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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Hounddots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: wewak11
    Elite Ratio:    3.8 - 3436/3630/329
    Words: 1047
    Class/Type: Story/Vampire
    Total Views: 1183
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 5764



    Description:
       


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsHounddots
    -------------------------------------------


    Everyone assumed it was a work of fiction, a story. It certainly was a good tale for a dark night. I can picture Arthur, wide-eyed and snarling, gesticulating wildly as he told it in front of a roaring fire at the Buckfastleigh Tavern; the shadows of his lean frame dancing spookily on the bar room walls. His reputation as a skilled raconteur grew with every telling, and his story certainly left many young men as well as ladies ensuring that they had company for the walk home, lest something lurked in the mist that inevitably roamed Dartmoor on a Winter's night.

    At least once a week the whisky would flow, the evening wear on, and the crowd would start badgering him for "the story." He would begin, and the snickers of laughter would gradually give way to small gasps of terror as Arthur kept the audience spellbound with his dark descriptions. The fog, the car, the beast, the gun - to hear the tale three or four times even was no remedy for the tingling on the back of the listeners' necks as the horror unfolded. What always amazed me was his face, rather than his words - his face told the story so vividly, as if he really had been there. Arthur was a wonderful story-teller.

    I think he picked me because I owned a car, and I'd been present at his recitations on several occasions, yet never laughed at him. We were more acquaintances than good chums, and, as I think about it now, I can't remember one person who would have called themselves a good friend of Arthur. He was somewhat of a loner, although a friendly enough sort of chap, if a bit strange in some ways. I remember his smile, under that pencil moustache. I would describe it as a nervous smile, like someone who has looked the Devil in the face, and knows that he's real, and possibly waiting in the shadows.

    Arthur gave me directions and we drove out on to the moors that night, following ill-used tracks as the mist gathered around us. I had no clue as to our destination, but he seemed to know exactly where we were going, and I drove slowly over the ruts, thankful that it hadn't rained for several days. Occasionally a fitful full moon would glare through a break in the fog, and then be swallowed again almost immediately. It was eerie.

    He bade me stop and I reluctantly killed the engine, which left a silence so thick that I jumped when he suddenly barked "Wait here!" and got out of the car. I had no idea where we were and told him so. He pulled a pistol from his pocket, but, as I cringed in terror, he said, "I cannot endure their looks of ridicule. I will find it, and show them all that it was real!"

    The mist enveloped him as he strode away, and I was left with the fog and the sporadic moonlight. I found myself keeping as silent as possible, and I wondered why. I had no timepiece, so no idea of how long he had been gone, but I did realize that the alternating of the moonlight's haze and the fog's shadow was making me imagine things in the dark. I could swear I saw movements out there in the brush. It was freezing.

    I confess that I had all the windows closed. I told myself at the time it was from the cold, but it was probably more from nervousness. My breath gradually spread its own fog across the glass and I had trouble making out the scrubby bushes of the moor. Then the howl echoed through the damp air, a mournful, hungry sound, and I felt my blood slow down in my veins. I had to rub the window and try to see through the wet streaks. It was surreal, like an abstract painting, a Dante perhaps. I thought I could make out a faint movement in the fog but, as my hand went to the door handle, a menacing growl froze my heart, and paralyzed my arm with fear. I sat there shaking in terror, straining my eyes to see what was out there in the swirling miasma of moonlight, and then I heard the howl again. I admit that I cowered, more afraid than I had ever been in my life.

    A blood-curdling scream galvanized me into action. I was about to leap from the car to see clearly, when I made out a figure that looked like Arthur coming towards me, drunkenly crawling on all fours, then rising, then crawling again. I sat there, paralyzed and afraid, and then heard a snarling, a guttural animal growl, and I wound the window down as he reached me. Enormous yellow eyes came at me and I instinctively held my hands up for protection. Sharp teeth ripped the flesh of my fingers, and then I felt the gun, gripped it tightly, and pulled it to me. The teeth seemed to turn into Arthur's face. "Kill it, kill it!" Then it was the fangs again, snarling and dripping with saliva. I smelt a foul beast-like breath, and then looked into the face of the Devil. I closed my eyes and fired, once, twice, and the noise echoed across the moor, bouncing off the pockets of fog.

    They say I was lucky, that an angel was on my shoulder that night, as I fired that gun, and killed the beast. The ones who believe say it was a one in a million chance to kill the werewolf in both his forms at the exact instant as he changed, the only time he is vulnerable. I had a few scratches on my hands, but otherwise I was unharmed. The coroner's report, of course, says that Arthur was already dead from bite wounds and blood loss, and that the "wolf" was rabid. It was kept from the newspapers and I was never charged with any offence.

    I see tonight's moon will be the same as on that night, and you have a car...would you like to see where it all happened...?








    Submitted on 2006-05-22 19:57:48     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      I like the story here but I think you could set the scenes a bit more. Give us the atmosphere at the tavern, the stench of the moors, stuff like that. Overall a good first draft! Ending was good too. Keep going.

    Everyone assumed it was a work of fiction, a story. It certainly was a good tale for a dark night. I can picture Arthur, wide-eyed and snarling, gesticulating wildly as he told it in front of a roaring fire at the Buckfastleigh Tavern; the shadows of his lean frame dancing spookily DON’T USE ‘LY’ WORDS – SHOW THIS on the bar room walls. His reputation as a skilled raconteur grew with every telling, and his story certainly left many young men as well as ladies ensuring that they had company for the walk home, lest something lurked in the mist that inevitably roamed Dartmoor on a Winter's night.

    At least once a week the whisky would flow, the evening wear on, and the crowd would start badgering him for "the story." He would begin, and the snickers of laughter would gradually give way to small gasps of terror as Arthur kept the audience spellbound with his dark descriptions. The fog, the car, the beast, the gun - to hear the tale three or four times even was no remedy for the tingling on the back of the listeners' necks as the horror unfolded. What always amazed me was his face, rather than his words - his face told the story so vividly, as if he really had been there. Arthur was a wonderful story-teller.

    I think he picked me because I owned a car, and I'd been present at his recitations on several occasions, yet never laughed at him. We were more acquaintances than good chums, and, as I think about it now, I can't remember one person who would have called themselves a good friend of Arthur. He was someTHING of a loner, although a friendly enough sort of chap, if a bit strange in some ways. I remember his smile, under that pencil moustache. I would describe it as a nervous smile, like someone who has looked the Devil in the face, and knows ‘THAT’ IS THE MOST USELESS WORD IN English - AVOID AT ALL COSTS he's real, and possibly waiting in the shadows.

    Arthur gave me directions and we drove out on to the moors that HERE IT’S OK night, following ill-used tracks as the mist gathered around us. I had no clue as to our destination, but he seemed to know exactly where we were going, and I drove slowly over the ruts, thankful that it hadn't rained for several days. Occasionally a fitful full moon would glare through a break in the fog, and then be swallowed again almost immediately. NICE! It was eerie.

    He bade me stop and I reluctantly killed the engine, which left a silence so thick that I jumped when he suddenly barked "Wait here!" and got out of the car. I had no idea where we were and told him so. He pulled a pistol from his pocket, but, as I cringed in terror, he said, "I cannot endure their looks of ridicule. I will find it, and show them all it was real!" DELETE ‘THAT’

    The mist enveloped him as he strode away, and I was left with the fog and the sporadic moonlight. I found myself keeping as silent as possible, and I wondered why. I had no timepiece, so no idea of how long he had been gone, but I did realize that the alternating of the moonlight's haze and the fog's shadow was making me imagine things in the dark. I could swear I saw movements out there in the brush. It was freezing - SHOW.

    I confess that I had all the windows closed. I told myself at the time it was from the cold, but it was probably more from nervousness. My breath gradually spread its own fog across the glass and I had trouble making out the scrubby bushes of the moor. Then the howl echoed through the damp air, a mournful, hungry sound, and I felt my blood slow down in my veins. I had to rub the window and try to see through the wet streaks. It was surreal, like an abstract painting, a Dante perhaps. SHOW I thought I could make out a faint movement in the fog but, as my hand went to the door handle, a menacing growl froze my heart, and paralyzed my arm with fear. I sat there shaking in terror, straining my eyes to see what was out there in the swirling miasma of moonlight, and then I heard the howl again. I admit I cowered, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. DELETE ‘THAT’

    A blood-curdling scream galvanized me into action. I was about to leap from the car to see clearly, when I made out a figure that looked like Arthur coming towards me, drunkenly crawling on all fours, then rising, then crawling again. I sat there, paralyzed and afraid, and then heard a snarling, a guttural animal growl, and I wound the window down as he reached me. Enormous yellow eyes came at me and I instinctively held my hands up for protection. Sharp teeth ripped the flesh of my fingers, and then I felt the gun, gripped it tightly, and pulled it to me. The teeth seemed to turn into Arthur's face. "Kill it, kill it!" Then it was the fangs again, snarling and dripping with saliva. I smelt a foul beast-like breath, and then looked into the face of the Devil. I closed my eyes and fired, once, twice, and the noise echoed across the moor, bouncing off the pockets of fog.

    They say I was lucky, that an angel was on my shoulder that night, as I fired that gun, and killed the beast. The ones who believe say it was a one in a million chance to kill the werewolf in both his forms at the exact instant as he changed, the only time he is vulnerable. I had a few scratches on my hands, but otherwise I was unharmed. The coroner's report, of course, says that Arthur was already dead from bite wounds and blood loss, and that the "wolf" was rabid. It was kept from the newspapers and I was never charged with any offence.

    I see tonight's moon will be the same as on that night, and you have a car...would you like to see where it all happened...?
    | Posted on 2006-05-25 00:00:00 | by joeyalphabet | [ Reply to This ]
      Heck no! Last time I got in a car with you...well...I wont go into detail, but I aint fallin for that one again.


    Nice story Graeme. You did a fine job in the descriptions and setting the eerie mood. Seems like the ending came too quickly though...or maybe I was just so into the story, it only seemed that way.

    Nice tale.
    | Posted on 2006-05-23 00:00:00 | by hyproglo | [ Reply to This ]
      Caution! Caution! Caution! Spoilers ahead!

    Ohhhh! Ahhhh! Shivers! Very Twilight Zone-ish!

    I love a good scary story, and while I'd love to see where it all happened, this little pagan knows her scary movies well enough to know that if Arthur broke through your skin with his teeth, that being around you during a full moon is suicide- literally! (Damn Arthur- I always KNEW he was a blood-thirsty dog!

    You have doen well here, the timing is consistant, the theme suspenseful. I did trip a bit in the third to the last paragraph, I couldn't visualize it as well as the other paragraphs. Maybe adding a little more desription of the morphing between Arthur and the beast would help this mentally impared young lady.

    I really like the way this played out and the ending is superb!

    Take Care!

    Chell
    | Posted on 2006-05-22 00:00:00 | by Chell | [ Reply to This ]


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