MY SECRET WEREWOLF LOVER
In retrospect, camping all alone in a desolate part of the woods had been a foolish and potentially dangerous impulse. Had I known the truth about what lurked out there beneath the full moon, I never would have set a single foot in those woods.
Thank God I hadn’t known.
Darkness had already fallen like a thick blanket by the time I’d finished setting up camp and gotten my fire going. The wood I’d gathered was slightly damp, so it cracked and popped loudly while I stuck a branch threaded with hot dogs into the flames. A weenie roast was perhaps a bit stereotypical, but the smell of them while fat sizzled in the fire really got my appetite going. Besides, I like the feel of a good wiener in my mouth, which in turn gets some other appetites going.
I glanced around at my handiwork as I sat on my folding canvas chair, holding my branch over the fire pit. The tent was a four-man wonder with a “bedroom” and an entry/living area that was high enough to stand up in. The camp stove was set up and ready for breakfast the following morning. Electric lanterns were lit and glowing with a fake flicker of flame that cast a golden luminance inside the tent. Inside, my bedroom would be snug and comfortable with the double-high air mattress and double sleeping bag with a fleece liner.
I knew I’d gone overboard for this trip. Just hauling all that shit out of the truck had exhausted me. All that work for one weekend was silly, but as I pulled my slightly charred, smoking weenies from the fire, I smiled tightly to myself. Camping was what my ex-boyfriend had said we weren’t allowed to do, so of course it was the first thing I did once I dumped his stuffed-shirt, self-important ass. So camping I went, and camping in style.
I stuck my branch into the dirt, twisting it back and forth until it sank in enough to hold itself upright while I grabbed a beer from my cooler and a hot dog bun from the food duffel.
“This, Shawna, is the life,” I told myself as I cracked the brew open and indulged a long sip. The bottle was still cold, and since the night was warm enough for a mere flannel shirt over a tank top, cold beer was good beer.
I slid a dog onto the bun and ate it plain, giving a deep sigh of satisfaction after I stuffed down a second one. An owl somewhere nearby hooted approval. The sounds of the woods enveloped me as I sat in that clearing, listening to cricket song and night birds and the faint rustle of a breeze through the trees. Overhead, an obscene number of stars dotted the midnight blue sky, though many along the edge of the tree line were doused by the brilliance of a bright, full moon. I could live out here easily. Much more easily, perhaps, than down in the unforgiving city, where a boring job and little joy would be my lot come Monday morning.
For several long moments, I lost myself in the whole nature thing, feeling like a vital part of the living, breathing woods rather than an intruder in it. Utter peace settled over me, and I sat perfectly still, staring into the undulating flames. I slumped down in my seat as the thrum of city tension drained from my limbs.
That was the last relaxing moment I would have all weekend.
A gunshot split the calm night wide open, scattering birds and startling me out of my drowsy trance. My heart was sputtering wildly as I sat there, wondering what the hell was going on. Hunting wasn’t allowed out here—I’d made sure to check before deciding on the location. And night hunting brought to mind all sorts of predators that I hadn’t really been thinking about when I’d decided to fuck my ex’s no-camping mandate.
That’s when I heard the frantic rustling sounds out in the woods. Something was coming. Fast.
I dropped my beer when it stumbled into the clearing, saliva dripping from its fangs and wild, golden eyes glowing almost as bright as my campfire. Erupting from my chair, I ignored the brew soaking into my shirt and pants while I watched the
In retrospect, camping all alone in a desolate part of the woods had been a foolish and potentially dangerous impulse. Had I known the truth about what lurked out there beneath the full moon, I never would have set a single foot in those woods.
Thank God I hadn’t known.
Darkness had already fallen like a thick blanket by the time I’d finished setting up camp and gotten my fire going. The wood I’d gathered was slightly damp, so it cracked and popped loudly while I stuck a branch threaded with hot dogs into the flames. A weenie roast was perhaps a bit stereotypical, but the smell of them while fat sizzled in the fire really got my appetite going. Besides, I like the feel of a good wiener in my mouth, which in turn gets some other appetites going.
I glanced around at my handiwork as I sat on my folding canvas chair, holding my branch over the fire pit. The tent was a four-man wonder with a “bedroom” and an entry/living area that was high enough to stand up in. The camp stove was set up and ready for breakfast the following morning. Electric lanterns were lit and glowing with a fake flicker of flame that cast a golden luminance inside the tent. Inside, my bedroom would be snug and comfortable with the double-high air mattress and double sleeping bag with a fleece liner.
I knew I’d gone overboard for this trip. Just hauling all that shit out of the truck had exhausted me. All that work for one weekend was silly, but as I pulled my slightly charred, smoking weenies from the fire, I smiled tightly to myself. Camping was what my ex-boyfriend had said we weren’t allowed to do, so of course it was the first thing I did once I dumped his stuffed-shirt, self-important ass. So camping I went, and camping in style.
I stuck my branch into the dirt, twisting it back and forth until it sank in enough to hold itself upright while I grabbed a beer from my cooler and a hot dog bun from the food duffel.
“This, Shawna, is the life,” I told myself as I cracked the brew open and indulged a long sip. The bottle was still cold, and since the night was warm enough for a mere flannel shirt over a tank top, cold beer was good beer.
I slid a dog onto the bun and ate it plain, giving a deep sigh of satisfaction after I stuffed down a second one. An owl somewhere nearby hooted approval. The sounds of the woods enveloped me as I sat in that clearing, listening to cricket song and night birds and the faint rustle of a breeze through the trees. Overhead, an obscene number of stars dotted the midnight blue sky, though many along the edge of the tree line were doused by the brilliance of a bright, full moon. I could live out here easily. Much more easily, perhaps, than down in the unforgiving city, where a boring job and little joy would be my lot come Monday morning.
For several long moments, I lost myself in the whole nature thing, feeling like a vital part of the living, breathing woods rather than an intruder in it. Utter peace settled over me, and I sat perfectly still, staring into the undulating flames. I slumped down in my seat as the thrum of city tension drained from my limbs.
That was the last relaxing moment I would have all weekend.
A gunshot split the calm night wide open, scattering birds and startling me out of my drowsy trance. My heart was sputtering wildly as I sat there, wondering what the hell was going on. Hunting wasn’t allowed out here—I’d made sure to check before deciding on the location. And night hunting brought to mind all sorts of predators that I hadn’t really been thinking about when I’d decided to fuck my ex’s no-camping mandate.
That’s when I heard the frantic rustling sounds out in the woods. Something was coming. Fast.
I dropped my beer when it stumbled into the clearing, saliva dripping from its fangs and wild, golden eyes glowing almost as bright as my campfire. Erupting from my chair, I ignored the brew soaking into my shirt and pants while I watched the
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