You may have heard that many of the legendary cures for lycanthropy aren’t worth the yellowed parchment they’re scrawled on. Well, friend, buy me some ale, and I’ll spin a yarn about that very same supernatural libation. It may seem fantastic, but I swear ’tis true. And I’ve got a feeling that once I finish…
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“Licenses, please.”
“Sure thing, Warden.” The hunter brushed back her curly red hair and leaned her rifle against a nearby pine. She patted the front of her camouflage vest, searching, turned out her empty pockets, and glanced at her burly partner.
The male hunter stuck up a finger. “Hey, maybe they never gave
Hammer toe. Trigger finger.
The noonday sun bakes my skin. I swipe at the sweat on my brow, and place my hand over the hollow of my belly. Will it rumble? Does it remember how?
“Not a peep,” I say aloud. “That ship sailed ages ago. Ha!” I laugh at my own joke,
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