Welcome to the Voice of Rage and Ruin: Werewolf Fiction that Goes for the Throat!
Horror writers, here’s your chance to howl!
We’ll be showcasing werewolf fiction in all its gory, er, glory, on each full moon for the next 13 months, starting on December 10, 2011. We’re looking for werewolf tales that bite back, stalking prey under the glow of the full moon. Share your stories with us! Original fiction of all shapes and sizes is welcome – flash fiction, short stories, novel excerpts, even haiku! Authors are encouraged to include with their submission a short bio and links to their website or publications as a way of networking and connecting within the horror commuinty.
Submitting is simple: please include your name, 2-3 sentence bio, and story in the body of an email, and send it to email@example.com. If you would like to include a link to where a full version of your story is located or available for purchase, please feel free to include it as well.
Alternatively, while we will be updating this page monthly with stories submitted via email, you are also welcome to post your story directly to this page in the comments section, particularly for our inaugural launch on December 10. Just remember to share your name and a little bit about you so that others may find and discover your work elsewhere online.
Each month, we’ll be giving away fun and unique prizes by random drawing to contributors of stories within the following word count categories: 5-10 words, 11–30 words, 31-50 words, 51-100 words, and 101-300+ words.
Leave your wolfsbane and silver bullets behind, and we’ll meet you here beneath the next full moon with some hair-raising lycan tales!
December 10, 2011: Howlings
Good Night, Full Moon by Kaiser Sicking
All right, good night, little buddy.
Papa, You called me a little buddy. I am not a little buddy because I am so big.
Oh my gosh. I called you little!
Can’t you sing me ‘The Magic House’ song?
No, buddy, We already sang a song. We read a book and now it’s time for you to go to bed.
But I need a big hug and a big kiss!
Well, of course!
But Papa, can’t I have a little drink of water?
Of course you can. There’s your bowl. Now go to sleep. I’ll see you in three days.
About Kaiser Sicking: Kaiser Sicking is the author of An American Warlock in R’lyeh, a perfectly sane tale of ancient, unknowable madness. He can be found on his blog at: http://qxface.wordpress.com/nanowrimo-2011/ or on twitter: @QXFace.
Some Blood on the Moon by Emily Smith-Miller
What kind of music do werewolves listen to? I think a lot of people would say death metal, Satan rock. I mean, I can see that, but that’s lame vampire shit. Go slit your wrists and bleed on someone, Dracula, give me a fucking break. I get down with a little Goth rock now and again, some Type O Negative and what not, but mostly I’m an alternative punk rock kind of girl, er, werewolf, she-wolf? But tonight I’ve got on Ozzy. Yeah, bark at the moon, baby. Tonight I have an agenda. Now you may say that ‘Bark at the Moon’ is some clichéd shit for a werewolf to listen to. Well, you know what? I also like Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’ and loads of other transformation-inspired songs. I like to listen to them on nights like this, when I know I’m going to tear someone’s throat out, when I know I’m going to become the big bad wolf they talk about in horror stories. So it’s me and Ozzy at the wheel of my piece of shit car, covered in Misfit stickers, and the questioning song title ‘Mommy Can I Go Out & Kill Tonight?’ flashes in my head. I switch CDs to Walk Among Us — thank you, Glenn Danzig.
He deserves it. I know he does, because I’m one of his beautiful victims. Usually I wouldn’t waste my time with a fucker like this, but he has to be stopped. The girl he’s with is smiling stupidly and I know it’s because she doesn’t know any better, but also because she’s probably a dumb fuck. I don’t want to hurt her, and I won’t, but I’ll probably scare the shit out of her. My large paws flex and my hind legs shiver with anticipation, I suppress a growl. I don’t want to ruin the surprise. I had changed in the alley by Sushi Lounge, so I could stalk him from there and not be seen, what with all the unlit connecting back streets. If someone saw me they would call animal control for fucking sure. I was a large gray and black wolf. Bigger than an average wolf, with bright gold eyes. It would be best not to be seen right now; I didn’t want any more fatalities, just this one.
He was petting her suggestively, sending a wave of hatred down my spine. I’m glad he’s so predictable. I usually reserve my kills for really evil people; I wouldn’t have typically considered him an ideal candidate for my tearing treatment, but he’d proven himself time and again. I didn’t trust average justice for the ones I killed; they were repeat offenders who always got off. This guy was a different breed of murderer. He spread his disease to girls, like this one, whose skirt he’s lifting up right now, delicately fingering her scarce panties. He sold his drugs to kids, like the one who died last week. He was a parasitic virus, and now he was going to learn a lesson.
I crept behind parked cars, this spot of downtown was free of people and onlookers. It was dark and sickly, like the man who was moving in for his own brand of killing. It only took one forward leap to take him down. The stunned girl waited a pleasant moment before screaming her lungs out. I turned and showed her my finest smile and deepest, echoing growl. That put the fear of god in her and she fell back, like an idiot. Giant wolf beast, propped up on your boyfriend! RUN, BITCH! Finally she got it through her skull and sprinted down the street. I only had moments now; she would bring police, that is if they listened to her incoherent ramblings. But, I didn’t want to hurry things. I wanted to relish this. Because, it had gotten personal. I force my hot breath and dripping saliva in his face. I run my teeth against his skin, my fangs caressing his cheek, and I make him look into my eyes, which change from gold to my own human green, and I know he recognizes them. I was waiting for that moment of recognition, because that’s when the real terror seeped in. Up until this point I was a mad dog, and he might be able to get away if he played dead, but now it was different. He knew I was vengeance, he knew I’d come for him and he knew I was going to fucking eat him alive. With a finite snarl and what I imagine would have been a smile in human form, I place my jaws, my steel trap jaws, around his neck. I feel his heart pounding like a kick drum: Do not have a heart attack before I get my kill, I think. I bite down and take his whole throat with me — esophagus, jugular, windpipe, everything. He is now an almost severed head. Blood soaking on my muzzle, I bound away into the night, satiated, in more than one way.
About Emily Smith-Miller: Emily Smith-Miller is the editor and founder of the horror website The Carnage Conservatory, www.carnageconservatory.wordpress.com. She lives in Austin, Texas, likes being covered in fake blood, watching Vincent Price movies, and listening to Abba. She thinks about the zombie apocalypse way too much.
Octagon by Joshua Haven
When I opened my eyes, all I could see was the bloated harvest moon looming above me, almost close enough to touch. Slowly I became aware of other things: the coppery tang of blood, and the sharp aroma of fear and sweat. The noise of a boisterous crowd, the rattling of chains, the snap of a leather whip on an even more leathery hide, and a short, sharp howl of pain-fueled rage. I sensed, rather than felt, the silver collar and cuffs that bound my neck, wrists, and ankles. I could smell offal and excrement. It was a dark, textured scent of death.
I fought against my restraints for a better view, but I already knew what I would see. I was in a holding pen, one of several ringing the octagon. Most of the cages were empty. Dogfighting was illegal, but that did nothing to reduce its popularity.
I clenched my fists and drew crescents of blood in my palms from fingernails that were transitioning into talons. As the full moon rose higher into the night sky, I felt the transformation take hold. My breathing had become harsh, ragged, more shallow. My heart pounded within my chest, feeling as if it would explode. I struggled to see through the reddish tint that clouded my vision, no longer understanding that my retinas were optimizing for night vision. My muscles cramped uncontrollably, and I felt a burning sensation along my spinal column as it lengthened, then deepened into a sharp curve. My nose, chin, and jaws elongated, gums leaking blood and aching as razor-sharp teeth erupted from their resting place just below the surface.
Around me the crowd noise was deafening. A key turned in a padlock, and the door to my cage creaked open. I listened intently, associating the sound on some visceral level with the possibility of escape.
“Your turn, dog,” a man’s voice shouted roughly from a position just behind my head. I could smell him; he didn’t know it, but he wore fear like a cloak below his gruff façade. Fearful or not, he wielded a whip, and I felt its sharp sting across my muzzle. It drew blood, and I howled, low and long. He laughed, and snapped the whip again, this time across my haunches. I scrambled to my feet, only to feel the pinch of a noose around my neck from a capture pole. The man forced my head down, muzzle into the ground. I growled and snapped ineffectively into the dirt. The octagon was lit up with bright floodlights that banished the shadows and illuminated the dark red blood stains in the sand pit. On the far side of the ring, I could see another cage door swinging open.
“Move, bitch, fight or die,” the man ordered as he released my shackles. I felt the catch pole loosen in his grasp, and that was all it took. With a snarl, I whipped my head around and sprung at him, reaching for his exposed neck with claws and teeth. He lost his grip on the pole and flung a hand up to defend his face. His other hand still held the whip, but in his panic, it hung useless and forgotten in his fingers.
The skin of his throat was as thin as tissue. A wet warmth and an overwhelming aroma of copper filled the air as blood spurted from the gaping wound in his neck. He stood there, staring at me for several seconds, then slowly collapsed to his knees. I licked my lips and howled, then lunged again. My paws slammed into his chest and he fell backwards onto the ground. I savaged his face, ripped into his chest cavity – circling his body and feeding with a savage ferocity, leaving bloody paw prints on the cold concrete floor of the cage.
A sudden short, sharp report and then the scent of spent gunpowder. I felt an inferno of silvered pain in my stomach. I lay on my side, bleeding out, whimpering, gazing up at a pair of handlers standing over me.
“Finish putting her down,” one of them shouted, voice gruff, enraged. “I had a lot of money riding on this one tonight, godammit.”
Another gunshot, then darkness.
About Joshua Haven: I’m just a guy who likes to write. I am working on my second novel, and I’m also editing a collection of short stories to be released in early 2012. I write horror; sometimes dark, twisted, and malicious – other times with a humorous edge. In addition to writing, I like to snowboard, hike, eat ridiculous amounts of pizza, watch movies, and read. My cooking sucks, even my dog doesn’t like it. When I grow up, I want to be someone who made a difference. Follow me on Twitter: @JHaven_Horror.
The Wicked Moon by Hope Sullivan McMickle
The girl reeks of panic. The full moon taunts me as I feel the sudden red-hot shift.
Once bi-pedal, now on all fours.
Howl. Pursue. Want.
She races through the woods as I growl and snap at her heels.
Up the embankment. Across the road.
Predator, now roadkill.
About Hope Sullivan McMickle: Hope Sullivan-McMickle is a writer and musician who has been a fan of horror since she was old enough to read and a creator of dark works since she was old enough to be trusted with a pencil. She resides in Franklin, Indiana. Tweet her @BlackAlchemy, or browse her blog at https://blackalchemy.wordpress.com/.