Howling At A Blank Page Part 1

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Nick Brennan is working on a story when he hears footsteps on his front porch. Part 1of 3

Submitted: December 06, 2016

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Submitted: December 06, 2016

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I am a firm believer in the old saying "The night time is the right time." I wasn't sure who said it or more importantly what the original meaning was, but it seemed to be perfect for what I was working on.

I had been contacted by a Magazine in New Orleans to submit a short story involving my recent move to Gallatin. The publishers thought that New Orleans residents wanted to know more about small town Montana. With the money they were offering, who was I to complain?

So I set out to write my story. In order to help it add a little Cajun flavor I found a radio station that played Zydeco music. It was to Louisiana what Honky Tonk is to Texas. Loud and fast. The beat of the drums and the rhythm of guitars and instruments almost felt like a sleek Corvette driving alone on a LA freeway at night. It helped my story and the pace of the station made the writing go faster. Music and stories always seemed to go together.

After 45 Minutes, My eyes became blurry and my fingers sore. Perfect time for a break.

As I got up from my chair and started to walk to the living room, I heard someone on my front steps. Instinctively, I reached for the baseball bat right by my window. As I grabbed it, I continued to the front door. The closer I got, I heard the foot steps. Small. Long nails. Fast movements. Instead of opening the door, I leaned towards the closest window and opened my blinds.

I was staring at a Wolf.

A real life Wolf was staring at me through the window. I was shocked at first. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. Why at 7 pm on a Wednesday night would a grey wolf be on my front door step? The first snow was just a few weeks ago, Wolves didn't really come down into the lower ground so soon. Or did they? I wasnt sure, I mean I was just a simple writer from Ridgeview, what the hell did I know about Wolves? I had read White Fang as a boy and loved it. But that was the extent of my knowledge of wolves.

I moved back from the window. I shook my head and walked to the kitchen. As I opened the bottle of water on the counter, my mind had a lot of questions:

Why is a Wolf on my front patio? How did it get here? What do I do now? Does Netflix have Balto available?

My first instinct was to call Sam Jacobs. Sam was a local rancher who I first befriended when I arrived in Gallatin. Sam was a perfect doppelganger for Kris Kristofferson. Granite jaw with a weather beaten face. Skin was rough as leather and a deep voice with a hint of gravel. Sam had lived in the valley all his life. He would know what to do.

I dialed my phone.

"Who the hell is this?"

"Nice to hear from you too, Sam." I said.

I relayed all the information I had to Sam. He started to laugh.

"What is so funny?" I asked

"Two weeks ago, I was chasing a Wolf that killed about 8 of my sheep. Earlier tonight I saw that hound from hell coming into the east corral on the ranch, near my new Morgan horse. Well I grabbed my gun and took a shot at it." Sam said.

"You shot at the wolf?" I asked.

"Man protects his property." Sam said.

I shook my head. "Well he is camped out on my porch. What do you want me to do with him?" I said.

"Let him die." Sam said. He hung up.

I stared at my phone. I was shaking my head. That is pretty damnes cold. Let the poor thing die. I wanted to help but wasn't sure how. I walked over to the cupboard and grabbed a flashlight. I figured I could go out and check on the injured wolf.

What's the worst that could happen?


© Copyright 2017 Robert Logan. All rights reserved.

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