Ink-Stained Scribe

Flash Friday #2 - Werewolves of Wilson

Picture by Halans
            If one could trudge across the Atlantic, that’s how I might have described my progress back from London, where the streets were cool, the men were well-dressed, and when they weren’t,  they at least had the decency to give a polite, “morning!” before darting nakedly down an alleyway in search of a Lycanthrope Emergency Box. The muggy North Carolina summer seemed to suck out not only my energy, but every ounce of expectation I’d had for a good break between semesters.
            A buffalo-sized man in little more than a greasy apron and an orange hunting cap shunted me out of line in Target. I watched in horror as his gray-sprouted backside rippled away from me and noticed that he was also wearing pristine timberlands with the price tags still attached.
           He slammed a tent-sized pair of sweatpants in front of the clerk. Her thin ponytail quivered as she scanned the barcode.
            “Y’all think I walk around like this for fun?” he barked. “You happen to look at the sky while you was on your back last night, hun? This is what my tax-dollars pay for!”
            “The town is really growing up!” my mom said, taking my attention away from the train-wreck of Lycanthrope-Human relations occurring a few feet away. She gestured out the window. “We have a Starbucks now, too.”
I, who had become quite accustomed to cozy British tea shops, stared glumly across the steaming parking lot at the green sign, which had sprung from the earth like a tiny stalk of civilization in 200,000 acres of “y’all”. But desperation was making mom’s smile twitch, and I felt guilt deflate my mood even further. She knew Wilson couldn’t hold an unlit match next to London, but she didn’t want me to hate it. It was like hating Wilson meant hating her, which wasn’t true. I mean, really, if I had been able to love my mother despite her answering “sí!” to the Indian cab driver in Oxford Circus, I could love her despite anything.
“Great!” I said, hoping the forced tone didn’t sound sarcastic.
“I thought you’d like it. But make sure you get the sugar free vanilla syrup, or you’ll mess up our diet.”
Luckily, the galumphing exit of the Were-Behemoth saved me from answering. According to mom, I’d had a few too many cream teas this past year, and we were going to “shape up” before I ended up looking like the Queen Herself. I didn’t have the heart to dash mom’s well-meant plans just yet, but I had no intention of depriving myself of bread for the next three months, especially when I would probably sweat out all the weight just walking to the car.
I watched a woman jerk her toddler aside as the disgruntled werewolf tugged on his sweatpants just outside the automatic doors. Life could be worse.
I could have that guy’s figure.


I hope you all enjoyed this! It's intended to be the start of a longer piece, but I thought it stood well enough on its own four paws. Let me know in the comments if you'd like to see more of this story.