by Sage Taylor Richardson

Created on: August 18, 2008

Feral Woman

I'm watching him through the gleaming window of his night-darkened house. Strange man, to live alone here on the verge of civilization. Nothing but vast acres of overgrown meadow and bog stretch out behind his property before disappearing into primal forest and mountain ranges. Trespasser. This is my home now.

My instincts tell me to avoid all contact with humans, especially these days. But I have business to settle with this one. I salivate as I stare at him at work in his kitchen, preparing meat for his dinner. How ironic.

I pad in stealth and silence through the drifting snow, circling the hand-crafted farmhouse. He had lovingly built this place from the ground up, a rustic palace fit for a queen. His kingdom no longer has a queen and he has to live each day bearing the weight of his guilt in this mess he's made. I won't let him forget it.

I lift my muzzle and give a long ululating howl, to get his attention. Of course it works. No siren call ever caught a man's heart faster. He whips his blond head and drops the knife to the wooden board with an almost imperceptible clatter. The sight of his unshaven boyish face and the combined glance of fear and pain in his sea-green eyes pierce my heart but I can't let any lingering human emotion stop me from doing what I've been created to do. Reconciliation will come later.

You wouldn't be able to hear the knife hit wood or his booted feet scuffle quickly across the oak floor from this distance, with the wind ruffling through the brush, but I can. My thickly furred ears are swiveled straight ahead and will catch every tiny sound he makes, long before he can respond to my presence.

He grabs the binoculars and heads for the darkened sitting room beside the kitchen but I've already bounded around to the other side of the house. Soon he'll come outside with his rifle and hope to catch the glint from my amber eyes so he can take a shot in the moonlight. He doesn't want to believe the truth about what I've become, though it may not stop him from trying to kill me. Still, any hesitation he entertains may work out in my favor. I'm counting on it.

I crouch behind a rise in the snow, my thick, white pelt blending easily. I wait. Creak: door opening; chunk: shotgun bolt disengaging; crunch: boot on an ice-crusted porch. Round three in our little skirmish is about to begin. My body stiffens. Still, I wait

Peek up over snow, carefully. He's facing my direction but his head's turned away, listening. Time passes slowly but I

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