She sat straight, legs crossed, palms filling with rising moonlight. Each in-breath had the cool chill of autumn night. Each out-breath had the warm hunger of her heart. Breathing in nightfall, breathing out hunger, she reminded herself that she was controlled by neither.
And yet, the moonlight had its plans.
The moon rose higher, and she felt her hunger rising to meet it. Her breath came faster now. New scents, new possibilities drifted on the night air, and she breathed them in, savored them through her sharpening senses. Her savoring turned to panting. As her breathing sped, swift and shallow, she found herself losing all count of in-breaths and out-breaths. Losing all sense of control. All sense of herself.
Her hunger howled within her, and as the last of her humanity slipped away, her limitations went too. She lost herself, but gained the night. She had no need for counting or control. She was the moonlight made into flesh and fur and fang.
And she was hungry.
∼ Miriam H. Harrison
© Copyright Miriam H. Harrison. All Rights Reserved.
Pen of the Damned 
Reblogged this on Anita Dawes and Jaye Marie.
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short, but so poignant…
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I love a she-wolf story! Fantastic!
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A terrific story. Loved it.
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You capture the transition so well, it is almost a personal experience. This makes me very uncomfortable! Good one, Miriam!
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That last line, “She was the moonlight made into flesh and fur and fang” is so poetic. The whole piece is lovely and dark. I enoyed this so much, thank you!
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Reblogged this on Lee Andrew Forman.
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