“Come on dear, you’d better hurry up,” called out Max’s wife Alice. She was peering out of the window as she spoke. “The moon’s almost up. You haven’t got much time.”
“I’m being as quick as I can,” said Max as he struggled to pull up his grey wolf suit, busily zipping and tying as he went. She watched him pull the suit up over his head, and noticed how his eyes suddenly glowed red, and his canine teeth grew longer. He padded over to her, on large hairy feet, giving a low growl in his throat as she scratched his head affectionately. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Alice said.
She opened the door for him and watched him lope off across the frosty grass towards the dark trees, leaving a trail of dark footprints on the glistening white lawn, his shaggy shape silhouetted against the huge full moon that hung low in the sky. She saw him stop, and lift up his head and emit his powerful wolfish howl, terrifying enough to chill the blood. But it always excited her.
That was the last night Max wore his wolf suit. There were hunters out that night, looking for werewolves, and when they saw Max, they shot him dead. Poor Alice.
Susan P. Blevins was born in England, where she spent the first twenty years of her life, followed by twenty-six years in Italy recovering from the first twenty, and fourteen years in Taos, NM. She had a weekly column on food for a Rome newspaper, and since living in the USA, has written for various garden magazines both here and in Europe. She now lives in Houston and is writing and publishing stories based on her many life experiences.