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Till May (standard:fantasy, 5658 words)
Author: SpotlightAdded: Dec 06 2003Views/Reads: 2778/2558Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is one of my personal favorites, therefore it probably alienates many readers. If anything, it is something you have never and probably will never read again. (telemarketting, werewolves, time-travel, symbolism)


by Spotlight 

Pine trees were marked with claws, like arrows pointing me along the
banks of a swift river.  It cut through the forest, deep with brown 
water, small and meandering at a steady pace.  The air was thick, a dim 
fog surrounding the area and seeping grey around the undergrowth.  I 
ran, panting until the water split, diverging around an island.  Here a 
trail of smooth dark pebbles underneath the water led to the unnatural 
mound.  Strange dusty footsteps followed the coast leaving the ferns 
and cowtails untouched and dipping in the muddy banks.  The trees 
tilted toward the river, blotting out the atmosphere like a slanted 
wall and the trail continued along the center of the island.  My khakis 
slapped wetly against the heels of my muddied Rockport casual dress 
shoes, squishing against the mound like a balding meadow, thin blades 
of grass sparsely slanting towards water along the less traveled areas. 

I would have thought he was a gargoyle, perched on the edge of the
seemingly ancient cliff, but his gray ears turned swiftly.  The sounds 
of crashing water echoed from where he crouched, a long thin hand 
dangled between his legs.  Beneath my feet, I could watch as the earth 
changed gradually into a rough metallic rock, a brown-red-black like a 
dark rust, yet dulled and gritty like granite.  The structure emerged 
from the island and protruded fifty feet forward into clean air.  On 
either side of the monument, water swiftly flowed then plunged 
downward, a dual waterfall.  I doubted my safety, unable to inch my way 
further onto the thing, to step forward past the clean cut edge of 
water and test the durability of it, although I saw no cracks in the 
surface.  The creature sensed my moment's pause and turned, his grey 
neck swiveling to reveal the thin black line of a werewolf's muzzle.  
His groomed fur shone white even in the dull of a clouded sky. 

Perhaps I was entranced by the clearing, the ring of fog surrounding the
two of us, or paranoid of the dead-end, but the sound of his voice did 
not surprise me.  “You won't be able to outrun them forever.”  He 
stated it without emotion.  “Might want to enjoy some company before 
you die.”  His lips curled into a smile.  With that said, he stood 
completely.  He was not tall, but his presence was immediately 
imposing.  His broad shoulders tapered to a tone stomach, muscles 
visible under the coat of fur.  His chest was covered in white fur that 
merged to grey at the sides, a grey that covered his long arms and 
muscled fingers, that swept down to a floating tail capped with white.  
There was a sense of animal unpredictability in his pose, betraying his 
warm smile. 

“Who are those people?  We can't stay here, we'll be caught!”  I said. 

“Hunters.  We are most likely surrounded.  We will be caught and killed.
Want to hear a story?” 


I guess in ICT, the drug-dealers were out the back door on smoke breaks,
logging off with 05 every hour or so.  Rumors circulated in the 
conference room, when we were trained on one new word not to say to 
cover the company's ass just in case JC Penney's listened in on a test 
call.  We were a customer service company with outdated computer 
equipment, dedicated to reminding customers of their “free trial 
period” and hoping they would forget to call back within the next few 
weeks.  A ten-page booklet on the art of rebuttal lost even our 
trainer's interest, leaning softly in the comfortable chairs we could 
not steal for our open cubicles.  It could be the fifth training 
session dealing with the exact same “cheerful attitude equals success” 
material, the exact same fifteen question quiz memorized as 
ABBADCCCBADDCDA.  There was no sense of identity in the work, only 
numbers to log in, manic supervisors always rushing, and especially, 
gossip to pass around the office floor.  I never saw it.  I heard about 
this Saturday in the chairs, and that last Friday, the keg party at 
Amanda's, the voodoo African reps into Santa Maria and Cameron's 
fiancee, the bitch with angry painted eyebrows, the drug busts.  That 
was 08, a meeting.  Not even the supervisors knew what numbers meant 
“bathroom break”. 

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