Stories of Shattered Shadows

The Wolf and the Forest

Within the darkest shade of your world, a forest shivers and ripples in the few brave winds that pass through. The forest holds no color despite the shades of greens and browns that only yellow can see. It is grey, dull, unalive. Although some may disagree upon seeing how it shivers at the cold bite of winter and reaches out with naked claws in the gold of autumn. They would say, "it is a very alive forest." But no. There are only two creatures that are "alive" in this forest.

You. You hide in the strange grey, huddle to it as it is the only thing that welcomed you to its depths. Along your side, a very large beast with fur of the night, eyes of storm's lightning, and a set of crescent moons for teeth; teeth that are stained with the delights of any fool who dare gleam their teeth at you. A wolf. Well, something along the lines of a wolf, that is.

The reckless idiots who had one day decided to meet the shadow of the forest and you and the terrible creature beside you--you catch a glimpse of their stripped bones under rotted leaves every so often--would find that your wolf was like a loyal companion and servant, a dog more than a wolf. That is a very foolish assumption, and only fearless and wise scholars--eroded flesh constantly tripped on--would come close to the truth.

You are very small, very frail. Your skin and your bones give way easily and you can only see the toes beneath you, terribly bruised. To the dire, ragged wolf, you could be a very easy meal. And yes, it's dreams are filled with the metallic savor of you blood and the crunch of bone gnashing against teeth. But you don't know this, until now that is, and you do not care as you will always rely on this wolf to protect you, and you secretly hold a care in your chest for the set of sharp blades in its mouth. But the only thing that burns in its chest, raging to a stand close of control, is the vicious hunger, lust, to tear flesh from bone and swivel ears to the cracking and breaking and shattering scream.

Again, you've never noticed the perfectly white collar that muzzled its neck--and again it would never matter. The collar that was weaved from bones long ago, from a much smarter youth long ago.

You, the fragile and desperate person you are, would never imagine that your bulk wall--the wolf--could ever be torn down. And you will never realize that the only walls you have is the paper flesh lining your bone. And the wolf's walls, the collar it bore.

But when that collar will finally crack and the wolf shakes off the suddenly yellowing bones, and you will finally be able to see past your toes to the gleaming, yellow eyes of your new terror, you will not be able to flee the depths of the grey forest. No, you are not able to turn. To "run" as you call it. The clawed fingers of the forest hold you, screaming, in bony, cold branches. And as the wolf slowly approaches, its hunger ever strongest, its cheeks pull up revealing its set of crescents, soon to be darkened in red;

It smiles.

This is the point you realize, this is not your loyal guard dog. Not even a wild animal that suddenly grew unpredictable. It is-

Your voice box rips itself apart as the scream it wanted to flow through its ears for the longest time, to its dismay, is cut off.