Like all living things, this book is a WIP. As of today though, it's only the developing genesis of the initial onset of the very beginning of the start of a WIP. I'm working on a much more beguiling, intriguing, and utterly irresistible blurb that...
The farmer, Sophie, paced the floor of the cozy living room, shotgun in hand, nerves on edge. For the last three nights the stock had suffered at the hands of her enemy. For the last three nights she'd been woken by frantic, pathetic bleats only to rush out unprepared, too late to do any good. She liked to believe she believed in live-and-let-live, but look what that got you. Give a kid; they'd take the herd. The indignity of it created harsh, ugly sounds in the back of her throat.
It wasn't that Sophie couldn't afford the losses. More chevon and goat milk than half a dozen people could consume were produced on her small-holding, along with chicken, eggs, honey and vegetables in like quantities - even though she lived alone and rarely sold anything. Any current excess was all carefully stowed away in neat jars, a large freezer and an ample root cellar for some theoretical future rainy day. She always had a warm, comfy feeling when she surveyed her bountiful larder: it made her feel safe. That monster was pulling at the threads of her safety net. If she didn't stop it, everything would unravel.
Sophie peered out into the darkness, then back at the clock. The attacks had been coming between 3 and 5 am. It was 2:30 - time to head out. She'd spent the last hour carefully boxing up her fear and stowing it away into the most remote corner of her mind. She had a plan after all, and her plans always carried her through. Her plans, carefully designed and carefully followed, were what had gotten her here.
With a spine-steeling breath and a quick shake of her head Sophie stole out into the night. The full moon gleamed clear and pearly in a cloudless, star-dappled sky. It was useful, but it gave her an odd feeling of being watched by a strange one-eyed ogre too. Waiting a moment to let her eyes adjust, she kept her head turned away from the warm glow of the cottage as she crept past the systematic garden rows and orderly poultry coops and regimented beehives. Beyond them, the barn stood like a fortress silhouetted against the rowdy meadow, silvery in the moonglow. Sophie counted her steps along the treeline: yesterday she'd cut out a path to her chosen spot with her trimmer. She found it easily, but tripped on a rock, falling headlong into the dewdamp weeds. The fearbox in her mental attic jarred loose from its shelf on impact. It didn't burst open, but a few doubts oozed out of the cracks.
Stunned, she lay still and closed her eyes, marking her breath until it was once more calm and regular. But then the unseen and unfamiliar glided ickily over her hand. She jerked and swatted crazily for a moment, scrambling to her feet. Shoving and stabbing the nose of the shotgun wildly around like a sword, she only slowed and stopped when she convinced herself the tinysqueaky sounds that resulted were the death throes of some tinysqueaky unknown evil and not merely the slide of wet leaves against metal. Panting from the execution, she didn't quite notice that all the jostling about had spilled more doubts from the box.
A heavy humid wind clattered branches and leaves as it lumbered clumsily through the woods. Bugs whined. Frogs groaned. Screech owls in the distance cried, making the hairs on Sophie's neck bristle. She didn't care how cute people thought those things were - they were just flat out creepy in her book. She bit hard on her lip, thinking maybe she should rethink. After all, the monster outmatched her physically in every way. It could see more clearly in the dark, hear at least 17 times better and smell her for yards out. It could kill her with one simple swift snap of the neck, given the opportunity.
"For god's sake, this is ridiculous," she whispered to herself. "Get. Your. Self. Together. You, Sophie, are no simpering city chic. You're strong, you're smart, and you will pick up every one of those silly dreads running through your mind, jam them back into that box, and get this done." It took more than a few minutes, twice that much effort and a slightly bigger mental box, but she did it - slapping lots of extra mental tape around it for good measure. Relocating her path, she sneaked carefully between the trees. As she went she smiled a little and recited her own personal paraphrase of Jimmy Stewart's prayer in Shenandoah: "Lord," she whispered, "I rebuilt that house and repaired that barn; I cleared that well; I've tended my flocks; I've plowed and planted and harvested my fields. Everything I have I got for myself through my own hard work, but I'll thank you for it anyway." She paused a moment as she arrived at the small rock outcropping that offered a view of the meadow and the ravine leading down through the woods to the east.
She sat down, resting her back against a tree and swatting a mosquito. She took two cartridges from her pocket and loaded the gun, propping the barrel on her knees and swatting again. She looked up in supplication, "So if you don't mind Lord, please deliver that foul, thieving monster into my sites so I can visit your justice upon him." And she gave a short sharp nod of her head by way of amen. It only jiggled the box a little.
***
Across the ravine, Canis Latrans* woke slowly from a luscious nap and stretched languidly through the only two yoga positions she knew. Of course, being a coyote, she had no idea what yoga was and would probably take offense at being accused of imitating a dog if she did - except that she'd no idea what it meant to be offended, either. The cool earth of the rock crevice had made for a restful sleep and it felt good beneath her feet. Her stomach told her it was time for food - not just for herself but for her four little-bits still sleeping behind her in the niche.
She looked out on her moonlit world and began threading her way carefully along the creek bed toward the meadow. She was thirsty, but she didn't drink the water here - it had begun to taste strange, and she knew of some good-sized rain puddles just at the base of the hill. Letting her nose lead her, she wove gracefully through the uncut hay. A rabbit had crossed here not long before, and a possum just there shortly after. A doe, smelling of mother's milk had gone that way - if Canis was lucky she might happen across the scentless fawn. Of course, being a coyote, she had no idea there were names for these creatures, but each scent painted a picture of them - age, gender and recent whereabouts - in her mind.
She didn't stop as she weighed her choices, but continued following her nose. Ah, the goats. Plentiful and less savvy than the feral things: easy catch, easy kill, easy breakfast for the pups. She crouched, watching for their plodding, clumsy movements.
Wait. Another scent. The ugly scent. She knew it, but it didn't belong in the night. The smell of fear, but not prey-fear. No, this was the smell of enemy-fear, ferocious and powerful, covered by the pseudosmells of flowers and fruits and the accumulation of dead things it carried on its back. It belonged in the day, in the barren place west of the field. She lifted her nostrils to the wind and took it in, letting it circle and build til she could pinpoint the source. There, just inside the tree line, the monster lurked in the shadows.
If coyotes could smile, she would have. Instead, Canis lowered her head silently and darted off to the west toward the unguarded barrens in search of chickens.
Because of course, being a coyote, she had no idea what a shotgun was.
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* Canis latrans is the scientific classification for coyotes. Typically the species "latrans" would not be capitalized, but here I want to imply a name rather than a categorization.
The current version of this story appears in the Short and Sharp Anthology @The_Bookshop . Be sure to visit their profile for other great short stories, contests and activities! My many thanks to them for inspiring me to get started writing :)
