THE WEREWOLF
November 11, 2015
You howl at the fat round moon. Your gold glow eyes shine. You lower your head, scan the valley below. The window of the distant cabin winks a yellow flicker of candlelight. You set off loping easily across the snow. Approaching the cabin, you pause, listen, and crouch low, resting your muzzle on a streaked patch of ice. Satisfied, you advance, slinking, the hair on your neck rising in anticipation of gash and blood. You bare your teeth, but you do not growl. You arrive below the window. You stand on your hind legs and look in.
There she is. You die.
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