روايات بقلم Jimmy Daleson

The moon was not full tonight, but the waxing gibbous moon pulled strongly on both Bjorn and Chelsea. Bjorn felt antsy, unable to sit still and pacing the cottage’s main sitting room. His muscles twitched, blood bouncing through his veins, in need of an energy release. He felt like going for a run, a fast run.Chelsea was a whole different matter. Her normally long, flowing dark curls were wild as if she hadn’t brushed her hair in a week. But she was panting like a dog, as if she was unable to catch her breath. They were waiting for the three cemetery staff, Miriam, the administrative assistant, and Dottie and Samantha, the two gardeners. These older women had dropped a bomb on Bjorn and Chelsea today, shooing away the Alpha of Chelsea’s pack after he had tried to claim her as his property.Was property the correct word? He had initiated Chelsea into the pack, which caused her first full conversion into lycanthropy upon the full moon a few days before. Bjorn had attempted– and failed

Bjorn, Miriam, the two gardeners, and Chelsea all stood silently looking at each other. No one wanted to be first to break the awkward silence.A knock on the cottage’s faded wooden door disrupted the quiet. Whoever it was didn’t wait long for an answer, firmly rapping again, demonstrating clear intent on being dealt with. Miriam, as the cemetery’s administrative assistant, and thus the real brains behind the cemetery’s operations, took a few steps towards the door, twisted the tarnished brass knob, and pulled the creaky door open. A well-dressed, tall man stood on the cottage’s patio, muscles bulging against the confines of his tailored suit. His dark, flowing, wavy hair draped across his shoulders, contrasting against the olive-colored skin of his neck. He lifted his expensive wire-rimmed sunglasses to the top of his forehead, revealing piercing black eyes.“Good day, Ma’am. Is the caretaker here?” the man said, more of a statement than an actual question.Miriam’s eyes squinted de

Bjorn and Chelsea slept well into the morning that day, the sun warming the caretaker’s cottage as the day brightened. The administrative assistant, Miriam, quietly knocked on the caretaker’s bedroom door, opened it tentatively, and saw both of them sprawled out on top of the covers. Neither of them were clothed, so she quickly shut the door again and went about a day opening the caretaker’s cottage on her own.Dottie and Sam, the two gardeners, showed up together. They chatted briefly with Miriam before heading outside. It didn’t take long for them to scurry back in. They had apparently discovered the garden shed, with the leftovers of last night’s struggle for survival still strewn about. “Mr. Harraldson?” Dottie yelled up the stairs. The old bitty was not shy about interrupting people or making a ruckus. She was too old for modesty and had ceased caring about social niceties long ago. “BJORN?” She hollered again, after she got no response the first time.She heard the upstairs bedr

Bjorn grabbed a gaudy table lamp in the arranged sitting room, just inside the caretaker’s cottage’s front door. The sitting room was adorned with period furniture dating to the early 1900’s, treated like a museum for those visiting the inside of the cemetery’s administrative headquarters. The lamp was sturdy bronze and carved in the likeness of a winged angel. She had on bikini material, as Victorian 19th century standards would never consider nudity acceptable, even in artwork. Bjorn held the lamp like a club, ready to bash whoever, or whatever, came through the front door.But he noticed that the light in the room was growing. It was finally sunrise, and he had survived the night! Or at least, he was close to surviving it. He stood anxiously waiting and watching the door, breathing hard but starting to ease with each second that ticked by. The sun was coming up.The pounding on the door had abruptly stopped in time with the growing dawn. He heard a scuttling of footsteps on the pa

Where had Chelsea gone? How had she gotten out? Bjorn rolled onto his back, the garden shed’s gritty shingle tiles biting into his skin. He winced out of instinct, then realized it didn’t actually hurt. What a night!, he thought as he lay staring up at the moon. It had to be close to sunrise, as the moon had travelled nearly all the way across the darkened sky. But over the last several hours, he had bound his girlfriend in chains, damn near been killed by her, realized that at least two other werewolves were prowling the cemetery, barely escaped with his life, and healed his own wounds. What else could happen?He ran both hands through his hair, closing his eyes, deep breaths to calm his tattered nerves.A subtle huffing below him brought him out of his meditation. He opened his eyes, listening intently for whatever was down there. He could hear heavy breathing, and determined sniffing like a dog investigating a rabbit hole. A warning growl sounded, but not from the sniffer. The

Bjorn collapsed onto his back, chest heaving, gasping for breath. The full moon’s spotlight upon his tattered body revealed a myriad of injuries.His chest was torn asunder from Chelsea’s claw swipe, and his left calf and ankle were streaked with angry red slashes. Blood poured forth from his wounds, made worse from the shock he was going into.He had to get his breathing under control. He bent his knees, and placed his hands at his sides. He was an avid yoga practitioner so he was no neophyte when it came to meditation. It only took a few calming moments for him to come back into himself. The bright moonlight was strangely serene, and the cemetery had gone quiet. He lay on his back, eyes closed, and made himself part of his surroundings. He heard nothing. He felt nothing as his mind settled.Then a curious thing happened. He felt a stitch in his side, a gentle tingle where Chelsea’s claws had ripped at him. He propped himself onto his elbows and sat in amazement as his side seemed to