He was born under a bright full moon. The exact date forgotten long ago. His soul, his essence bootlaced to tireless lunar cycles. Empty and apathetic, he took up space during the nights of no moon. Quarter moon evenings tortured him with promises of what would soon come. Like some Voodoo doll suffering new pins, each new phase made him weep pain he did not understand.
But when the moon was full he knew why he existed. His purpose became clear as he watched the fur grow near the tip of his nose and around his toes…………………
London was calling.
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Keep it 'tween the ditches.........................
3 comments:
Nicely done, it was dark and forboding.
Hey there, nice work. I've just stumbled on your blog during my e-travels, and I'm glad I did. I like the cut of your jib.
Nice one, Mike. "Haaoooo, werewolves of London." Very well written. I need to pop back to Lily's and read everyones stories. Late as usual. :-)
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