Werewolf

I've written three of the four vignettes I need to write for comp lit on tuesday.
I have the wendigo still to go.

I've done the lamia, the werewolf and bloody bones. my favorite is the werewolf, of course. werewolves are the easiest to write about, as I have experience. it doesn't take a lot of thinking to write about werewolves.
rip, tear, guilt.
basic formula.



Here's the werewolf one.

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She is so unsuspecting, as they always are. I stand by the road and wait in the shadows. It has been night for a long, long time and so I am not afraid of who will be awake to hear. The girl driving is blasting loud music and obviously under the influence of something toxic, and I’m not sure whether or not she’ll stop for me as I timidly step into the road. I do not fear her speed and size; a car could never hurt me. I am so blindly hungry that I would fight a highway. I move to the side, letting her bumper come to a halt a couple inches from my haunches. I turn my muzzle towards her as she drunkenly urges me onwards with her hand. Before she can react, I am on top of her hood and through her windshield. She screams once before I cut her short with my mouth around her neck. I drag her out of the car and into the road by the throat.
Blood bursts forth, a fountain of dark wine, as I tear her throat with my teeth. Gnashing my canines together against the sweet softness of the muscle beneath. My throat is so dry, it is on fire; I feel as if I am going to die if I do not drink. Her life is running down my esophagus into my gut. Her eyes are still open; she is dead, watching me. I slide my claws deep into the hole I have created in her neck, scoring a path of fresh rivers downwards across her sternum while the music from her radio continues to play. I tear her chest open, drinking from the pool that has formed there. I lift my head for a moment; the necklace she was wearing is broken in two, tangled in her hair. She was a very beautiful girl, very young. I spread my lips open, sliding them past my enormous teeth, and break my way through her ribs and eat her heart in large, messy bites. I am so hungry. My throat is so dry. I eat and eat until there is nothing, her chest is empty; her ribs strain to touch the sky. I make fast, sloppy work of her arms, her legs, her gut; nothing is untouched in my feast. Her soft, smooth intestines are hot and steaming in the night air as I pull them from her soft, smooth body. She no longer has a face and I have eaten her eyes. I leave her there with broken pieces of her body strewn across the road.
In the morning I will feel the pain of what I have done, but for now I am not human and I feel no remorse. Her life has no value; she is my food. In the morning I will remember. In the morning I will feel the meat in my stomach and expel it neatly into the toilet. I will retch and retch until I bleed. In the morning I will sob in the downstairs bathroom, taking care to not wake my sleeping wife. In the morning I will drive my children to the high school that is now one student smaller.




for some reason I can't think of a story involving a wendigo. this is odd, because usually wendigos are easy to write about (not as easy as werewolves, but almost).
hopefully before tuesday I'll have thought of something.