Apparently this prompt wasn’t very popular. I had trouble with it myself. This is not my best work. Anyway, here is what I came up with:
The God of Wine comes crashing through the headlights of a car that took you farther than you thought you’d ever want to go. We can’t get back again. -“God of Wine”, Third Eye Blind
It felt like the car was sliding out from underneath him. That’s what Jeremy remembers most from that night. Darren says all he can remember is the screaming, how it burst out of Rachel so quickly and then stopped, cut off. Rachel doesn’t remember anything, because Rachel is dead.
Officer Harris remembers being called to the scene, another drunk driving accident on Highway 1. He hated those calls, it was a small town and it was likely he would know one or more of the kids in the car. When he arrived he saw the vehicle wrapped around a telephone pole. The passenger side of the Camry completely smashed in. He remembers seeing the boys first, unconscious but alive.
All his partner remembers is the girl’s blonde hair. Her body was completely crushed, and all that hair was spread out across the seat, wrapping, wet with blood, around the shards of glass and metal.
Carrie remembers that the last thing she said to Rachel was, “God, you’re such a slut!” as she ran, laughing, towards Jeremy’s car. Eric remembers watching her run off, too, because he had been waiting for her outside the party.
Rachel’s parents don’t remember much of anything. Her dad thinks he might have offered the officers a cup of coffee, but it’s possible he never said anything. Her mother remembers hearing the sirens before she heard the news.
Jeremy hasn’t left the house since the accident. I heard from Carrie who heard from Darren that he takes like fifty showers a day, murmuring Can we get clean again?
Song: “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon
Story by James Grange
My name is Jim, and I think my alcoholism is finally catching up with me. Or at least, maybe, I might be going crazy.
He was there. I saw him in Soho last night as I was stepping out of a bar on Gerrard Street into the rain. There he came, casual as can be, greased hair, erect posture, fangs glinting in the streetlights. Hair on every inch of exposed skin. I froze as he stopped in front of me. He said, “Mate, you ever heard of this place, Lee Ho Fook’s?” He said “Fook’s” like a lot of east-enders might say fuck. I couldn’t respond. He just stared at me, green eyes glinting as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds.
“Well?” he said.
I composed myself enough to point. “Two blocks. Please don’t eat me.”
“What?” he said, acting confused.
“Don’t eat me,” I whimpered. “I don’t want to die.”
“Mate,” he said, smirking, “unless your name is beef chow mein, I’m not gonna eat you.” And then he walked away.
That was my first encounter with a werewolf.
That night I could hear them. Hundreds maybe, howling in the night. I crouched on the cold tile in my kitchen, taking slugs from a bottle as one beat furiously against the back door of my flat. To distract myself, I scanned channels on the tiny television on my counter. News report: Mary Sperry, 79 years old, mauled gruesomely in Kent by a “long-haired thug.” Football game: Chelsea at Tottenham, the fans, rowdy, all of them howling, snarling. On BBC 2, a program about the royal family. A man who looked just like Lon Chaney from that movieThe Wolf Man strolling arm and arm with the Queen. I rubbed my eyes. Still there. Another news Report: Roland Abcott, 36, found in his apartment in Mayfair with his lungs torn out.
Outside, they howled and howled. I drank, and fell asleep just as the sun rose.
I awoke. Pale sunlight through the clouds. Empty bottle. I grabbed my coat and headed out to a place I like to go. I felt safe in broad daylight. The full moon phase would be over soon.
My head ached. People were talking, but where were they? I told them to stop and they obliged. Just my feet against the pavement then, and I arrived at Trader Vic’s. Inside, my eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light.
Only one patron at the bar and the bartender. I walked up. Took off my coat. I ordered the usual. The man spoke beside me. He had perfect greased hair. He said something I couldn’t hear. I asked him to repeat himself. He smiled as I turned to him. He held his pina colada aloft a moment, then brought the straw to his mouth and sucked between long, yellowed fangs sticking down over his bottom lip.
“Draw blood,” he said again.
Bent Shelf Book Reviews 