hEY, I happen to like naif-art kindergarten scrawls…
Extract: Wolf Runaway by Alex Ankarr, gay werewolf romance FREE and downloadable via link
They’re on the loose, out on the heaths and fields and moors, now. Still on Hotstaat land, but waving a goodbye to the pruned and tended and civilized parts, that are kept within bounds and given the same semblance of civilization as the wolves themselves. With all of the wildness and the rawness up close beneath the surface. Although he’s going to feel the bumps and the bruises tomorrow, it’s at least a bit easier to keep himself upright and along for the ride, as long as he doesn’t get cocky about it and stop clinging on for dear life. As long as he doesn’t do anything crazy, like it would be to fling his arms up in the air, to just leave go of Ree’s scruff – which is at least a good third of what has him anchored in place, and not flying off Ree’s back for a bumpy landing and a broken bone or two – and to whoop and holler with the exhilaration of this wild midnight ride.
That would be crazy. And impulsive. And childish. Not to mention fulfilling all of Ree’s most cherished and dearly-held fantasies, about their sacred boyhood and the perfect lawless joyful amity they would have lived in together as adolescents. Before, presumably, falling head over heels for each other in a tragic doomed Romeo and Juliet style romance. Which in Ree’s head also translates to a happy ever after, Penn rather thinks. The inside of his head has to be a mysterious maze in itself, more so than any conglomeration of hedges and gravel on Hotstaat land.
He isn’t enjoying this exercise in idiocy, this skylarking and play-acting at Cathy and Heathcliff, at Jane and Mr Rochester? He can’t be.
Penn presses down closer into Ree’s back, holds tighter and squeezes his eyes shut as the dark world bumps and bounds past him, socking the breath out of his lungs. The tip of his nose is buried in rough thick black pelt, as it shines green-black and blue-black, and it scratches like needles against his cheeks. The world heaves past like he’s a seasick sailor on a boat in a storm, and he won’t enjoy this, won’t revel and participate and collude. Why should he give Ree the satisfaction of being actually right, as well as the wolf’s privilege he has already, of being right even when he’s wrong?
Well, my very first Inktober attempt. And I know, I know! Arm wonky, completely buggered — and, I now notice, head too big also. Not to mention where did the 80s Morgan Fairchild/hair metal style come from… (Has anyone noticed just how much Taylor Swift looks like Morgan Fairchild, people? While we’re here? As an aside?)
I don’t completely mind it, though. Might work it over, see if it can be fixed.
Elena stirred, alerted by the long, long silence to the fact that business was exceptionally slow. There was no great need to worry: their bookshop was ticking over in the black – just about – and had been for years now, given a fortunate location and loyal clientele. It was just – wet Wednesdays, and early closing day, and a long way off payday for a lot of folks. The thing was, a lack of customers gave her the urge to mess with her brother, even if only for her own personal amusement.
She looked over at him, hunched beside the elderly till, a vintage Guy de Maupassant spread out before him, and a mug cooling by his side.
Ehhh, feels like time to re-make and re-write some of my old fanfic WiPs, rebuild them into original fic. Not that I haven’t already been doing a bit of that, under aliases SarahTender and WandaWithers. But for my two old faves this seems like the right ID. So very shortly indeed, expect a mangling re-working of a tale loosely based on ‘Notting Hill’. With new added werewolves!
*Kipling, darling. Love a bit of Kipling. ‘If’ used to reliably make me cry, before I got so hardened and contemptuous.
So, you know how as a writer – wewriters, bub, you ‘n’ me – very often you’ll keep a notebook beside your bed? So that if you wake up with the germ of a great idea in your head, you can dash it down quick and not lose it?
(So that someoneelse gets to very lightly re-write it, claim it, and cede not one word of credit, of course. For another day, bud! For another day! Oh, the mooks. Watch out for the mooks!)
Anyhoo. Ya do that. That’s not novel. Everyone does it. Writers, anyhoo.
But what do you do when you wake up, with something nagging at your brain. And you turn over, to take a look at your notebook. And lo –
– in your handwriting –
– scrawled across the top page –
– this legend doth blaze upon it –
PACKED WITH GOATS. PACKEDWITHGOATS!
No, I mean that’s it. No further word of explanation. Can’t even remember writing it. Do you think the Devil made me do it? Whatdoesitmean?
All suggestions gratefully received. Buggered if I know. But I’m quite charmed with it. It may spark off a Saga of goatly superpowers, possession and invasion yet, who knows.
…It’s a New Year (okay, two weeks in) and time to ring the changes with my logo!
First came ‘lovin’guyslovin’guys’ (curtseys, why yes, all my own work. CUZ I ALWAYS CREDIT SOURCES ON ACCOUNT OF I’M A MENSCH NOT A MOOK. Only slimy no-good mooks don’t credit.)
Aaaand second, ‘honeysays my tittygame’sbananas’ – the work of the very, very great Neil Brennan, check out 3Mics on Netflix cuz it’s amazing and tearful as well as hilarious.
And now? Ta-da – ‘eyeball–chewing bastard’, a slightly mangled version of the memorable phrase courtesy of Mr Henry Rollins – inimitable, amazing, a gentleman and a punk rocker. Yeah, three words can constitute intellectual property and imply a duty of attribution, dependent on circumstance and intent, if you have any ethical grounding and integrity whatsoever. Fair use in good faith don’t mean mine grab mine grab mine.
Water should be clear, invisible. He should never have to think about water. Because his mate is near, a fact that ought to trump every other consideration.
But the water’s thick, with blobs of synthetic snowdrift. It’s more terrifying than the winter scenes he can dimly access, from his other life.
Then he spots her, through the growing mist.
Still in human form, despite the moon: scuba diving through the aqua depths, her wetsuit gleams as she swims frantically towards him, a kilometer away. Because she can feel it, as he begins to choke, to spasm.
To die. Greg wonders if his mate’s pain will be the last thing he knows. Her shark form is triggered, she begins to rip off human adornment, to launch herself towards him as her gills open.
He’s choking. And he wonders. If they’ll die together, in this storm of man-made plastic snows.
He’s man. And he’s shark. But it’s men who’ve killed him, and her too.