Greetings, comrades. It has been a few days since last I wrote in this blog and I apologize for that. I’ve had something of an emotional week: I heard back from the publisher I submitted my book Seeker to and they want to publish it and the sequels Hunter and Magus. I am blown away and beyond thrilled. The last twenty years of my life have led to this.
Despite calming down from the highly emotional response that the news prompted, I never want to lose the thrill, the real happiness, from this period. I’m encountering scenarios I’ve never had to deal with (namely social media) and it has its difficulties, but it’ll all be worth it to hold that book in my hands. To see my words in print.
Here’s a piece I wrote a while ago that tickled me to write and again to read. Simple paranormal lycanthropic silliness. I enjoy lycanthropes. They’re my favorite supernatural creature.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” I snarled. The werewolf was bashing the bedroom door open. Another hit or two and it would be splinters.
I ran to the kitchen, searching for something, anything silver that I could kill it with, or at least slow it down. I grabbed the knife block, but everything was stainless steel.
I heard the door burst apart and remembered the silver set my mother had given me a month ago. I wrenched open the utensil drawer, time seeming to slow. It was half a second before I remembered my boyfriend putting them in the dishwasher. I’d planned to pull them out before it ran, but that meant there were none in the drawer.
I dropped to my knees and threw myself to the right in a roll that seemed to last forever. I felt the werewolf’s fur ruffling my hair as it flew over me, having leapt only a moment after I did. I came out of my roll next to the open washer, reached in and grabbed the first thing that I saw, and thrust it in front of me as hard as I could.
The spoon bent, but the wolf was taken by surprise. I dropped the one in my hand, grabbing two more and advanced. There was a burn on the wolf’s snout where I’d struck him. He snarled and snapped at me, but I stabbed at him with the spoons, first one, and then the other. He backed up a pace, his eyes calculating. I knew he was wondering whether he could bite my arm off before I stabbed him. I was wondering the same thing.
We both came to the same conclusion, but he figured it was worth it. I jerked my right arm as far back as I could as he snapped at it, and struck down into his eye with my left as hard as I could, burying the spoon to the patterned end in his face.
He howled in agony, legs spasming as he threw himself backward to get away from the burning of silver and peanut butter in the side of his face. It was a long moment before he stopped thrashing and twitching. I realized I was shaking. I looked at the silver spoon clenched in my right hand, then forced my fist to open, dropping it to the ground.
Then I noticed the burning. His tooth had nicked me, right under the elbow of the inside of my arm. It burned like any new cut, but even as I watched, it started to heal up, itching and aching like anything as it closed, but this much faster and more intense.
I looked at the werewolf dead on my kitchen floor. If the spoons hadn’t been dirty, maybe I’d have killed him sooner. I’d never know.
February 13, 2021