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In his rearview mirror, groups of people quick-stepped over steaming asphalt. He left the lugging engine on and ran the AC against a Tampa October that pressed down solid as a slab. His frayed shirt sleeves pulled back to reveal barbed wire tattoos curled around each wrist. Mitchell Tanner steered his twelve-year-old Altima into the funeral home parking lot, found a spot beneath a dying magnolia tree, and lit a joint. It appears in the author’s print collection, Out of Joint and Other Stories. This story was a finalist for the 2010 Florida Review’s Editor Choice Award and an Honorable Mention at the 2007 Writers in Paradise competition. Take a journey to a tropical paradise … where sometimes paradise is just an illusion. When he attends an uncles’ funeral in Tampa, old hurts come back to slap him in the face. Not since his conviction, not since his move to Indiana, not since moving in with his half-sister. Mitchell Tanner, an ex-convict struggling to get his life back on track hasn’t faced his family in year. Posted in Books, Just Published, Short Stories | Tagged Anthologies, Graveside books, werewolf Out of Joint She showered, changed into her flowered nightshirt and tugged her bed socks on, smiling to herself. She was halfway home before she realized that her pants were damp, warm with urine. She pulled her numb feet from the cold water, grimacing as she stood up. Vivian stayed on the footbridge for a bit. The werewolf reared back as if she’d wielded a whip, bounded over a six-foot-high shrub with a graceful leap and was gone. He gave a snarl, so low and vicious that Vivian’s entrails cramped. His red tongue lolled out of one side of his mouth-why Grandma what big teeth you have-then slurped to the other side. Vivian heard his snuffle, saw his wet nose twitch. He had orange eyes that stood out from his golden fur like volcanoes. His mouth opened, long white canines gleaming in the moon’s light. Vivian’s face and chest flushed-yes, clearly a male werewolf-and its large ears swiveled towards her. Shredded leaves and azalea flowers drifted to the ground. Vivian’s heart lurched like a jumping frog. Those long legs could run up to thirty miles per hour, according to the Xenospecies book she’d read long ago. The werewolf stood on broad wolf-paws, claws curled into the oak leaf mulch, its legs shifting a little to balance its enormous torso.
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Vivian thought she heard it inhale deeply. Nearly two meters tall, its clawed hands drew up a flower-loaded branch to its face. Its shoulders were broad, the deep chest and wide back looking enormous. It faced away from her, golden pelt looking rich and oily. The werewolf stood ten yards away from her, upwind, its nose buried deep in salmon-colored azaleas. At two hundred and thirty three, the dirty smell of rot made her look around. Clear your mind, count something universal and eternal, let it all go…. She’d learned it from a yoga teacher ten years before, back when she was still willing to get on the floor and do stretches in front of other people. She counted the smooth stones at the bottom of the streambed. A soft breeze from the north pushed her gray hair off her forehead. The icy water helped soothe the ache in her pudgy feet. She dangled her toes in the foot-deep stream. Lugging those realpaper books around and being on my feet all day is killing me. Vivian plopped down on it with a sigh, then tugged off her shoes, her knees creaking.
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“Lure of the Wolf” is available from JMS Books as an e-story and is currently in The Beast Within, a print werewolf anthology from Graveside Tales.Ī four-step footbridge rose over the tiny stream that trickled through the property. When Graveside Tales was looking for werewolf stories, I sent them “Lure of the Wolf” and it’s published in The Beast Within. I just think they’re kinda cool and scary. There’s something primally awful yet fascinating about werewolves, isn’t there? Academics may suggest that the werewolf represents our true Id, the dark part of the human psyche that is bloodthirsty and violent, blah, blah, blah.