Peter G. Reynolds's Blog, page 4

PART FOUR

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 4

Carl was Ron's half-brother, and they had been best friends growing up. That is until Ron came of age, and his "differences" became impossible to ignore. Carl was second eldest after Gary and 5 years older than Ron. Carl was born during the thirteenth moon, the "blue moon," a rare event in their family, and always acted like the Chosen One. He was the biggest and the strongest, but it didn't matter how big or strong you were. Clan Alphas were always the eldest male, and when their dad died that honour and responsibility went to Gary. Ron knew that decision ate away at Carl and was the reason he overcompensated by trying being the best at everything. He cast a wide shadow, and Ron was happy to hide inside it. When you were with Carl, nobody noticed you.

Ron’s dad, Tom, kept a tight leash on his children and forbade any activity that might give them away. "Look human, act human," he would say each morning. It was part mantra, part prayer, as they all knew what would happen if the clans from the old country ever found them. Well, Ron didn't actually know, but Carl had helpfully described it in horrific detail. After that, Ron never looked at spaghetti and meatballs the same way again.

The Clan Wars. To Ron, it sounded like something out of a storybook. Blood feuds stretching back hundreds of years. Clans with unpronounceable names like Dál n-Oaich and Síl Tuathail, and magic. Yes, magic. But not the silly wand-and-broom kind, real magic, ancient, tamed by only the most dedicated shamans, women warriors who gave up their ability to bear children to glimpse behind the veil and touch the power beyond. Ron's mother had been one of these women before she gave it all up to have him.

Ron pushed those thoughts aside and focused again on shifting. Time was running out. One long pointed ear had erupted from the left side of his head. His teeth now had grown twice as long, and he could no longer fully close his mouth, giving him a constant expression of astonishment.

This, as it turns out, was fortunate, as a Carl suddenly pointed to the sky. "She bleeds!" he roared. Ron looked up, the moon had darkened and was stained deep red. "Blood Moon." The words passed over the lips of everyone in the clearing. The world looked like it was on fire, covered in a crimson veil, yet strangely, Ron felt cold, a shiver running down his twisted spine. His brothers raised their faces to the sky and howled. Howled together in perfect harmony, the sound echoing across the emerald fields of their ancestral lands and through the cemetery of those who would howl no more. Ron howled with them, but he still couldn't close his mouth fully and looked like he'd just stepped on a piece of Lego.

"MY BROTHERS!" said a voice with an authority so absolute that those assembled were compelled to listen. Ron turned and saw his eldest brother, now standing above them on a sharp outcropping of rock. No, not his brother, his Alpha, his commander, the one that would fulfill the prophecy. The prophecy of the Dead Wolf.

Ron had heard the story a hundred times growing up but had never really believed the prophecy. Not when his father told it during family dinners (often to the amusement of waitstaff at Sid's Steak House). Not during one of his mother's "episodes," when she spoke dire warnings of the blood moon between spasms. Not even during this trip to their ancestral homeland, where all the clans were meeting, under a banner of peace, for the first time in 500 years. Like the clan wars, it sounded ridiculous, like something out of a poorly written urban fantasy novel.

But looking at his Alpha, silhouetted against the Blood Moon - Ron believed. He believed it with every fiber of his being. The clans would fight together for the first time in centuries, fight side by side against an ancient enemy, and his Alpha would lead them. He would lead them to victory…and… Ron's yellow eyes welled up as he remembered the words he'd been told so many times, words he only now understood.

His brother was going to die.

PART THREE

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 3

Ever since he was a cub, Ron knew he was different. He always identified more with the children in his suburban neighborhood than his own brothers and sisters. After the last clan war, his father had moved the family there from the backcountry as integration was an effective way to hide in plain sight. It wasn't an easy time for his siblings, wearing clothes during the day, going to a human school with tests and homework. BBQs with the neighbors, eating with knives and forks. It was a constant fight to keep the kids in line. But it was different for Ron. He was born after the move and knew of no other life. He never ran with his pack in the mountains, taking down a deer and eating it raw under the light of a moon so full and bright you couldn't look at it without squinting. Never lapped up spring water so clear you could see the fish swimming below, taunting you to try and catch them. No. The closest Ron came to this was family night at Sid's Steak House, and even then, he'd liked it medium.

So, it was no surprise to his siblings, as they surrounded him in the clearing, that he failed to completely shift. "Don't waste your time, Gary." spit another of Ron's siblings. He was a creature out of a child's nightmares, a mountain covered in thick red fur. The veins in his arms pulsed in frustration, and his claws scratched at a fallen tombstone, digging deep grooves in its surface. Priests would call him demon. Children would call him monster. Ron just called him Carl.

PART TWO

Late For His ShiftBy Peter G. ReynoldsPart 2

The moon slid behind the invisible clouds once again, and Ron now found himself surrounded by sets of glowing yellow eyes.Hurry, up and shift," said a snarling, all too familiar voice Ron recognized as Alpha, the leader of his pack. Ron clenched his teeth and squinted, trying to force the change. He held back a little, as the last time he tried to force it, he just ended up pooping himself."Do it!" Growled Alpha. "The other clans won't wait for us."One of Ron's shoulders wrenched itself from its socket with a sickening pop, the arm connected to it growing down past his knees. "I'm…trying…Gary", gritted Ron through the pain. Sweat poured off his forehead, and he could feel a steady stream of moisture running down his leg, but the change wouldn't come any faster. Too many eyes. Too many judges. He could smell their disappointment dripping in the saliva of unspoken childhood taunts. "Little Ronny Fife can't shift to save his life" and the less clever, yet perhaps more accurate, "Shiftless loser." Because that's what Ron was, one of the Shiftless. And if anyone other than his father, and now brother, was Alpha, Ron knew he would have been killed years ago.

To be continued.

PART ONE

Late For His Shift

By Peter G. Reynolds

Part 1

Ron hurried into the cemetery, hopping as he pulled off his shoes and socks. He unbuttoned his dress shirt (a gift from Mary, who'd kill him stone dead if he ripped it) and laid it carefully on a cracked yet dry headstone. The name was worn with age, but Ron could still make out the deceased was a beloved husband and father.Ron was neither, but he hoped to be someday.

He unbuckled his pants when the itching began, and Ron increased his pace, the path lit by moonlight that peeked its way through dark clouds invisible in the night sky. Sadly, the clearing was not empty. Ron sighed as his brothers turned and looked up at him, their yellow eyes glaring, their thick black fur bristling in irritation. The largest one spoke in a low growl, his tattered clothes surrounding him like a discarded snakeskin.

"Well, look who it is! It's Ron. The Whenwolf."

Laughter echoed through the cemetery, and Ron was glad his fur now hid how red his face had gotten.

The moon slid behind the invisible clouds once again, and Ron now found himself surrounded by sets of glowing yellow eyes.

"Hurry, up and shift," said a snarling, all too familiar voice Ron recognized as Alpha, the leader of his pack. Ron clenched his teeth and squinted, trying to force the change. He held back a little, as the last time he tried to force it, he just ended up pooping himself.

"Do it!" Growled Alpha. "The other clans won't wait for us."

One of Ron's shoulders wrenched itself from its socket with a sickening pop, the arm connected to it growing down past his knees. "I'm…trying…Gary", gritted Ron through the pain. Sweat poured off his forehead, and he could feel a steady stream of moisture running down his leg, but the change wouldn't come any faster. Too many eyes. Too many judges. He could smell their disappointment dripping in the saliva of unspoken childhood taunts. "Little Ronny Fife can't shift to save his life" and the less clever, yet perhaps more accurate, "Shiftless loser." Because that's what Ron was, one of the Shiftless. And if anyone other than his father, and now brother, was Alpha, Ron knew he would have been killed years ago.

Ever since he was a cub, Ron knew he was different. He always identified more with the children in his suburban neighbourhood than his own brothers and sisters. After the last clan war, his father had moved the family there from the backcountry as integration was an effective way to hide in plain sight. It wasn't an easy time for his siblings, wearing clothes during the day, going to a human school with tests and homework. BBQs with the neighbours, eating with knives and forks. It was a constant fight to keep the kids in line. But it was different for Ron. He was born after the move and knew of no other life. He never ran with his pack in the mountains, taking down a deer and eating it raw under the light of a moon so full and bright you couldn't look at it without squinting. Never lapped up spring water so clear you could see the fish swimming below, taunting you to try and catch them. No. The closest Ron came to this was family night at Sid's Steak House, and even then, he'd liked it medium.

So it was no surprise to his siblings, as they surrounded him in the clearing, that he failed to completely shift. "Don't waste your time, Gary." spit another of Ron's siblings. He was a creature out of a child's nightmares, a mountain covered in thick red fur. The veins in his arms pulsed in frustration, and his claws scratched at a fallen tombstone, digging deep grooves in its surface. Priests would call him demon. Children would call him monster. Ron just called him Carl.

To be continued.

Happy Holidays!

It’s been a rollercoaster year for all of us, but I know the valleys and peaks were made a little less steep thanks to all of you. Thank you for subscribing to my podcast and buying my books. Your support means the world to me. I can’t wait to share more stories with you in 2022. Happy Holidays!

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5KIsurjJwc

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVw3waAji0Y

New Book Trailer Alert!

Happy to launch my new book trailer. Have a look and let me know what you think!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVw3waAji0Y