Howdy all! Today is Wedesday, and as promised ( a day early), I bring to you my results from the Monday’s Muse Writing Prompt from June 1st. To view the original prompt and rules, click HERE. Also, keep in mind that you can always do the prompts at your leisure. These prompts are designed to stretch and inspire!
The biting kiss of the scorching sun upon his parched eyelids is what woke him up, but seeing the bloody prints that ended at his body is what fully knocked the sleep from his eyes.
He clawed around with his hands, narrowing his eyes against the glaring sun and tried to right himself. But it was to no avail. Pain, not just from the burn of exposure threatened to throw him into fits of tearless whimpers if he didn’t take it slow and easy.
How could he take it slow and easy?! He had no idea how he had gotten where he was, with only a faded recollection for the cause of his pain. Trevor took careful breathes and forced himself to at least sit upright, giving him a better view of the bloody foot prints that had been pressed into the cracked clay earth.
Seeing the prints, and knowing that they ended with him should not have been too much of a cause for panic, blood aside, but the fact that they were massive dog prints that ended where he lay was enough to make his bones quake with cold fear.
It could have been a coincidence. Maybe a stray wolf, with paws the size of a kodiak bear cub had sniffed him out and thought to end him during the night, but thought better of it. Trevor did smell worse than rotted meat set ablaze by hell’s fire, not to mention the other unsavory odors that assaulted his senses. But sadly that thought didn’t seem likely either, especial since the swirl of dry mud that he sat in fit his body and the lone hand print of a man fit his like a glove.
“No, no, no!” He moaned like a drunk punched by the hard-knuckled fist of hangover. Images flashed against the screen of his mind, of darkness, and skin ripping pain, brought on by danger that ended in blood…but not his blood.
If he hadn’t already thought himself crazy, he would have blamed the images on the Absinthe he had downed. The bartender had warned him to water it down. He didn’t.
Growling with panic he shot to his feet, clarity dropping against his mind like a sodden dishcloth. Absinthe was the only thing that made him forget, forget this, the thing that he had become. It made him forget the things he did when he hungered. It muddied the thoughts of truth with pure fiction so much so he could not tell the two apart.
Trevor could live with what if’s, but being abandoned by Absinthe’s sway…
Feeling the hateful truth fresh upon him, living it again made his muscles tremble and his back arc before bowing forward. He refused to fight the quake this time, instead he let the pain have him, the shift take place.
The desert was certain death for a man far from civilization, hungover or not. But it was just another byroad for a werewolf on the prowl.
I really like this story, even though it seems a bit dark to a degree. But I like it enough that I am considering interviewing dear Trevor, and finding out how he became the deadly beast he is, a beast that has no need for the moon in order to be. Time will only tell what may or may not come from Trevor, but I am willing to give “Quake” a shot, even if it is in the form of a Novella.