For those of you following the story of Annette and the Vampire– I’ve decided to turn it into a full-blown short story. The finished story will be offered to those who sign up for my newsletter. Look for me to continue Annette and the Vampire in enticing new directions…Newsletter will be sent out as soon as I hear word from my editor regarding my second book in the ‘Daughters of Draca’ series.
In the meantime, as always, the turning of the season is inspiring my muse. It’s trying to be spring in Portland, yet I brace for the inevitable disappointment. Surely, our days of gray rain are not over yet…But for now, I lift my face to the tiny pink blossoms that are starting their yearly fairy rain, and think of, unaccountably…werewolves…
I’ve heard whispers of a small group, drawn to the parks of inner south east Portland (the ‘People’s Republic of Portland’). Word has gone out in the hidden paranormal community…rumors of crafty writers, uncovering secrets. Secrets that lurk in the thick trees of Mt Tabor, and around the pond at Laurelhurst park. Secrets that hide in plain sight…
I wander the meandering paths of Laurelhurst park, and try to imagine I can see them. And they can see me…
A bushy, auburn tail vanishes in the underbrush; a slender canine form with a long, wolf-like muzzle. Just a flash, then sudden crunchy noises, like a heavy form landing hard in the remainders of the fall leaves…From behind the rough bark of a cluster of fir trees steps out a stranger.
This writer’s eyes widen at the sight of his incredibly buff and totally naked form. I open my mouth to call out an astonished remark when the naked image burned into my retinas vanishes. Just like that.
Knees weak, I sink to the damp grass. Dim spring sunlight barely warms the earth, but I give no heed to the wet soaking through my jeans. Every sense trembles in astonished understanding.
I have seen one. I have seen, with my own eyes, the evidence of what I long suspected. A wolf who is a man, a man who is a wolf. Piercing golden eyes had met my own, a brief moment of recognition and warning. As clear as if he had spoken the words, the message zinged in my veins.
Tell no one!
Ah, yet I am one of the writers they must complain about. The one finding their hidden places and exposing their needs. Their need of connection to the human world. To the world of lust and love and longing. It cannot be a coincidence that I find them, that their stories make their way to me. To my brain and heart and fingers flying across my keyboard.
I mean you no harm, sweet and dangerous paranormal creatures. I am more like you than you know. My stories seek you, are inspired by you, want you more than anything…All of us are bound by this city, trapped in it’s otherworldy charms. And we can comfort each other, protect each other. I vow to continue my writing quest, and to find you once again.