Mongrels

by Stephen Graham Jones

This is the way werewolf stories go. Never any proof. Just a story that keeps changing, like it’s twisting back on itself, biting its own stomach to chew the poison out.

none of Grandpa’s stories were ever lies. I know that now. They were just true in a different way.

Halloween is the one night of the year werewolves go to church.

Werewolf throats aren’t made for human words. Human words would never fit. There would be too much to say.

He’s the one who finally figured out the real way to recognize a werewolf. They’re the ones who never grow up.

In werewolf families, report cards aren’t on the refrigerator because of the good grade you got. The report card is the A.

It’s like the world wants us to be monsters. Like it won’t let us live the way normal citizens do.

One thing werewolves can’t say is that they’re not supposed to take rides with strangers. Werewolves are the strangers.

The wolf, it always claws its way to the surface.

“Being a werewolf isn’t just teeth and claws,” she said, her lips brushing my ear she was so close, so quiet, “it’s inside. It’s how you look at the world. It’s how the world looks back at you.”