Canis Lupus (Timber Wolf)

Short story

     He sits…tranquilized, unmoving, watching. Faint, glimmering, blue eyes peer through the rusty iron bars of a heart-shaped box. The years pass by in a blur of indifference… until the best of these are gone. His savage heart dulled and numb from disuse…but beating still…awaiting the day of his release. Finally, a pale, slender hand reaches out from the dark…with a feral snarl he backs into a corner, sure that this is more unloving abuse to be endured. Not physical pain, for that is to be relished as a confirmation of life, but inner pain of which he will take NO MORE!  Life, without pain, is not life… it is but some cheap human invention… a counterfeit imitation that is hollow, empty, and useless. The lock tumbler creaks with a high pitched squeal, frozen hinges shriek with resistance causing a barely audible, confused, whimper to escape his throat. The old grey wolf finally begins to realize what has been taken from him by the ones who would make a pet of a primal killer. Hesitant, hopeful, tentative steps from his cage cause atrophied muscles to ache. Sinew and tendon complain under the strain…Then, in an instant, powerful paws grip mother earth, the only mother he has ever known…for men took his real one long ago. Anger begins to rise like the frigid, unrelenting waters of the first spring thaw. The sounds of newly acquired freedom assault his ears like a cannonade, the smell of potential prey reaches flared nostrils, landing like a well-placed blow, causing a shiver to course through him with the speed of a lightning strike. But THIS pain is a welcomed old friend, one to be greeted whole heartedly and savored like a rare wine, familiar, life-giving, sweet as dew on a late summer honeysuckle blossom. A primal heartbeat throbs, slowly at first, tempo increasing, and strength building…like war drums calling him to a long awaited battle. A battle that he has the intensity to win. He is still the Alpha and others will soon be aware of his return. Lovers will adore him and call him “Heartstring” or “Soulfiller”…Enemies of freedom will shake and call him “Shadowkiller” and “Bonebreaker” but only in hesitant and fearful whispers. They will feel his wrath, and only his pack will deserve the warmth of his protection…Lowered head to the ground he sniffs….searching for the scent of both. His quickening pulse thunders with rage, rage for the ones who put him there, rage for those who will cross his path, rage for the ignorant, pathetic, two-legged criminals who chose not to understand. Yes… the pitiful, impotent, and hateful men will come… with torch, and bow, and spear… to snuff him out, to make him like them: sad and empty. All of these will feel the close, cold chill. Only one question remains; to adore or damn the one who set him free? With one last whiff, his head raised to the blood-red harvest moon… he howls a warning. A warning to them all, and to the approaching night, that he is still: CANIS LUPUS… and he is coming.

Reviews

[softlyfall]

Supurb. There is a wonderful crescendo in intensity and pace. Your character development is incredible in such a limited number of lines.
Just the right note of creepy to accentuate the threat, making the dread supernatural.
I love wolves. There is something so very primal and relatable about them.