Discussion in the Woods

by Lucas Klaukien

She came up on them, two of them, in the woods, at night, hunched over a two-legger child. They dug into his torso with their teeth, tearing lumpy strings of flesh. They stopped when they heard her approach.

“Won’t you join us sister,” one of them said.

“We would be honored if you did,” the other said.

She was sure to keep her distance as she replied, “but I am not your sister, and you are not my packmates.”

“But tonight,” one of them said, “we are like you.”

“Tonight, we know,” the other said, “we know the ways of the wolf.”

“But for the rest of the month,” she said, thoughtfully, “when the mother goddess is not fully pregnant, you walk on two legs and worship the fearsome Sun God.”

“Are we to be denied your favor because we walk on two legs and worship the sun?”

“We were born this way, we cannot help our two-leggedness.”

“Forgive me the denial of my favor, as it cannot be given. To walk on four legs and be close to the earth is essential to true spiritual enlightenment for the true creatures of the forest.”

The two looked at each other and began to growl and talk in low halting gibberish two-legger-speak.

“Surely,” one of them said, “to walk on two legs can only be seen as an advantage. Two-leggers have a better vantage point in the obscure forest.”

“Yes,” the other said, “it is essential to survival.”

“But we have no need for better sight. Wolf sight is good enough. In the forest, we have only one enemy … two-leggers, who hunt not with speed or teeth or claws. They hunt by throwing rocks, and surely lower ground is better for the wolf, even in that regard.”

“Of course, you are right,” on of them said, “men do hunt wolves.”

The two of them rose up on two legs, their heads and hearts away from the sacred earth. She heard an unnatural clicking noise as she saw them cock a shiny long metal stick. She did not turn to run away. She knew from experience that two-leggers could throw a rock faster than she could run. She braced herself for attack, crouching low, drawing strength from the earth, preparing to leap. Even then, she knew her spirit would soon fill the belly of the mother goddess where all brave wolves go when the hunt is ended…

Werewolf article from HowStuffWorks...

I stumbled across this page late one night...

http://science.howstuffworks.com/werewolf.htm

Leash and Liege

By Lucas Klaukien

Shelley howled in pain as her bone structure warped, bones twisting, popping and cracking. The fur, the paws, the snout collapsed and grew, the eyes, the legs, the chest changed, revealing a beautiful, healthy and quite naked, young woman.

“Master,” she said, “we can be together now. I‘ve always slept on your bed, now I can sleep in it.”

Landon quietly said, “no,” and “Shelley.”

“Shelley…”

She was a beautiful dog, a German Shepherd with an off-colored eye, faithful as the morning sunrise. She was nursing a nasty bite of some kind. He hadn’t seen what bit her. He heard her yelps out in the woods and ran to find her with his rifle by his side. This far north, in such an isolated setting, there was no telling what she might have ran into. He found her limping and growling. He went to check the wound and she snapped at him. It was the only time she’d ever done that and he couldn’t restrain himself from belting her a good one across the chops.

She cocked her head sideways watching him sob gently. She went to comfort him.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he screamed, ashamed of her nakedness and how it stirred him.

“Master,” she said, confused, “my love. Will you beat me?”

“no.”

“Have I angered you?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’ll put the chain around my neck and we’ll go for a walk.”

“NO!”

The puffy, red, puss-infected bite mark was the only blotch on an otherwise perfect sheath of skin. It throbbed and ran yellow with puss every time she scratched it. She crouched down and tried scratching it with her foot, falling over on her side. She broke her fall with her arms, and as though touched by the genius of God, realized she could use her hands to scratch.

Landon tried desperately not to look. Oh God, just don’t look.

“I’m no sicko,” he said to himself, shaking his head, “I’m not sick. Shelley…” he began to cry, “Shelley, you’re beautiful … beautiful.”

He steeled himself and wiped the tears from his eyes, “I’m not sick, you’re the one that’s sick!”

He wept again and said quickly, nodding, “Yes, I’m sick. I am sick.”

He hadn’t been with a woman … he hadn’t seen very many women in the three years they’d been up there.

Shelley noticed the distinct bulge forming in his pants and crawled over on all fours to console her master, to hold him in her newly human arms.

Oh, how she’d waited for this moment! He was everything to her. Companion, provider, master.

He pounded his fist on the floor beside him as she brought her arms around his neck. Her perfect breasts dangled over, then pressed down gently against his chest. Their eyes met, his tear reddened eyes, her off-colored ones, for a second they fell in love.

He leaned in to kiss her and she licked his face. He threw her off and she thudded across the room. Picking herself up, she smiled.

“Lock me in a cage, put a chain around my neck. Let’s play rough, I want you to give me a beating.”

Landon grunted in frustration as he got up off the ground. She crawled back over to him and wrapped her arms around his leg, cradling the side of her face against his thigh and rubbing her vagina against the top of his foot. He stopped resisting for a moment, put his hands on his forehead and sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

When he looked back down, she was bent over in front of him on all fours.

“Master,” she said, “I know how lonely you’ve been. I haven’t smelled any women on you. Master …”

He started to hyperventilate, huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

“… come in to me.”

He ran into his room and locked the door. huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

He could hear her crawling along the floor, testing the door handle. She called to him. He grabbed the rifle off the wall above his bed.

huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

What to do? He thought about jumping out the bedroom window. He thought about hiding in the closet. huh-huh-huh-huh-huh. He set the gun down and sat at the edge of his bed, frantic. He unzipped his pants and began to masturbate, wiping the tears from his eyes with his free hand. It didn’t take long to finish. huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

He picked the rifle up and slowly made for the door, unlocked it, and slowly backed up to the edge of the bed where he had been. She came into the room, walking uneasily toward him. He raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, hitting her square above the right eye, she fell in a heap on the spot.

His ears rang.

“Master,” she said, picking herself up, “that was too rough.”

“Oh fuck, I should have used a silver bullet.”

W1

SIGNED CONFESSION

GIVEN BY PETER ASH

ON JULY 24TH 2001, I WAS WAITING FOR MY GIRLFRIEND, ONE SANDRA COTE, IN FRONT OF HER APARTMENT BUILDING AT 10:02 PM. SHE WAS OUT WITH A FRIEND, DERRIK SALVADOR,THEY HAD BEEN FRIENDS BEFORE WE GOT TOGETHER, AND I DIDN'T MUCH LIKE HIM. I WAS HAVING A CIGARETTE ,WONDERING WHERE SHE WAS, WHAT WAS TAKING SO LONG, SHE SAID THEY WERE GOING TO HAVE COFFEE, BUT SHE ALSO SAID SHE WOULD BE BACK BEFORE 10:00 PM, SO I BEGAN TO WORRY. THREE CIGARETTES LATER IT WAS 10:45 PM AND STILL NO SIGN AND I HAD NO PHONE TO CALL HER WITH, MY MIND STARTED TO WORK IT'S SELF INTO A FRENZY AND MY HEAD BEGAN TO HURT. I WAS AT FIRST TRANSFIXED ON THE NOTION THAT THERE WAS AN ACCIDENT OR A HOLD UP AT THE COFFEE SHOP. I WAS UNWILLINGLY IMAGINIG ,IN TERROR, THE FLIKERING LIGHTS OF A FIRE TRUCK OR AMBULANCE AT THE SCENE OF A HORRIBLE WREAKAGE AND HER LIFELESS BODY RESTING ON THE CONCREATE .MY STOMACH DROPED AND I ALMOST WET MY PANTS AS I SAT THERE TEARING UP. THEN OUT OF NO WHERE THE VISION OF SOME VICIOUS CRIMINALS RAPING HER AT GUN POINT, AT THAT VERY SECOND THAT ILL FEELING TURNED TO PURE RAGE, I STARTED TO BREATH HEAVILY AND EVERY MUSCLE IN MY BODY BECAME SO TENSE THAT I HAD TO STAND. AT THAT POINT 11:11 PM MS. COTE AND MR. SALVIDOR ARRIVE AT THE WEST GATE OF COTE'S APARTMENT.....................

Of werewolves and Zombies

By benzo369

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood God! I am sitting at the bus stop of some forsaken neighborhood for so long and it is boring listening to TransEurope Express by Kraftwerk:

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Wain-wain-wain-wain, Wa-wain.

My ears perk up to the sound of the words’ hypnotic sounds and, well…
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Trans –EU—RO EX-Press… what the hell, if they don’t let werewolves on the bus fuck it cuz I’m getting on as easily as a teenage punk in the throws of teenagerdom, because it’s like so beautiful and frustrating and ain’t nobody telling this werewolf where and when he’s getting on a bus and ain’t nobody telling me how I should behave once on the f’n bus and I ain’t the only creepy crawly looking mother on the bus am I? Bunch of fucking weirdoes with me, well there is a Zombie or two (can’t get nowhere with out the eyes of a zombie track you) and at the front of the bus is a witch with blonde hair she certainly ain’t no run-of-the-mill witch, so what kind of witch is she…
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Trans –EU—RO EX-Press … didn’t take to kindly to my werewolf appearance and slammed her broom in to my dustpan; so what a werewolf won’t get the love of a dear ol’ witch, it just isn’t necessary – not when you are riding the psychedelic highway like this paws in the offing – paws on the bus! – then there are the ghouls on the back of the bus laughing in their ghostly voices: “hahahahahaha,” and of course I am pissed off so I move on back there and ask them a little question that might have resonated properly in their empty spiritualism: “do you fancy a werewolf meal,” to which they haven’t got the clearest idea what the hell I am saying so I explain it in more existential form: and they are so off the bus, running…………………………………………………………………………………
My lips are numb. The bus driver, a man who can control and tear us apart as he aspires, cries out loud: “either you are on wolf man or you are most certainly off!”
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Go ahead, try to tear us apart – try to break my heart, BUUUUSSSMANN…

The world keeps on spinning but that spin is boring. It just keeps on doing the same thing, hour after hour, day after day. Here I am watching the world spin away and keeping time until the bus catches up.

NOPE! It’s time to move.
There is a sign on the road: SUCKER, TRY LUCK
NO SUGAR ADDED

I crawl along a road and there are more people trying to understand why I got off the bus, why I have fangs, why I am werewolf.

“You could be anything, why a wolf?” they ask.
“You could travel anywhere you want when you are on the bus,” I howl.

I feel like a werewolf could do anything if he wanted could go anywhere if he wanted and I am here in the city where dogs sleep with men in a weird animalistic joy and what do I do to stem the whole scourge of animalistic joy? Nothing. I’ve got nothing. But I don’t sleep with men. Not this dog.

“You could be anything, why a wolf?” they ask.
“A vampire, why not? A ghost, why not? A zombie… no.”

Never an f’n zombie, they just follow along and that’s not what you want to be doing when you are on the bus or off the bus. It’s got to be all about you, my good man. The whole trip is a voyage through existence and nobody thinks of werewolves nowadays, certainly not thinking they exist, certainly no thinking they eat and certainly not ever thinking that we can’t be anything else but werewolves, and they really don’t think we exist. But there we are.

More werewolves have joined in and why not, they want on the bus too cuz it’s freaking fantastic there but we are here waiting for the bus at another of one of those bus stops in a forsaken city block waiting…

“Have you ever seen the moon?” Wilcox asks.
“No way, brother,” Lycaon answers.
NO-WAY-BROTHER! Liar. He has seen the moon and if you are getting on this bus you had better see the moon, too Lycaon.
“Have you seen the movie?” Michael asks but what the hell could he know cuz he ain’t really a werewolf but a were-fox and I say as much to the small man to kill the time, while Wilcox and Lycaon keep on arguing the rights of moon. Me, I’m just howling.

A man in a dark coat walks past the rest of the pack and heads right to me, his hand out on an offering: “Are you ok, puppy? Whoooooose a gooooooood lillllllll dogggggggg?” his words stretch out like time, making our co-existence on this planet very… boring.

So Michael does something about it.

“Hey, hey. I want to live. I believe and I want to live!” the man cries out loud. This sends me in to a fit of laughter and Michael – maybe he is a real werewolf after all – lets him go, rolling on the grey-grey SEE-ment sidewalk. Selfishly I hope the man in the dark jacket would rub my belly. But he just runs………A………………………………………………………………………………………………………. ………………WAY…………………………………………..The thing is time is running and running and there is no bus catching it.

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Wain-wain-wain-wain, Wa-wain.

But we get on the slow bus and sink in to our chairs and the ghouls aren’t there, and neither is that blonde witch with the broom, but the zombies… they never really go anywhere, do they. But I can’t stand the zombies and I go to pick a fight with one of them, for I am the devil in fur cloth and I am the one they do not want to be on the bus with, cuz everyone is allowed on the bus with exception of the zombies didn’t they read the sign: SUCKER, TRY LUCK
NO SUGAR ADDED
The bus driver stops the bus and asks if we’re all right but the zombies as always have nothing to say so I go up to the bus driver and ask him: “either you are on, bus man, or you are certainly off this thing.”

“You are wrong, wolf man,” he shouts. But he is off and there is no one on the wheel so guess it’s me. Well I’m driving the bus now – even if I’m unwelcomed – and howling out the driver side window while I’m speeding one million kilometers-per-second blowing day-glow paint off the side thinking – always thinking – what a great place to hide and think. I begin to reflect on my life as a creature as the dimming moon hides the simmering prey from my night of lysergic lunatic lycanthropy on this bus baby, the No. 10 Joy. How long has it been anyways? How long has it been since I last saw a reason to march out and eat? How long has it been since I walked up Lucifer’s Path and kissed the devil’s pale moon sky? How long has it been since I dropped tonight’s hit? It’s all been far too long.

The dogs in the back are howling answers but fuck them too. Michael, who is so much more like a were-fox than werewolf, though he protests, yells at me to stop for were-chicks.

“But we don’t need any fowl on this bus, they’ll just crap on it,” I shout looking backwards.

Lycaon is yelling at the Zombies and Wilcox is laughing at the Zombies and Michael is afraid of the Zombies but these Zombies are on our bus now, they go where we want and where the hell are we going, by the way?

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Not for long. A zombie is out on the road and he is standing in front of the bus and staring at me. He hates werewolves, it is so clear to me that this zombie hates werewolves, WHAT-A-DICK. He gets on the bus and tells me that we werewolves are certainly off the bus in a BIG way. But he doesn’t call us werewolves. He calls us: “gentlemen,” if he only knew what we are, so time to get existential on his ass and I pull out my fangs and bite in to a zombie. Michael, that were-fox, wants off and so we all are off. That f’n were-fox. I am never again on the bus with a were-fox.

The next morning I am transformed back in to human. But that zombie knew from my bite what kind of danger I am. He’s got me behind bars with all my werewolf friends.

“Did he turn?” a werewolf named Chad asks.
I nod my head. “I ain’t ever gonna know, my good man. He pulled us off the bus that is sure. But whether or not a werewolf can turn a zombie in to a werewolf is unknown. Whether or not a zombie can turn a werewolf in to a zombie is unknown.”
“I think you get to choose,” a voice cries from the back of the cell.

But I can’t think of that now just as I can’t ignore that time itself keeps stretching. And the bus won’t ever catch it because it is so boring.

...OR A WOLF

by Lucas Klaukien

Christmas. Christmas in July.
He saw the black thing lying on the sidewalk, no one around to see. He picked it up. A thousand dollars. Just like that, just like that. He tossed the black thing over his shoulder and started to walk away. It was more than anyone could ask of him to contain the bounce in his step and the smile that beamed. The muscles in his face were locked in an expression that did not recall joy so much as … thrill.
Around the corner was a slight man (well, less a man than a male), walking franticly toward him scanning the pavement.
“Hello there,” the slight man said, his tenor recalling the White Rabbit of Alice in Wonderland, “excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“No,” the smiling man said and continued past the slight one without so much as a backward glance.
“Well,” the slight man continued, “have you seen a black wallet, lying on the ground anywhere around here?”
“No,” the still smiling man said as his pace quickened.
The smile did not reach the man’s eyes. It was an almost reflex reaction to good fortune. An impulsive thing, unnatural in its generation. The slight man would not forget the smile that conquered the man‘s mouth but not his eyes.
The slight man sniff, sniff, sniffed the air, caught the smiling man’s scent.
The smiling man shoulder checked all the home. No one saw. No one knew what great fortune he had.

Over the course of the many days and nights that followed, the smile on the fortunate man’s face sagged and sagged until the corners of his lips found their original position below the mainline of his mouth. He grew suspicious and short tempered in the face of inquisitiveness. Friends, co-workers, even his parents found his presence unreasonably tense for the most part and unbearable for the other part. The Fortunate Man couldn’t avoid it though, he tensed up every time anyone asked, “where’d you get the new jacket?” or “new shoes? How much did those set you back?” So, instead of answering, he just grew agitated. Agitated to the point where they thought twice about asking him anymore questions. Soon, his was a world of silence, dinner was a thing characterized by knives scraping on porcelain and loud smacks of chewing, but not conversation. His eyes would dart back and forth between his parents, who had come to visit.
“I like the new tablecloth, son,” his little old father said. But he said nothing, never responding to questions or allegations because he knew better. He was smart enough to realize that they were trying to nail him, trying to appeal to his vanity but he’d never fail himself. He’d never reveal the true origin of his new fortune. All the while too, there was something else that made him tense. It wasn’t guilt.
Eyes. Always eyes on him, always watching, always hiding. On his front step he felt them weighing in on him, spying with oppressive leaden clarity. On his way to the market his shoulders grew heavy with the burden.
“Boy, you’ve been eating like a king lately,” his kindly old grocer would say. The only response he’d give was an icy stare. You mind your own business old man, he thought, grabbing his bags with much purpose.
In today’s world a thousand bucks doesn’t stretch as far as it used to and there soon came the time when his newfound wealth had all but dried up. Indeed he had eaten like a king for two weeks and wore the finest new clothes on his back, the kind of finery he had long fantasized about. But there comes a time when all adventures must end and unearned wealth must surely waste away. So, with a wisp of melancholy and a dollop of nostalgia he picked his keys up from the table to set about on his last trip to the corner store to spend his remaining money on a pack of gum.
It was a warm night, the kind of humid air that made him itchy under his shirt. The kind of humidity that makes one feel hairier and heavier than they really are. Yet, somehow he felt a kind of relief.
Maybe he had felt guilty all that time, though he wouldn’t know why. But the eyes were off him, the burden was lifted. He began to feel like his old self again. Slowly the smile began to creep slowly back up from the corners of his mouth. Even the angry barking of the dogs as he passed his neighbors yards could not stop the momentum of his surging lips.
He turned round the corner and who else was there to greet him but the slight man he had seen that fateful night.
“Hello, sir,” the slight man said with a confidence that belied his stature.
The smiling man said nothing and continued to walk past the slight man.
“I know you took my money,” the slight man said, “and I’m giving you this last opportunity to give it back.”
“What,” the smiling man said, stopped dead in his track, “what did you just say to me?”
“I said, if you give me what’s left of my money, I won’t bother you again.”
The smiling man’s heart began to pound and race. He knew he got into trouble every time somebody got his blood up but he didn’t care.
“This is your last chance,” the slight man uttered with trembling voice. The smiling man was no longer smiling and he wondered if the slight man had a gun. He turned around to face the slight man, thoughts racing, heart still pounding, blood coursing, the slight man approached him and began to spit, “pth, pth, pth. Hair in my mouth.”
The slight man removed his glasses as his upper lip curled like a rabid dog. The clouds rushed overhead as though on rails revealing a thinning bright area. His back arched and fingers clenched into hideous claws. In a tone too deep for a man of his stature he growled, “I work hard…I work hard!”
At the office he put up with all of it. Co-workers dumping off the most tedious articles of paperwork at his office with chummy smiles and good natured quips and jibes. They didn’t respect him. The way the water cooler, for long moment the center of social activity, would clear out the moment he decided to get thirsty. The way he saw them gather around Sally Westrum, arms casually rested on the corners of cubicles, glance over from across the office in his direction and try to hide their laughter after he had asked her to see a production of Romeo & Juliet. The way he overheard Frank Catcher brag about the night he spent with her. The way he overheard Chip Dunsmuir brag about the night he spent with her. His perfect hair and good posture. The way he spent the Christmas party in the corner of the room, hanging out with the fake Christmas tree. And now he was being forced to put up with it outside the office. The way he needed the money. The way he’d had to bury his dog the day before because he suddenly could no longer afford the operation Chuckles desperately needed. The line was drawn in the sand. It all ended here and now.
The clouds parted revealing the perfect opalescent pearl of the moon.
The adrenaline coursing through his body he lunged at the smiling man who hunched no longer smiling and covered in a course mat of fur. The shirt he had bought with the slight man’s money ripped off his now hulking back and his face a snout that really was that of a rabid dog … or a wolf. And the eyes, the eyes were human but there was something about them something cold and distant, emotionless, eyes that didn’t smile.

The next day the smiling man felt great. Felt better than he had in about a month. He stopped on his way down the street and noticed people congregating along a line of police tape, the police gathered around what looked like black paint splattered on the sidewalk.
“Hmm,” the smiling man said to himself as he chewed his gum with a newfound vigor, “the black stuff looks like dried blood.” He walked away with his hands in his pockets, blowing a bubble.