-two dollars and stuffed the knife into one of the bags of clothes. The look on Tim's face was utterly priceless.
"Come on, Tim. To the bat mobile!" Tracy said.
Tim didn't move.
Tracy grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him along to the car. Once they were moving again, Tracy said, "You're going to behave when we get to the gypsy camp? You're not going to make a fuss or run away? I'll have to take less than a full thousand for you if you give them trouble."
Tim didn't say anything.
"You don't want to give them trouble, Tim. You're always giving your mother trouble, and that's no good. You don't want to mess with the gypsies."
Tim started to cry. "Please don't sell me! I'll be good!"
Tracy laughed and pushed the accelerator down on the Corvette.
Tim tried to wipe the tears out of his eyes, but there were entirely too many.
"We're not going to sell you," Tracy said.
"Really?"
"Yes. I was just teasing you. The knife you can keep since your father says you're old enough."
"You tricked me!"
"And you got a new knife out of the deal."
"You shouldn't trick me like that!"
Tracy smiled as the hand painted sign saying "Gypsy Camp" loomed in the distance. She took the exit and steered the car in the direction the signs pointed.
Werewolf's Tail
GENRE: horror, paranormal
Werewolf's Tail
By Geoffrey C Porter
Emily peered into the dark recesses of her school locker seeking out her tattered book of poetry. She simply knew it was in there somewhere, perhaps behind her Unicorn covered notebook.
She felt hands squeeze her breasts and a bulge rub against the crack of her ass. She shrieked and spun around. John let go of her and laughed. Then he walked away. His locker was just seven lockers from hers and had been since the start of high school four years ago. She snarled.
He looked her over. Black dress as always, black eye shadow, black lipstick, and black fingernails adorning pale white fingers. She was the typical Goth chick in his mind.
He turned back to his locker and started working the dial.
Emily decided to make her move. She wanted a date for the homecoming dance, and John the football player would serve. She summoned every last bit of courage, and approached him. She tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face her. She moved in to kiss him on the lips.
He stepped backwards and hissed. "Don't do that!"
"Why not? You started it."
"I wouldn't want to be seen with you."
"What? Why not?"
"You're a Goth chick! I have standards."
She glared, and then turned away. She went back to her locker and found her book of poetry. She made her way to her ancient Pinto and drove home. After dinner, she and her mom were doing dishes in the kitchen when her mom said, "You know it's a full moon tonight."
Emily nodded.
Mom continued, "Well you know how your father gets during the full moon. You should stay at a friend's house tonight."
Emily sighed. She didn't want to spend the night in the woods, and if she called upon any of her few and far between friends, they would freak out when they learned the truth. So, she'd spend the night in the woods like so many other nights over the years.
Emily's mom could see her resistance, and her mom spoke quietly, "Just be glad this isn't the dark ages. Be glad you weren't born male."
Emily nodded. "I know. I know."
Emily went to her room. She stripped naked. She put on a red silk robe. She went downstairs. Her dad smiled at her.
"I'm sorry, honey," he said. "You just don't know what it's like for males."
"I've heard this story a thousand times, Dad. I'll run through the woods. I'll be fine."
"Thanks, honey. I'm glad you understand."
She didn't understand though. She hated it. She walked out to the back porch and noticed a faint glint of the moon rising on the horizon. She felt a stir in her belly.
* * *
John played football that night. Hell, he more than played, he scored two touchdowns, sacked the quarterback, and intercepted two passes. He played the whole first half and the last quarter. His teammates called him Iron Man for playing offense and defense. His coach reminded him after every game that he'd have to choose offense or defense when he made it to college.
He hadn't gotten any offers to go to any colleges, but with almost a year of high school left and most of the school's football season left, there was still time. He'd be on the local 11 o'clock news on two channels for sure.
The buses dropped them off at the school, and he was counting on his sister to pick him up. His sister was a no show. He waited. He stood alone in the parking lot in the moonlight. He knew in his heart his sister was off blowing some hobo or stoned out of her gourd, so he started walking. The path was lit with streetlights all the way home, but nearly three miles. He knew if he cut through the woods it would be closer to two miles, and he knew the way, and he had the moonlight.
He took off in a slow jog.
He made his way down a well-known path when he saw the eyes. Just two eyes that flashed in the moonlight off to the side of his path. He slowed, and stopped. A wolf bigger than any canine John had ever seen stepped directly into his path. Mostly grey except its face which seemed to be painted with strips of black.
"Nice doggy," John said.
The wolf smiled a canine smile and started wagging its tail. John held his palm out below the animal's nose, so it could get a good sniff of his scent. The wolf sniffed at his hand. John petted the animal, and it wagged its tail even more. John smiled, and thought to himself, I'm not going to die after all.
The beast bit down viciously on John's hand, and out of reflex, John smacked it upside the head with his left. The wolf let out a yelp and ran into the woods.
John looked at his hand. It bled bad. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around the puncture holes. He took off in a jog again keeping pressure on his right with his left. By the time he made it home, the shirt was soaked, but the bleeding had mostly stopped. His mom screamed when she saw him.
"Let me see," his dad said. "Unwrap it."
John gingerly unraveled the bloodstained shirt from his hand. His dad looked, grabbed his hand, and turned it this way and that. "Wiggle your fingers."
John wiggled his fingers.
"You need stitches," Dad said. "You need a Tetanus shot. You likely need Rabies shots."
"It's barely a scratch!"
"You've never had a Tetanus shot," Mother said, "so now is as good a time as any. And if a dog bit you it might have rabies. If we could find the dog, we could find out if it has rabies."
"It was a wolf!"
"You shouldn't go through the woods!" Dad exclaimed.
"It was my sister's fault! She was supposed to pick me up."
His parents nodded. His dad grabbed car keys. "Let's go, boy."
"I don't want to go to the hospital!"
"Quit being a cry baby," Mom said. "You'd think they intend to cut off your penis. Tetanus is fatal. Rabies is fatal. You need shots."
John sighed. His dad started making tracks for the garage. John followed. They drove in silence to the hospital. The doctor stitched him up. The doctor gave him two shots that he would rather have not had. The doctor gave him the bright news that he'd have to come in for more rabies shots over the next 28 days unless they found the canine that bit him.
The doctor handed him a white envelope. "Take this before bed tonight."
"What is it?" John asked.
"Just a little something to help calm your nerves."
"What is it?"
"Just a five milligram Valium. I've seen you play, you're good."
"What is Valium?"
"It's a sedative," the doc said. "It's like a little treat. Take it."
"Keep it, doc. Drugs aren't treats."
"Good for you. Your family doctor will likely administer the rest of the Rabies shots."
"Ok."
John's dad was asleep in the waiting room when John emerged. They drove home in silence. John wanted to say so bad, "Why don't you ever come and watch me play?" He knew the answer though. His dad hated sports. He considered them a waste of time. John should be concerned with a real job, not playing with his friends.
* * *
As the moon set that morning, Emily donned her silk robe and went into the house to take a shower. She was tired, so tired the weariness seemed to creep into the joints between her bones. Her stomach growled its empty growl. She decided the shower could wait and started foraging through the kitchen for food. She ate and ate. She headed towards the stairs and her room, but the couch lured her in with its soft cushions and warm blanket.
School days passed by, and John made no more moves to grope her. Word around the school though was he still didn't have a date for Homecoming. There were at least four girls ready to put out for him, but he seemed intent to make them fight over him. Perhaps he planned to do them one-by-one. Perhaps he preferred boys. The girls talked and talked about his reasons. None were sure one way or the other though.
A quick month passed, and John found himself walking home through the woods from a football game once again thanks to his whore of a sister. The moon crept up into the sky, and a gut-wrenching tightness descended on John's insides.
He stumbled to his knees and hands. His back arched in pain as he felt his muscles stretch. His skin started to tingle and then burn as hair grew into a fur coat. His mind started to slip, and he ripped all his clothes off. His hands grew into paws with sharp claws. His arms stretched out as his gut wrenched. He knew hunger. He knew nothing else. He started to run sniffing at the air. He smelled what he knew in his carnal heart to be a rabbit.
He chased down the scent until he found the rabbit. He practically ripped it in two and feasted on all but the bones and fur, and in his fury, he ate some of the bones and fur, too.
He started racing through the woods searching out another rabbit. He saw a squirrel out of the corner of his eye and tried to chase it down. Then he heard a howl in the distance. He ran towards the sound, for it sounded pretty. He saw a grey wolf with black streaks painted on its face. The wolf turned its butt towards John, and John knew in his heart that the other wolf was female. His rod sprung to attention, and he had no choice but to carnally mount the other wolf.
As their bodies separated, the other wolf ran into the woods. John just lay on the ground panting, satiated and hoping for another rabbit. He saw another squirrel and chased it down ripping it to pieces and feasting on the tender flesh and innards.
As the moon set, John's body and mind wrenched its way back into human form. He was naked, alone, and in the woods. He took off in a run towards home. He jetted past other houses and made his way through the back door of his house. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His hands and face were covered in blood. He hopped in the shower.
He stood under the pelting hot shower and pondered his fate. Was he a werewolf? Was he going to turn into a wolf again?
He climbed out of the shower and dried off. He got dressed. He heard his mom shout, "Breakfast!"
He raced downstairs. He ate like a fiend, asking for seconds and then asking for thirds. He looked to his mom and dad. His sister wasn't around, of course.
"Mom, Dad, remember that wolf that bit me?"
"Of course," Dad said.
"Last night I turned into a wolf, Dad."
"What!" Mom howled.
Dad nodded.
"You're doing drugs!" Mom said.
"I am not!"
"LSD is a bad drug, John," Dad said. "Don't ever take it from anyone. Are we clear?"
"I turned into a wolf!"
"You just had a bad acid trip, honey," Mom said. "It happens if you're doing drugs."
John sighed. Then he realized. Maybe somebody did slip him something. He shrugged it off. What are you going to do, he thought.
Monday arrived. John was at his locker. Emily approached him. "Hi, John."
John turned on her and said, "What do you want?"
Emily smiled at him.
John noticed the makeup again for a second time. Emily was the werewolf.
"So, we're going out?" Emily asked.
"We're not going out."
"What?"
"You're a Goth chick."
"I am not!"
"You wear all black," John said. "You wear black lipstick. Black everything."
Emily frowned. "I look good in black."
"I can't go out with a Goth chick."
Emily's eyes narrowed. "You want me to wear a pink miniskirt and matching halter top?"
John smiled. "Yes."
Slap!
Emily turned and left him to his fate. She knew, without the right concoction of herbs, he would be an uncontrollable monster. He would kill. He would be hunted. He was doomed. She smiled.
* * *
Part II
John's thoughts began to race between his harsh new reality and the everyday events unfolding before him. His math teacher lectured on the greatness of the cosine function while John's mind drifted ceaselessly to that bitch of a werewolf, Emily, who bit him and infected him with the lycanthropy. He would turn into a wolf again, and that thought echoed in his head over and over. As the day progressed, the muscles in his neck began to ache from the stiffness caused by his errant thoughts. He walked in a trance to his locker. Emily put a few books in her locker and slammed it closed.
He chased after her. "You gotta help me!"
"Why would I do that?"
"I'm a human being!"
Emily smiled. "Not any more. Now you're a creature of the night."
John glared. "If you don't help me, I swear, everyone in this town, hell, everybody in the state will know you're a werewolf."
Emily's eyes opened wide.
"Help me," John begged.
Emily smiled. "My dad takes an herbal concoction. It helps him keep his humanity when he changes."
"What does he take!"
"I don't know. I take a different herbal mix. I'll have to ask him."
"Ask him when you get home. Call me." He scribbled his number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She hesitated. Then she took the number and stuck it in her pocket. They caught their separate buses home.
Emily's house was empty, and that suited her plans perfectly. She went into the basement. She grabbed the shelves just so and pulled a section of wall out of the way. She reached in the secret room and hit a light switch. A thick book sat under a simple incandescent bulb in the center of the alcove. Emily stepped up to the book and paged to the index. She found the remedy to halt the transformations and wrote down the herbs and dosages. She closed the book and resealed the room. She went upstairs to her room and dialed John.
He answered, "Emily! Did you talk to your dad?"
"I talked to Dad, yeah. Here's what you need to take to stop the transformations." Then she rattled off the list of ingredients and dosages.
"Thanks a million. I guess you're not a bad person, even if you are a Goth chick."
Emily glared. "I'm not a Goth chick!"
"Yeah, yeah. Look, where do I get this stuff?"
"The best herb shop in town is on the south side. It's called the Willow Connection. It's on the corner of Elm and 15th street."
"I'll Google it!"
John hung up the phone. The computer produced a map, and John quietly approached his sister's door. He knocked on the door.
"What?" His sister shouted.
"I need a ride, sis."
"Walk."
"You know the deal. Mom and Dad pay for your car, and you have to give me a ride if I need a ride."
"Shitty deal."
"Come on."
"What do you need a ride for?" She asked.
"It's a long story!"
John could hear his sister growl. She opened the door and poked her brother in the chest in a very painful way. "Where?"
"Elm and 15th street. I have a map."
She didn't say another word and headed straight for her car. They rode in silence. They pulled up outside the shop, and she snarled, "Hurry."
"I need a few things. You gotta wait."
"Hurry."
John raced in the store. Nearly pitch-black inside, and no signs for anything. A woman wearing a long dark dress smiled a wide bright smile, and spoke in an almost musical tone, "The light will damage the potency of some herbs. Can I help you find anything?"
John nodded. "I need Horny Goat Weed, Cinnamon, and Cayenne."
The woman tilted her head to the side, and one eye opened wider than the other. Her complexion radiated life and had a smooth flawless nature even though the wrinkles implied she was at least forty if not fifty years old. "This way."
John followed her down the first aisle.
"That is an interesting combination of herbs you need," she said. "We have all three, for certain. I can't directly recall what the combination does, something ancient if my fogged memory serves at all."
The horn sounded on John's sister's car, and John said, "I'm in a hurry."
The woman grabbed a bottle off one shelf and held it out to John. Then she moved to another aisle and grabbed another bottle. Finally, she went to a refrigerator and withdrew a final bottle.
"How much?" John asked.
The horn sounded again from outside.
"Quickly! What do I owe you? She won't honk again."
The woman nodded. "Make it an even twenty."
John handed over the money and took off in a run for the car.
His sister hit the gas and merged into traffic without bothering to look behind her or even into any of the mirrors. "What'd you get?"
"It's not important."
"You used up your one free trip this month, and it wasn't important."
"The rule isn't one free trip a month," John said. "It's whenever I need a ride!"
"You've got a bike," she said. "You've got perfectly good feet."
"I swear if you don't let up, I'll find your stash and flush it down the toilet."
"You wouldn't dare."
"I'll do it."
She glared at the road and slowly pressed the gas down until other cars flew by like turtles struggling against a strong headwind.
He started taking the pills every day. It eased his mind, if nothing else. Day by day, he could feel a change ever so slowly creeping into his body. He watched the calendar waiting for the full moon. It was due to rise at 7pm, and John went outside to wait.
The moon rose, and John's body began to twist and contort. He howled, "Stop the transformation my ass!" His fur began to grow and his hands and feet turned into paws. He was the wolf again. He took off in a run towards the woods and freedom. He killed a rabbit and ate it raw. Through the night in simple little stages, he forgot his name, he forgot his family, and he forgot his life. The moon set.
Emily sat on her back porch in her robe, waiting. The wolf stepped into her backyard and eyed her. She smiled at it and whispered, "Come'ere, boy."
The wolf smiled and walked up to her. She patted it on its head. He sat on his hind legs, wagged his tail, and barked once ever so politely.
"I will call you Benjamin," Emily said. "I'll feed you every day. I'll play catch with you. We'll go for long runs on the bike trail."
The wolf barked again.
By Geoffrey C Porter
Emily peered into the dark recesses of her school locker seeking out her tattered book of poetry. She simply knew it was in there somewhere, perhaps behind her Unicorn covered notebook.
She felt hands squeeze her breasts and a bulge rub against the crack of her ass. She shrieked and spun around. John let go of her and laughed. Then he walked away. His locker was just seven lockers from hers and had been since the start of high school four years ago. She snarled.
He looked her over. Black dress as always, black eye shadow, black lipstick, and black fingernails adorning pale white fingers. She was the typical Goth chick in his mind.
He turned back to his locker and started working the dial.
Emily decided to make her move. She wanted a date for the homecoming dance, and John the football player would serve. She summoned every last bit of courage, and approached him. She tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face her. She moved in to kiss him on the lips.
He stepped backwards and hissed. "Don't do that!"
"Why not? You started it."
"I wouldn't want to be seen with you."
"What? Why not?"
"You're a Goth chick! I have standards."
She glared, and then turned away. She went back to her locker and found her book of poetry. She made her way to her ancient Pinto and drove home. After dinner, she and her mom were doing dishes in the kitchen when her mom said, "You know it's a full moon tonight."
Emily nodded.
Mom continued, "Well you know how your father gets during the full moon. You should stay at a friend's house tonight."
Emily sighed. She didn't want to spend the night in the woods, and if she called upon any of her few and far between friends, they would freak out when they learned the truth. So, she'd spend the night in the woods like so many other nights over the years.
Emily's mom could see her resistance, and her mom spoke quietly, "Just be glad this isn't the dark ages. Be glad you weren't born male."
Emily nodded. "I know. I know."
Emily went to her room. She stripped naked. She put on a red silk robe. She went downstairs. Her dad smiled at her.
"I'm sorry, honey," he said. "You just don't know what it's like for males."
"I've heard this story a thousand times, Dad. I'll run through the woods. I'll be fine."
"Thanks, honey. I'm glad you understand."
She didn't understand though. She hated it. She walked out to the back porch and noticed a faint glint of the moon rising on the horizon. She felt a stir in her belly.
* * *
John played football that night. Hell, he more than played, he scored two touchdowns, sacked the quarterback, and intercepted two passes. He played the whole first half and the last quarter. His teammates called him Iron Man for playing offense and defense. His coach reminded him after every game that he'd have to choose offense or defense when he made it to college.
He hadn't gotten any offers to go to any colleges, but with almost a year of high school left and most of the school's football season left, there was still time. He'd be on the local 11 o'clock news on two channels for sure.
The buses dropped them off at the school, and he was counting on his sister to pick him up. His sister was a no show. He waited. He stood alone in the parking lot in the moonlight. He knew in his heart his sister was off blowing some hobo or stoned out of her gourd, so he started walking. The path was lit with streetlights all the way home, but nearly three miles. He knew if he cut through the woods it would be closer to two miles, and he knew the way, and he had the moonlight.
He took off in a slow jog.
He made his way down a well-known path when he saw the eyes. Just two eyes that flashed in the moonlight off to the side of his path. He slowed, and stopped. A wolf bigger than any canine John had ever seen stepped directly into his path. Mostly grey except its face which seemed to be painted with strips of black.
"Nice doggy," John said.
The wolf smiled a canine smile and started wagging its tail. John held his palm out below the animal's nose, so it could get a good sniff of his scent. The wolf sniffed at his hand. John petted the animal, and it wagged its tail even more. John smiled, and thought to himself, I'm not going to die after all.
The beast bit down viciously on John's hand, and out of reflex, John smacked it upside the head with his left. The wolf let out a yelp and ran into the woods.
John looked at his hand. It bled bad. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around the puncture holes. He took off in a jog again keeping pressure on his right with his left. By the time he made it home, the shirt was soaked, but the bleeding had mostly stopped. His mom screamed when she saw him.
"Let me see," his dad said. "Unwrap it."
John gingerly unraveled the bloodstained shirt from his hand. His dad looked, grabbed his hand, and turned it this way and that. "Wiggle your fingers."
John wiggled his fingers.
"You need stitches," Dad said. "You need a Tetanus shot. You likely need Rabies shots."
"It's barely a scratch!"
"You've never had a Tetanus shot," Mother said, "so now is as good a time as any. And if a dog bit you it might have rabies. If we could find the dog, we could find out if it has rabies."
"It was a wolf!"
"You shouldn't go through the woods!" Dad exclaimed.
"It was my sister's fault! She was supposed to pick me up."
His parents nodded. His dad grabbed car keys. "Let's go, boy."
"I don't want to go to the hospital!"
"Quit being a cry baby," Mom said. "You'd think they intend to cut off your penis. Tetanus is fatal. Rabies is fatal. You need shots."
John sighed. His dad started making tracks for the garage. John followed. They drove in silence to the hospital. The doctor stitched him up. The doctor gave him two shots that he would rather have not had. The doctor gave him the bright news that he'd have to come in for more rabies shots over the next 28 days unless they found the canine that bit him.
The doctor handed him a white envelope. "Take this before bed tonight."
"What is it?" John asked.
"Just a little something to help calm your nerves."
"What is it?"
"Just a five milligram Valium. I've seen you play, you're good."
"What is Valium?"
"It's a sedative," the doc said. "It's like a little treat. Take it."
"Keep it, doc. Drugs aren't treats."
"Good for you. Your family doctor will likely administer the rest of the Rabies shots."
"Ok."
John's dad was asleep in the waiting room when John emerged. They drove home in silence. John wanted to say so bad, "Why don't you ever come and watch me play?" He knew the answer though. His dad hated sports. He considered them a waste of time. John should be concerned with a real job, not playing with his friends.
* * *
As the moon set that morning, Emily donned her silk robe and went into the house to take a shower. She was tired, so tired the weariness seemed to creep into the joints between her bones. Her stomach growled its empty growl. She decided the shower could wait and started foraging through the kitchen for food. She ate and ate. She headed towards the stairs and her room, but the couch lured her in with its soft cushions and warm blanket.
School days passed by, and John made no more moves to grope her. Word around the school though was he still didn't have a date for Homecoming. There were at least four girls ready to put out for him, but he seemed intent to make them fight over him. Perhaps he planned to do them one-by-one. Perhaps he preferred boys. The girls talked and talked about his reasons. None were sure one way or the other though.
A quick month passed, and John found himself walking home through the woods from a football game once again thanks to his whore of a sister. The moon crept up into the sky, and a gut-wrenching tightness descended on John's insides.
He stumbled to his knees and hands. His back arched in pain as he felt his muscles stretch. His skin started to tingle and then burn as hair grew into a fur coat. His mind started to slip, and he ripped all his clothes off. His hands grew into paws with sharp claws. His arms stretched out as his gut wrenched. He knew hunger. He knew nothing else. He started to run sniffing at the air. He smelled what he knew in his carnal heart to be a rabbit.
He chased down the scent until he found the rabbit. He practically ripped it in two and feasted on all but the bones and fur, and in his fury, he ate some of the bones and fur, too.
He started racing through the woods searching out another rabbit. He saw a squirrel out of the corner of his eye and tried to chase it down. Then he heard a howl in the distance. He ran towards the sound, for it sounded pretty. He saw a grey wolf with black streaks painted on its face. The wolf turned its butt towards John, and John knew in his heart that the other wolf was female. His rod sprung to attention, and he had no choice but to carnally mount the other wolf.
As their bodies separated, the other wolf ran into the woods. John just lay on the ground panting, satiated and hoping for another rabbit. He saw another squirrel and chased it down ripping it to pieces and feasting on the tender flesh and innards.
As the moon set, John's body and mind wrenched its way back into human form. He was naked, alone, and in the woods. He took off in a run towards home. He jetted past other houses and made his way through the back door of his house. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His hands and face were covered in blood. He hopped in the shower.
He stood under the pelting hot shower and pondered his fate. Was he a werewolf? Was he going to turn into a wolf again?
He climbed out of the shower and dried off. He got dressed. He heard his mom shout, "Breakfast!"
He raced downstairs. He ate like a fiend, asking for seconds and then asking for thirds. He looked to his mom and dad. His sister wasn't around, of course.
"Mom, Dad, remember that wolf that bit me?"
"Of course," Dad said.
"Last night I turned into a wolf, Dad."
"What!" Mom howled.
Dad nodded.
"You're doing drugs!" Mom said.
"I am not!"
"LSD is a bad drug, John," Dad said. "Don't ever take it from anyone. Are we clear?"
"I turned into a wolf!"
"You just had a bad acid trip, honey," Mom said. "It happens if you're doing drugs."
John sighed. Then he realized. Maybe somebody did slip him something. He shrugged it off. What are you going to do, he thought.
Monday arrived. John was at his locker. Emily approached him. "Hi, John."
John turned on her and said, "What do you want?"
Emily smiled at him.
John noticed the makeup again for a second time. Emily was the werewolf.
"So, we're going out?" Emily asked.
"We're not going out."
"What?"
"You're a Goth chick."
"I am not!"
"You wear all black," John said. "You wear black lipstick. Black everything."
Emily frowned. "I look good in black."
"I can't go out with a Goth chick."
Emily's eyes narrowed. "You want me to wear a pink miniskirt and matching halter top?"
John smiled. "Yes."
Slap!
Emily turned and left him to his fate. She knew, without the right concoction of herbs, he would be an uncontrollable monster. He would kill. He would be hunted. He was doomed. She smiled.
* * *
Part II
John's thoughts began to race between his harsh new reality and the everyday events unfolding before him. His math teacher lectured on the greatness of the cosine function while John's mind drifted ceaselessly to that bitch of a werewolf, Emily, who bit him and infected him with the lycanthropy. He would turn into a wolf again, and that thought echoed in his head over and over. As the day progressed, the muscles in his neck began to ache from the stiffness caused by his errant thoughts. He walked in a trance to his locker. Emily put a few books in her locker and slammed it closed.
He chased after her. "You gotta help me!"
"Why would I do that?"
"I'm a human being!"
Emily smiled. "Not any more. Now you're a creature of the night."
John glared. "If you don't help me, I swear, everyone in this town, hell, everybody in the state will know you're a werewolf."
Emily's eyes opened wide.
"Help me," John begged.
Emily smiled. "My dad takes an herbal concoction. It helps him keep his humanity when he changes."
"What does he take!"
"I don't know. I take a different herbal mix. I'll have to ask him."
"Ask him when you get home. Call me." He scribbled his number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She hesitated. Then she took the number and stuck it in her pocket. They caught their separate buses home.
Emily's house was empty, and that suited her plans perfectly. She went into the basement. She grabbed the shelves just so and pulled a section of wall out of the way. She reached in the secret room and hit a light switch. A thick book sat under a simple incandescent bulb in the center of the alcove. Emily stepped up to the book and paged to the index. She found the remedy to halt the transformations and wrote down the herbs and dosages. She closed the book and resealed the room. She went upstairs to her room and dialed John.
He answered, "Emily! Did you talk to your dad?"
"I talked to Dad, yeah. Here's what you need to take to stop the transformations." Then she rattled off the list of ingredients and dosages.
"Thanks a million. I guess you're not a bad person, even if you are a Goth chick."
Emily glared. "I'm not a Goth chick!"
"Yeah, yeah. Look, where do I get this stuff?"
"The best herb shop in town is on the south side. It's called the Willow Connection. It's on the corner of Elm and 15th street."
"I'll Google it!"
John hung up the phone. The computer produced a map, and John quietly approached his sister's door. He knocked on the door.
"What?" His sister shouted.
"I need a ride, sis."
"Walk."
"You know the deal. Mom and Dad pay for your car, and you have to give me a ride if I need a ride."
"Shitty deal."
"Come on."
"What do you need a ride for?" She asked.
"It's a long story!"
John could hear his sister growl. She opened the door and poked her brother in the chest in a very painful way. "Where?"
"Elm and 15th street. I have a map."
She didn't say another word and headed straight for her car. They rode in silence. They pulled up outside the shop, and she snarled, "Hurry."
"I need a few things. You gotta wait."
"Hurry."
John raced in the store. Nearly pitch-black inside, and no signs for anything. A woman wearing a long dark dress smiled a wide bright smile, and spoke in an almost musical tone, "The light will damage the potency of some herbs. Can I help you find anything?"
John nodded. "I need Horny Goat Weed, Cinnamon, and Cayenne."
The woman tilted her head to the side, and one eye opened wider than the other. Her complexion radiated life and had a smooth flawless nature even though the wrinkles implied she was at least forty if not fifty years old. "This way."
John followed her down the first aisle.
"That is an interesting combination of herbs you need," she said. "We have all three, for certain. I can't directly recall what the combination does, something ancient if my fogged memory serves at all."
The horn sounded on John's sister's car, and John said, "I'm in a hurry."
The woman grabbed a bottle off one shelf and held it out to John. Then she moved to another aisle and grabbed another bottle. Finally, she went to a refrigerator and withdrew a final bottle.
"How much?" John asked.
The horn sounded again from outside.
"Quickly! What do I owe you? She won't honk again."
The woman nodded. "Make it an even twenty."
John handed over the money and took off in a run for the car.
His sister hit the gas and merged into traffic without bothering to look behind her or even into any of the mirrors. "What'd you get?"
"It's not important."
"You used up your one free trip this month, and it wasn't important."
"The rule isn't one free trip a month," John said. "It's whenever I need a ride!"
"You've got a bike," she said. "You've got perfectly good feet."
"I swear if you don't let up, I'll find your stash and flush it down the toilet."
"You wouldn't dare."
"I'll do it."
She glared at the road and slowly pressed the gas down until other cars flew by like turtles struggling against a strong headwind.
He started taking the pills every day. It eased his mind, if nothing else. Day by day, he could feel a change ever so slowly creeping into his body. He watched the calendar waiting for the full moon. It was due to rise at 7pm, and John went outside to wait.
The moon rose, and John's body began to twist and contort. He howled, "Stop the transformation my ass!" His fur began to grow and his hands and feet turned into paws. He was the wolf again. He took off in a run towards the woods and freedom. He killed a rabbit and ate it raw. Through the night in simple little stages, he forgot his name, he forgot his family, and he forgot his life. The moon set.
Emily sat on her back porch in her robe, waiting. The wolf stepped into her backyard and eyed her. She smiled at it and whispered, "Come'ere, boy."
The wolf smiled and walked up to her. She patted it on its head. He sat on his hind legs, wagged his tail, and barked once ever so politely.
"I will call you Benjamin," Emily said. "I'll feed you every day. I'll play catch with you. We'll go for long runs on the bike trail."
The wolf barked again.
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