a short tale of a wolf

This topic was created in the Writing ✍️ forum by lisabethur8 on Friday, February 5, 2016 and has 2 replies.

The sound is like a purring of something quite brutal, almost frightening. The measurement of his hands - too big; the span of his form is colossal; he is filled with a brutish temperament, something that should not have happened. Between his long thick fingers, the rough fur juts out like sharp brown grass dry from the heat; the sinewy muscles beneath his hide and solid skin are stretched and taut. The feeling comes in waves, because it is something that cannot be stopped. the rage of power, sweeter than blood and flesh, has led him to partake all that is his due. He wishes he could illustrate these feelings. Because it is more than enough that he should think of these things when all else has filled his psyche.

Sometimes, it’s like the rain, falling endlessly – sweetly and all the combination of adjectives brush his mind to describe the continual pour. And it is at these times that the feeling is filled with pain.
But it is not often that he takes this route. He likes to walk among the human populace, disregards the stench of human flesh, the grease stains of their food, their lack of hygiene. Because the hunger is not so relentless, not like it was, before reaching his sexual awakening; yet his hunger pulls.

He would today, roam to villages where he can take what he needs, no more and no less. Presently, the moon has revealed itself as a crest: the dangling end dips like a sharp scythe, and there is death waiting when his form passes. As soon as he awakens with the fire sucking into his loins, he is human once again. It is a disappointment in many ways – as his body tightens, degrading downward – down, down – like a shrinking dew inhaled by the sun.

and he dreams of a time when he will lie next to a fire, drying his fur and curling next to a beautiful woman. He looks brutish now, but someday......someday. He smiles closing his eyes.