The the moon appeared through the inky blackness,
a pale ghost of the sun, faded.
The man began to writhe in pain,
pain as sharp as a thousand needles piercing his skin
The man yelped,
His face twisting into a snout.
Hair was sprouting over his body, and his eyes –
his eyes became luminous, like a cat’s.
he stumbled outside, the air whispering
the snout processing the sweet, woody aroma of wolfsbane,
and the metallic hint of blood.
The wolf in him fully emerged
the man lost in the mist
he bounded towards the scent
and leapt upon the assemble of limbs.
And the boy yelped in pain,
the man in the wolf remembered,
three full moons again when the wolf pounded on him.
Beware the silver tear.
That night he had started the vicious cycle,
of man to wolf and back again.
The wolf was still ripping the mess of limbs
but the man in him was conscious,
conscious that another man had come.
Held aloft a silver gun.
And the silver year erupted,
tearing through the lycanthrope’s heart.
The bitter sweet feeling of death
Relief flooded the man in him,
and with one last howl left this world,
– Georgia Carr, 2015