When I Cried Wolf (Excerpt)

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
“Imagine a world wherein Little Red Riding Hood was never accosted by ravenous wolves, wherein no boy ever cried wolf. This is the world that Wyatt Levine finds himself in, where werewolves have evolved alongside humanity and share a peaceful co-existence together.
Wyatt, a young, gay man etching out a living in London with his werewolf partner, Don, decides to undergo a new experimental surgery to become a werewolf, in order to address his growing dysmorphia of being trapped in his inferior human body.
The surgery is seemingly a success, and Wyatt relishes the strength and grace his new body provides him. However, it seems to have only allowed his ego to run rampant. He develops a superiority complex and misses no opportunity to make it known to ordinary humans that he is the stronger race. What will this transformation mean for Wyatt and his relationship with his partner, and ultimately, the human populace of London?”

Submitted: October 16, 2016

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Submitted: October 16, 2016

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Chapter One

I am ten years old, playing outside in the cul-de-sac with some of the other neighbourhood kids. We’re passing around a football in the street.

I throw the ball – far, this time – and the boy I’m passing to backpedals with outstretched hands to grasp it. Just as the ball descends, a car swerves around the corner. I cry out to him. He doesn’t hear me. A sickening thump rings out as the boy’s spine makes contact with the front bumper, and he is carried over and across the windscreen.

Time slows to a trudge as the boy falls to the concrete in a crumpled heap. I catch a glimpse of the woman’s face behind the wheel. I watch it contort with horror.

The boy is immobile, except for a violent convulsing of his head and neck. I can see a dense, viscous redness seeping from him. My legs finally obey me, and I edge closer to the scene.  

I see that the source of the redness is not the boy’s mutilated spine, but his jaw. Sharp, gleaming canines protrude from his mouth. The upper set hangs comically, unnaturally from his still-human gums. Like fake vampire’s teeth from a joke shop. The lower set, however, had violently punctured the roof of his mouth, the remnants of his gums hanging in bloody tatters down his throat. Blood flows mercilessly into his oesophagus as he convulses spastically. I watch, horror-struck, as he tries to free his fangs from the roof of his perforated mouth, gasping feebly for air as his eyes become dimmer. I learnt in school that if a shift is interrupted, it can cause terrible disfigurement and injury to a werewolf.

Nothing from that class could have ever prepared me for the nightmarish scene I bore witness to that day.


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