The West-End Wolves

Warning: There is mild use of swearing so if you are uncomfortable with swearing or find it offensive I advise you not to read the following story

The prompt for this story is:

Dense and/or Obtuse



The West-End Wolves

“You’re fuckin’ dense, Pup! If you duck like that, you’ll make it easy for the otha’ guy to feed you a face full o’ knee!”

“Shut up, Gray! I can block it with my arms, like this.”

“Yeah, okay, and if I came down with my elbow like this, then what’ll ya do? I’ll crack you’re skull in! Just don’t do that alright? I don’t want you spending tonight in the ER, ya hear me?”

Gray’s been sparring with Pup all day, on my orders, trying to prepare him for the turf war tonight. Loud rock music had been resonating from our radio. Chatter, laughter and shouting mixed with the music, filling the Wolf Den with noise. I scanned the warehouse from the balcony observing my warriors, clad in their sleeveless leather jackets with a wolf embroidered on the back, in preparation of our battle tonight. They looked cold-blooded, ruthless and like a real gang of predators itching for a hunt. I check the clock saying it was half-past ten, thirty minutes until the rumble. It was time to organize my pack. I lean forward, gripping the cold steel rail. I gather up my breath and release a howl, sustaining it throughout the Den. The music stops and my outfit howls with me, like a bestial choir before a hunt. The collective howl dies down and I pause a moment before my speech.

“Brothers! We all know what’s happening tonight! The Streetwalkers have been a pain in our asses for months, and now they have the audacity to vie for our turf! Our territory! Well, they’re in for a treat, because they’re gonna have to fight us, the most toughest, most merciless, most wild outfit out there. So lets go and show those pavement licking wimps that they’re fuckin’ with the West-End Wolves!”

A roar erupted among the pack, a roar which affirmed my belief, that tonight we were going to rip the Streetwalkers apart and send their asses back to the slimy street they shuffled off. The Wolves began to chant my name, a unison of “Predator! Predator! Predator!”. They were ready to rumble.


“It’s not too late to walk away now, you can still leave without your outfit in the ER, Blondie.” I said

“Fuck you, puppy. Your turf is ours.” Replied the lily haired pansy

“Glad you said so. I would’ve been disappointed if my boys didn’t get anything to eat tonight.”

I looked past Blondie and saw a gang of thirty strong in denim jackets and black jeans, armed with chains, baseball bats, pipes, two-by-fours, wrenches and anything else that looked like it came off the street. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a pack of thirty wolves stronger, armed the same with the exception of flaring fangs and a demeanor drooling for blood. My pack wasn’t walking away losers.

West-End Park was cold, exactly how the Wolves liked it. It made our hair stand up, only helping us believe we were really wolves. We thought, apart from standing on two legs, we are a group of animals. We’re a real pack of predators.

I send out a rising howl as I break into a charge. My Wolves charge and howl with me, the chilling wind drafting across our skin. The Streetwalkers sprint towards us, screaming. A group of thirty wimps are pounced on by thirty wolves. It wasn’t long before blood stained the grass. Grunting and howling clashed in the bedlam. Bones cracked, bodies bruised and blood was spattered. I knew one certainty from the chaos, the West-End Wolves were winning. We weren’t just winning, we we’re tearing the pansies apart. We were sinking our fangs into their soft pink flesh. I lock eyes with Blondie, a bloodthirsty gaze directed towards me. I reply with flared fangs and an eagerness for blood. I weave underneath his swing, and lunge him to the ground. I bury my fists into his teeth, again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. I look upon my prey and smile upon my hunt. I left it a delicious pulp of red, mangled and unrecognizable. I lick the blood dripping down the ridges of my knuckles. A dizzying taste of red. I observe the hunting ground around me, stained with the weakness of our prey. Bodies of meat littered West-End Park, most were moaning and crawling, some too weak to say the same. Or say anything really.

My Wolves gather around me, a look of ecstasy only the rush of a hunt can produce. The result of a successful hunt. I raise my head to the sky and heave the brisk air. I widen my jaws and cry a blood-rushed howl. My pack joins the outcrying uproar, resonating the stars above the moon.


My Mother’s Plant


The little plant sat in its little glass bowl, yet it was far from little, not to me. It stood no less than 10 centimetres tall, but like a castle overlooking its kingdom it loomed over me, and its queen was cruel. Her words, her screech came out of the petals. The plant draws, not water, but poison from the soil. Day by day, night by night, it tormented me. Minute by minute, I got closer to my breaking point.

And eventually I reached it.

I educated it on the effect of heat, and I learned silence from the ashes.

Word Count: 100

The Murder of an Angel

My red fingers spread softly on her skin, like blood spilt on ice. My claws weaved themselves into her star-woven hair. Her body rested softly in my crimson arms. What used to offer happiness, warmth, a beatific joy, now only brings a dark triad of emotions. A frustration I could not stop what befell my divine flower. An anger, a burning enmity at the true demons who hide their diabolical hearts with serpentine silver tongues, living life like theatre. And a sadness incomprehensible for the grave injustice I have done towards God. In my ignorance, and a selfish desire to feel that emotion so valuable to the realms above, I had killed her so. I had killed love given form. Is there no worse crime in God’s court?

My tears could not subdue my rage. My eyes rose skyward and shifted towards His kingdom. My mouth stretched wide, my fangs poised for blood and my tongue lashed out with smoke and fury of brimstone.

“What egoism, what misguided moral roots are embedded into your mind? How can you look upon your creations, your disgusting humanity, and say they are good? Answer me, O powerful sadist! If these men were my creations, made in my image, I would dare not look in my reflection for fear of the being in the glass! Mayhaps I understand now, why you plague your belovéd ones with famine, flood and war! You leave them in the darkness, searching for a false light like a moth in the blind night. O merciful one, I understand, I understand! Tis’ truly the greatest torture, an anguish of divine machination! To promise the pasture of paradise, only to gift the scorched fields of my joyous home!”

Upon that last word and expended breath, I heaved a great, deep roar to the heavens. The sound trampled through the trees, flushing out His beloved animals from my enragéd range. The sound had shocked the clouds, and made their mark. Rain showered down from His skies and cried upon the forest. It streamed down my twisted horns, and washed my face away, tears upon tears. It gave me transient solace in believing I had made Him share this aching burden.

Friday Fictioneers


The photo above is the photo prompt for my following story in participation of Friday Fictioneers.

My Father’s Shoes

I’ll never look at his boots the same again. And I’ll never remember my father the same either. He was a good man and he couldn’t be a better father. His friends would always say “like father, like son” whenever I helped at the lumberyard. Those words were comforting, but now they bring nothing but dread.

That night he came home furious, his breath stank and his speech slurred at every syllable. I watched from my room as my father became a savage beast, ravaging the house. All that was left of him in the morning were his torn boots.

Word Count: 100