Read: The Werewolf Epic
(Well, this is a rather long time coming)
The werewolf oozed not blood from the deep wound,
but some sick slime accompanied coiled
entrails which spread upon the floor. The man,
his face set to a sneer by the foul fumes,
let not another minute pass, but knelt,
plunging his arm into the fetid bowls
of this great beast. The rotted puss burst forth,
splashing upon the rescuer. His hand
reached all around in search for the lost girl.
Terror betook him when the wolf in dream
lifted a lower leg and lazily
began to scratch. The claws drew closer to
his back, and once, and twice, and then again
the foot drove deep into his flesh, tearing
away his shirt and skin. But not one cry—
he dared not wake the beast—made he. Grown still,
the wolf ended, its bloody nails resting
upon the floor. His hope was then realized:
a hand had clutched his own. And then she spoke:
O blessed hand, O blessed God who saves!
What horrors I have seen though blind, in want
of light, learning of blackened heritage,
a curse which has been passed to me by blood.
Now know, stranger, Little Red Riding Hood,
not so christened but often called, my name,
and further still, a wolf did swallow me.
How terrible, he took me whole into
himself for this purpose: I was to be
his hideaway, my flesh his den he’d make,
and it has been through my whole family.
So thus, in day when men have courage still,
hunters of the defiler would find naught
but me, a mask for his foul crimes, and at
his whim my form assumed, he’d wear me like
a cloak. But you have interrupted fate.
His strong arm lifted her out of the muck,
and standing to his feet stood her on hers.
She clasped him in a dear embrace, dripping
with putrid bile. His arms encircled her.
They stood holding each other close until
in unison they felt their hearts beating,
and pressed together joining soul to soul.