Post by Kaelan on Jul 26, 2010 1:57:26 GMT -5
I can't sleep. I lay in bed, snuggled into the middle of the warmest and most comfortable spot in the world. Behind me, the gentle breathing of my wife. It should be quick poison to me, pulling me quickly into the depths of sleep. I shouldn't be immune....
The internet is sort of boring to me. I could program, but I'm not in the right mindset. So I open up my word processor and begin to type.
Birds chirped to life as the grip of darkness began to loosen. The night’s dew had settled, reflecting the growing light from the tip of every blade of grass. The scurry of squirrels marked the beginning of a new day. And all of it seemed wrong.
Unable to squint out the rising sun any longer, he finally stirred. As he rose, his clothing clung to him. The grass wasn’t the only thing wet this morning from the night’s dew. He wouldn’t let himself be angry, though. It was the only place that he could sleep anymore, and if waking up wet was the price to pay, he’d pay it gladly. Higher costs had been paid by those he loved dearly.
With a yawn, he stretched out his stiff muscles and brushed away the bits of lawn that clung to his face. He turned to where his head had been lying and brushed away a leaf from the polished stone. Then, with a finger, he traced the name carved into it’s face. It was his wife’s name. His hand dropped some to the names of his children, who without a mother would never be born.
“Werewolves,” he spat under his breath. They spoke of their curse like it was a mighty burden to bear. The curse of strength, health, and long life. Once a month, under a full moon, to be forced to assume their preferred shape; to run free and wild with not a care in the world. Werewolves knew nothing of being cursed.
The internet is sort of boring to me. I could program, but I'm not in the right mindset. So I open up my word processor and begin to type.
Birds chirped to life as the grip of darkness began to loosen. The night’s dew had settled, reflecting the growing light from the tip of every blade of grass. The scurry of squirrels marked the beginning of a new day. And all of it seemed wrong.
Unable to squint out the rising sun any longer, he finally stirred. As he rose, his clothing clung to him. The grass wasn’t the only thing wet this morning from the night’s dew. He wouldn’t let himself be angry, though. It was the only place that he could sleep anymore, and if waking up wet was the price to pay, he’d pay it gladly. Higher costs had been paid by those he loved dearly.
With a yawn, he stretched out his stiff muscles and brushed away the bits of lawn that clung to his face. He turned to where his head had been lying and brushed away a leaf from the polished stone. Then, with a finger, he traced the name carved into it’s face. It was his wife’s name. His hand dropped some to the names of his children, who without a mother would never be born.
“Werewolves,” he spat under his breath. They spoke of their curse like it was a mighty burden to bear. The curse of strength, health, and long life. Once a month, under a full moon, to be forced to assume their preferred shape; to run free and wild with not a care in the world. Werewolves knew nothing of being cursed.