A Blog Post About Bloging That Includes A Short Story About A Werewolf

This is me, being a terrible person. I feel really really guilty that I haven't posted since September 12th, and I have had people view this blog fairly regularly. Well, unless of course the "stats" that Blogger is providing me with aren't mine... if that is the case, I feel really sorry for whoever would end up with my "stats". Seriously though, for those of you that do read my writing, I appreciate it. To look at the "stats" and see that almost everyday one or two people have looked at my blog makes me incredibly happy. It's really easy to get depressed when I see that people haven't commented, but at least I know you're there even if you are invisible. I am not someone who comments on other blogs either, but just this once, even if you decide to never again read my blog, comment. Writers NEED to be told how we are doing. If I have terrible grammar or use the wrong "there" (or "their" or "they're") tell me. It helps out a lot. If I'm doing well tell me. Sometimes I need a little encouragement.

Now, to today's true purpose. Tomorrow is Halloween. Almost everyone has dressed up, or told a scary story around this time of year. Today's goal for me is to tell you a possibly scary story. What should it be about? Radio active kittens? Street prowling grannies that beat innocent trick-or-treating children up in allies with big purses? Spiders that can control people's minds? Narcoleptic zombies? None of those. At least not this time. Maybe next year. This year is the year of the pyromaniac 18 year old werewolf named Steve, that happens to be germaphobic when in his wolf state. He lives in 21st century London, England. It may not turn out to be scary, but we'll see where it takes us.


Steve glanced out his window. The moon would soon rise over the tall buildings, living in a tall city helped keep the wolf a bay a little longer. He flipped his lighter open, closed, open, closed, open, closed. A pointed pain began to eat at his side. It was as if a small sharp toothed animal were trying to eat its way out. He shook his head, tossing dark curls a little to the side. Groaning, Steve stood up and walked into the cellar and locked the door. The only way out now was the slightly large doggy door that lead outside. He had learned from experience that letting the wolf into his house was not a good idea. It only resulted in torn up furniture and missing house shoes. The wolf preferred to be outside where the streets were (some of them) unexplored and the meat was fresh. Speaking of the wolf, the change finished rather quickly once Steve let himself go limp on the floor. I will not describe it, as the change churns the stomach of even the most experienced individual. The wolf scrambled to its feet and shook its glossy black fur.

The wolf was a dignified member of The Committee of the Werewolves of London (C.W.L.). He liked to be called Unferth. The only thing that he had in common with Steve was black fur, in Steve's case hair, and a love of fire (the human part of any wolf was completely unaware of the C.W.L.). He also liked long walks in the park and quiet midnights with a fresh bone to gnaw upon.

Unferth padded over to the bowl of Germ-Ex that Steve had thoughtfully placed near the doggy door and dipped his paws in. Not only is fire beautiful, but it also cleanses of germs even if only temporarily, Unferth thought to himself. What he wanted was to stay inside, away from germs, but Steve had become very careful to lock the door, so indoors was not an option. Bravely he pushed through the doggy door into the germ filled place that is London.

Approximately eight hours later half of London was on fire, multiple people had been ripped to shreds, all the cats that had been outside were up trees, and it was to be blamed on the C.W.L., well most of it was. The fire was completely Unferth's fault.

THE END

The Importance of September

Friday was the ninth of September. If you have read this post then you should know what that means. TWO YEARS!!!! The boyfriend is something special. Two years ago we barely knew each other. I still feel like I know know him well enough, but I know more than I did then.

Ten years ago (from Sunday) was 9-11. People died. There were children that waited at home for mommys and daddys that never came returned, parents that tried to contact their children, and people who rushed into the chaos to save strangers.

Dear Americans,

We have survived so much. We are young compared to other places, but we are still strong. When we lost all those lives ten years ago, we ran in to help, cried for people we didn't know, and prayed that there were survivors. People still trudge to work, children still go to school, and life seems normal. We were never the same after 9-11. Security was raised and people still cry over or are at least saddened by a picture of the twin towers, whole and complete. We'll never think like we did before. As Americans we still stand.

Sincerely,
Kara Smith

This September, this special month, remember those we lost and celebrate the lives we have.

All Things End

A tear,
glistening,
flowing,
down the porcelain slope
of her soft cheek.
For hours and hours
tears stain their way
down her face.

The sight
of the body,
torn,
distorted,
in a way unnatural,
is too much
for her little heart.

The matted
bloody fur
is stroked,
over and over.
As if to caress
life back
into the cold form

This is how she learns,
that all things end.
The loss of a friend
that still hurts,
no matter the time
that passes.

Get Me An Orange

Get me an orange,
me matey!
Give me a nice apple too.
I've caught me the scurvy
and you have too.

We'll capture some vessels
and raid us them fridges,
in the hopes of a plum
or a pear.
If we find us some fruit
my life'll be spared.
Go find yer own,
I'm not sharin'.

Amethysts 'ave lost their luster.
I'd rather see a grape.
The shipmates be droppin'
faster den de flies
and the fishies have full bellys.
We've got to survive
this curse o' the seas
and out live this plauge.

Get me an orange,
me matey!
Give me a nice apple too.
I've caught me the scurvy
and so have you.

A Part of Love

A voice,
indistinct over the phone.
A calm,
flooding warmth through you.
A giggle,
bursting from you.
This
is only a part of love.

The Stage

You step from behind the curtain,
makeup and costume obscuring your identity.
The lights shine in your eyes,
you cannot see the audience.

Practices were frequent.
A lot had been changed last time.
You take a breath and say your lines,
and then you are yourself no longer.

As sound comes from you,
you become the character.
The stage is not simply a stage,
but your school, your home, your world.

Then suddenly,
the lines stop.
The scene has ended.
Your part is done.

The music plays
and you depart,
yet as you step off the stage
you know,
that you
cannot come back.

Each time is slightly different.
Each time there is something different wrong,
but each time
the stage is only the world.

Fairy Tales Cannot Be Trusted

Once upon a time there was a beutiful young woman who fell in love with a prince. So deeply did she love him that she refused to consider marrying another man. One day the prince married the princess of a neighboring kingdom, but still the young woman would not entertain the thought of loving someone else. She died poor, old, and alone. The prince never knew and if he had he wouldn't have cared.

THE END

(Because Fairy Tales can be wrong.)