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hilsWell, this is the result of this weeks course work. I had to write a 400 word story involving a writer and a wolf. Really not sure if I'm happy with it so if anyone has any constructive criticism then please comment
The Beast Within
I can still remember my first kill. Not surprising really, something like that isn't easily forgotten. The details aren't as vivid in my mind as they once were though. I can't remember what she was wearing anymore, or what colour her hair was. All I really remember is the thrill of the hunt, that and the scent. Not just the blood that poured from her throat, but the fear.
Fear has a strange scent, and no matter how many books I've written and how many I write in the future I don't think I'll ever be able to do it justice. It's a cold smell, like a fresh winter's morning only darker and more intense. It climbs inside your head and assaults your every scent until you can feel nothing else.
It's strange really. As the writer of gothic horror people often commend the way I portray death and killers, little knowing how much of it is based on my own experiences. I'm not much to look at, just your average man with my beard and large glasses doing little to compliment my appearance. Why would they suspect that beneath the man is a raging animal?
The moon is high tonight and I feel the beast stirring within me, howling for the taste of blood. It won't be long before I give in. In the past I'd fight the blood lust for as long as I could stand, the thought of taking yet another human life repulsed me. I don't fight it so much now; I'm starting to accept what I am. An animal. A killer.
Most people refuse to accept the beast within, but we all have them. Mine just happens to show itself more readily than most. I look up at the moon once again and realise that it's time, time to give in to the primal instinct that lurks within us all.
I find it hurts less when I don't fight it so I relax and just allow it to happen naturally. It starts with the hair; it grows all over my body course and dark. At the same time my canines start to lengthen and the shape of my face begins to change. Soon I am on all fours, my clothes in torn shreds on the floor beside me. My claws make a light clicking sound on the stone floor as I pad outside and raise my head to the moon, let out a long howl. The call of the wild.
The Beast Within
I can still remember my first kill. Not surprising really, something like that isn't easily forgotten. The details aren't as vivid in my mind as they once were though. I can't remember what she was wearing anymore, or what colour her hair was. All I really remember is the thrill of the hunt, that and the scent. Not just the blood that poured from her throat, but the fear.
Fear has a strange scent, and no matter how many books I've written and how many I write in the future I don't think I'll ever be able to do it justice. It's a cold smell, like a fresh winter's morning only darker and more intense. It climbs inside your head and assaults your every scent until you can feel nothing else.
It's strange really. As the writer of gothic horror people often commend the way I portray death and killers, little knowing how much of it is based on my own experiences. I'm not much to look at, just your average man with my beard and large glasses doing little to compliment my appearance. Why would they suspect that beneath the man is a raging animal?
The moon is high tonight and I feel the beast stirring within me, howling for the taste of blood. It won't be long before I give in. In the past I'd fight the blood lust for as long as I could stand, the thought of taking yet another human life repulsed me. I don't fight it so much now; I'm starting to accept what I am. An animal. A killer.
Most people refuse to accept the beast within, but we all have them. Mine just happens to show itself more readily than most. I look up at the moon once again and realise that it's time, time to give in to the primal instinct that lurks within us all.
I find it hurts less when I don't fight it so I relax and just allow it to happen naturally. It starts with the hair; it grows all over my body course and dark. At the same time my canines start to lengthen and the shape of my face begins to change. Soon I am on all fours, my clothes in torn shreds on the floor beside me. My claws make a light clicking sound on the stone floor as I pad outside and raise my head to the moon, let out a long howl. The call of the wild.