Thursday, April 10, 2008

Hunting the Magic Were-Beast

Authors, aspiring authors, are you hunting the magic were-beast?
Pssst...if you’ve settled on were-ducks, I’d give that honking mallard another thought. According to the SmartBitches, Ellora’s Cave has already claimed those quacking heroes as their own. Yeah, yeah...I gotta an old fallin’ down duckstand I can sell ya.
Still ~ still as a full moon werewolf-shifting night ~ are you looking for that perfect were-beastie to star in your next novel?
Howl desperately to the moon, dear that next were-heroine or hero ~ or were-villain elusive? Is your were-inspiring Muse on up with that gorgeous ManWolf, and she’s not emerging from the waterbed den until all her lusty appetites are completely satiated?
Growl-darn the writer’s block, is that perfect were-beast still escaping your imagination? Just as the real were-beasties do, escaping detection by mainstream media and mainstream science?
Yep, I said ‘real’. There are dedicated researchers combing through all the reports turned into law enforcement agencies, including animal control, about beasties that go more than ‘bump *or hump* in the night’. These truth-seeking researchers tromp through the fields and forests tracking down evidence, snapping pics of unusual, unknown tracks, bagging bits of hair, along with the occasional claw-ripped shirt. These intrepid few among us have even been known to set up camp for a night or two, attempting to lure the beasties with their fave snacks. I believe lunch meat was mentioned in one report. Truth to tell, if I were a fierce and cunning were-critter, I don’t think lunch meat would tempt my primal slavering immense hunger. Now frying bacon....
Linda Godfrey, author of Beast of Bray Road and Hunting the American Werewolf, is one such dedicated researcher. Her occasional reports on Coast-to-Coastam, night radio, are beyond fascinating, the stories of encounters absolutely enthralling, not to mention chill-scary entertaining.
Nope. We are not alone, Earth humans. Strange monster critters, magical were-beasts, wherever they originate from...inner earth? And...wherever they lurk...? Are hiding deep, deep inside our forests and caves, their lairs unlocated by Google Earth...yet.
So, if your writer’s imagination is on the fritz, and all you’re visualizing is a set of savage yellow-neon eyes, get a spooky halloween re-charge, investigate were-beast territory on Linda Godfrey’s website: Here is a snippet from Linda’s blog:

November 5, 2007 - Return of the Bearwolf?
It never ceases to amaze me the way these things seem to work. Only a few days ago I had decided to post a note about the Washington County Courthouses's cryptid creature art, and then today I get a call from Mike Lane, the hunter who went looking for the creature's footprints last fall right about this time. He found some, too...bipedal, large and roundish looking deep imprints that indicated something very large and upright went walking through a mushy field across from Holy Hill, and then entered a marsh where the tracks ended. (See photo of Mike standing in front of that marsh last year.)

Inspired by Linda Godfrey’s reports, an excerpt from my WIP, Don’t Cry Werewolf ~
"This should be the spot." Weak, in pain, she shuffled slowly. Focusing on each step, she tried not to stumble, not wanting to fall, hurt herself so severely she’d have to crawl into the isolated forest.
"The lucky spot," she encouraged herself. "The lucky spot where I get eaten by a werewolf." She whisper-sang those words to herself over and over – forging ahead at a snail’s pace.
The night-chilled air wheezed in and out of her lungs. Her feet drug over the dead damp leaves from last autumn. There wasn’t much spring foliage to hinder her way.
"Here, little werewolf," she called out. Again she laughed at herself. She needed a big monstrous werewolf, actually. "Here, big horrible nasty werewolf," she called out instead – several times. She chuckled, faltered, the effort costing her.
Looking upwards at the immense display of tree limbs in the moonlight, she felt the usual quick up and down of her chest, listened to her struggling whoosh of breath. It took nothing anymore to wear her out completely. "Hey, if nothing else I’ll get lost in the forest and die," she murmured philosophically, between her strained puffing breaths. "Maybe only the bugs will get me."
Able to lift her foot again, she continued moving deeper into the old forest. "Death by mosquito – god, that would be horrible. Instead of a thousand cuts. A thousand bites. – The it’s better to be ripped apart. Definitely."
Reaching an enormous tree trunk, she leaned against her palm – the rough bark strangely comforting. "Maybe it’s still too cool for mosquitos." Breathing heavily she turned, leaned back against the trunk, rested. "Death by exposure can’t be much fun," she whispered, huffing huge breaths, hurting breaths. "No, death by werewolf is the way to go."
When her breaths calmed down, she called, "Here, werewolf, here, werewolf." Painfully she shoved from the tree trunk, shuffled from the rough bike trail onto a deer trail. "I may not be as tasty as little red riding hood." Feeling woozy, she slowed her steps. "But I should be good enough for one meal."
Numbness crept into her limbs. She forced one step after another. "Maybe I’ll just die on the trail."
No fresh dinner for you, werewolfie. She sent the telepathic message just in case werewolves were a telepathic species, like most animals. No drugs, I’m mostly organic – even if I’m no spring chicken dinner. She stumbled to her knees.
"Damn!" Pain radiated upwards sharply. Straightening, she grimaced, shook her hands out. I guess a bear will do. Soon as she could, her breathing not as ragged, she leaned forward on her hands, struggled to stand up. Groaning with the pain and effort, she cried out, finally standing up. Geez – not a good night to die. Dragging one foot, exhausted, she continued along the deer trail.
Bear...cougar...maybe a wild pack of dogs...come on, werewolf. Eat me!
She begged. Heart, mind and soul, she begged. *Come on, werewolf. Eat me!* Her eyes shut, she took several small steps. She begged, knowing it had never mattered before how much she’d begged for help. I need a cliff.
She opened her eyes. Nothing, no glowing red eyes. No glowing eyes at all.
I should just jump off a cliff...of course, there’s the whole fear of heights thing. But it won’t really matter once I’ve jumped...I could just pretend it’s a flying dream...Hit.
Her body felt wooden, about ready to collapse. Feeling chilled, she hugged herself – kept dragging her feet forward, tiny steps. She didn’t care. If she simply dropped and died – that would serve her purpose. It’s just that she wanted to know. If werewolves existed, she wanted to know. Before she died.
She figured she was owed at least that...for enduring her pathetic nightmare life. For maintaining her integrity, her goodness as a person, despite the endless brutal trials.
Why not serve yourself up as a meal? And know. It was eco-sound – no land-eating coffin. No energy expended in cremation. Just bloody rent flesh, dinner for a werewolf. Any remaining pieces devoured by nature.
"The natural way to go," she whispered. "Instead of don’t feed the animals at the zoo. Do feed the animals." She laughed silently at herself. "The new cool on YouTube," she muttered. Looking around, she noticed there were no more night sounds. "The zoo’s new slogan – end it here, save a polar bear," she whispered, trailed off. The eeriness tingled her flesh to goosebumps.
Hugging herself unconsciously, she waited, noticed she was frozen. She couldn’t move her feet. A strange dread coursed through her. Yet she was calm, a strange anticipation soared through her. Slowly, slowly, she swivelled her head, looking.
It rushed at her from the darkest part of the forest, fearsome, upright, huge. Shadow-dark in the moonlight. Searing feral gold eyes charged straight at her. Her scream stuck in her throat. She was grateful. Her fast breaths hurt like knives in her throat. It would be upon her soon.
Closing her eyes instinctively, she prayed it was a werewolf. That she would know. Somehow. Fluttering her lids open the next split second, she saw the wolfen features, monstrous and magnificent, displayed beneath the full moon. She nearly passed out from the shock, swayed. His ferocious growl as he ran at her possessed her spine.
Forcing her eyes wide, she watched him launch – fur and bulk and incredible power. His hot breath blasted her neck. His fang tip touched the side of her neck. She fainted.
But not before she thought – goodbye, cruel world.


Mel Hiers said...

Thanks for the inspiration, Savanna! I'll have to read up on Ms. Godfrey!

Anitra Lynn McLeod said...

Were-ducks? Really? That's just funny to me. I've not written about shape-shifters but I might sometime in the future. :)

Savanna Kougar said...

Linda Godfrey is great inspiration, Mel. And she's out there doing the real research.

Anitra, yeah, a tiny dry comment on stuck my wing bone funny.