Barking Mad

This was for a contest I found on Cara Michaels‘s Defiantly Literate site. 200 words about a werewolf. (And though werewolf fiction is completely out of my wheelhouse. I gave it a shot.) Came away with an honourable mention at that.

The contest runs weekly. Have a look at the winners and maybe give it a shot.

Some of the dogs hid in their houses or under the porch. Some started barking when Jim stalked by their yards. They’d yip and yap, bold behind a fence or a thin piece of glass.

They always sounded so angry.

Sometimes, when he remembered his nights, Jim wondered if that’s where the phrase barking mad came from.

All he had to do was snarl, give them that real raspy one that always made his throat itch the next day, and they would stop barking. That one little noise made them quiet and serene.

He remembered a grey wolf followed him sometimes. Some nights he caught her scent. It was hard to remember things. They came like flashes, like lightning bugs in the dark of his mind. He hadn’t minded her there, padding softly behind him.

Jim thought he shared his kills with her. A barely chewed haunch, maybe.
She hadn’t followed him in a long time. He wondered where she was as he approached the fence around the barn.

Something snapped under his foot. Her scent drifted up from the cracked bones. Jim let out an angry howl.

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