Once a Man the One and Only Werewolf: First in a Series of the Five Phoenix's

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Published by AuthorHouse 01/21/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3297-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3296-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920177

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Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

My Essay

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epitaph

The Critique Corner

Commentary

About the Author

Dedication (cont.)

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my trusty pen—(I’ll pay you back someday. And this time, with money.)

To all the scrap paper (I’ve found lying around the house).

To my cozy, cozy bedspread—used on all those late night struggles to push forward with the writing.

Also, to my Determination (of which a surety, I could n’er do without).

To my Will.

And, to my Self—my Jungian self. (You’ll see.)

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

To know the measure of a man is this:

   to follow, till death, his true heart’s bliss!

In this, is the key to happiness, the door to success and the answers to all. Oh! And it dispels the ‘darkness’ (eee-vil)—for, all of ‘above’ walks with you = on the noble path.

This is a story of invention, critique and full-out flavor. I have found, to my life, a sustenance of intrigue with a caliber of genious (did I spell that right?). This genius is a character of charisma that is wholly unique of ubiquitous ugly uncertainly of personhood; a suppressed masterpiece of type, the being. From a masterful writer and her commanding assurance of delightful success. Hence,

Transcendent, to his ordinary self; and beyond comprehension, to himself. He be, it would seem… transcontinental to his own soul, cosmically speaking.—The story.

He were, in so many words, transient, transformed and trampled, sadly.

The end is not a means, merely a page turner.

Don’t cry for my… my… legend. It is guaranteed! And,

Let me tell you a little of myself, for the above is not me.

The capacity of extra-ordinary creativity to take to the ends of the earth or as so desired, otherwise is my joy. I am a homebody, as writer; but a lit-tle faery, as thinker. Ubiquitous, unique and utterly ulterior of motive and determination. I fully display the grandeur and magnificence par . . . (Who the heck do I think I am?) Now… Where was I? (I’m such a little rabbit. Honestly.) A-ny-who,

I invite you to my world of skilled expertise in fantasy.

It is my Garden of Storytelling.

Welcome, all!

Chapter One

There lived in this time an old, well-known family. They were well-known clothiers. Coats were their specialty and to this advantage would be their downfall, or at precisely my point—one of theirs’. The demise, precisely from this reason. A rare and excellently thought-out coat, to aid in the well thought-out premeditation to demise—from another.

The age, the 1100s, I believe. Somewhere in the old country of European countryside. Old land, old families and age-old well-worn ways to cutting a coat.

A rather large son of a son of a coat cutter came along one century. And was as good and as normal as any other could be. This is his story, and for all of his epical intrigue: I wish him another lifetime, and well, in his reincarnation.

We will go now… Long, mellow views of their countryside in its orange/yellow time of autumn. At this time, the land and the ground—almost the same coloring. A quick swoop of this family’s homestead. You will see complete black shadowing of the backside of several of the family members. Two, the parents, going into the front door. A young maiden coming from the side, probably barn, and another older brother, maybe an uncle, going into the front door. There is no need to show of the family members and no need for this family’s name to be brought along in so large a legacy. No need.

There is a den, not too far, but a distance from here where there are things going on that should never see the daylight, but try and stop the world and its mischief and you’ve got the potion for peace.

This is no potion of peace boiling. The woman in question is having a delight for herself. She is making a complimentary drink for a person she is to meet today. She will never meet with him again and thought it a sickeningly fun thought to spike his drink with some hallucinogens. Whatever would be the norm granted a one-time dosage, she multiplied it by three. The happiness in her black heart exceeded her today.

And so, off she went to go meet her appointment—a requested coat from the countryside coat-makers. She arrived at the homestead and asked for her precise article. Sure as rain, the coat was made to order. She paid the man for his work and with a compliment or two, she prided herself of her finesse as a brewer of sorts. She offered the coat maker a sample of her beer, (with a squint and a snicker). He caught none of it and as he was thirsty in the middle of his work day, he took from the old witch.

True. That is the maker of this brew, and she is the maker of this tale. Of woe.

He drank, and she walked off and out of the aura of evil she has just conjured.

The poor man. He drank his drink of doom.

Fatefully, the coat maker was, this day, wearing his new original’ of coats. Made simply, of wolf. He had found several freshly dead, one day not long ago from a quick bear killing.

He thought, How lucky to gather so much skin, so quickly in one day. With the thoughts of his luck came the oddity of the new original’ of coats to him. The originality being his switching the fur to inside the coat. A destiny-filled innovative decision, I say!

Luck is a strange thing.

I will echo that.

His few short minutes are up.

The ‘clang of time’.

Time no longer exists for him. I will explain.

As the old witch goes snickering her heart out on down the road, the blackness of her soul growing, she ponders with surprisingly loud blurts of laughter at the thought that the helpless idiot will remain just that for days to come.

He will be a drug-induced crazy person for a good week, maybe. She thinks.

The man chopping away, takes one swing of the ax that he cannot manage to finish. He cares none for this fact.

He hears the ‘clang of time’ and cares none for the truth of the moment. He cares none for time—now!

What he cares about—and his thoughts are slow and thick, but more slow for the trying—is the sound he is hearing from far off. Sounding ethereal, making his thick feeling feel it to be somewhat of a melody or soothing lullaby. Somewhat. Something… something he thinks he should think on. Maybe. But he cannot calculate at this slow and thick moment in his mind.

He pauses. He knows he should do this. That much he knows. He is human and has a developed, intelligent mind.

This mind is crumbling right now. He is to pause so he can clear his mind. He decides to just let his mind be clear of thoughts, in his slow and thick life span right now.

This feels good. The ax was dropped ages ago. He enjoys the clearness of ‘no thoughts’. He is outside and on the woods’ edge. Looking around the panorama, he knows simply, instinctually, that he likes what he sees of the free-ness of this countryside. But something inside of him says he would enjoy these woods even more than the open countryside.

He cannot make the calculation but instinct tells him, with all the uncertainty he is feeling, that those woods would be so much more beneficial to his hearts’ wondering. A feeling, secure and satisfaction of hiding. Yet, he still feels free, for he has had nothing to make him feel frightened as of yet.

Its just that in the panorama that he sees (and he never holds the longing to look back at, yet, was his homestead his whole life) he feels simply, that those woods would calm his mind. And he needs to be there.

Well, it is a couple hundred yards of a walk that he has to go before he nears his peace of mind.

There. Again. That sound, strange. He is happily attracted to its somewhat spirited lullaby. He is sure it is something he should think on; for the ancient, soothing, spiritual, sacredness of its feeling/sounding. He will do this—think on it (if he can). Right now, he finds it hard to concentrate. At all. He really wants to… (he hears it again) . . . remember… to… think on the… (there goes another howl) . . . sound.

It is maddening him. Remember the dosage. He doesn’t know it (registering intellectually), doesn’t know to acknowledge his thought, but he is thinking this thought fiercely fearfully, and this thought comes (intellectually) from the most primal part of us all—of us all—fearfully, I am losing my mind.

He is maddening himself alone with the thought itself.

A soothing thought next: the sound. He chooses to let this easy good thought flood his mind instead, and so he lingers in his mind of that soul-lifting sound. Not fully registering of what it is. He is too mad with the mind-floating of the dosage he now holds in his bloodstream.

He is a big man and has continued to walk this whole mind-blowing few minutes. He has filled himself with a thought now: to continue walking.

It seems to be a release, but more freeing. And occasionally he lingers on the one happy thought of: the sound. The far off howls are ethereal; ethereal is an excellence of feeling. He feels his chest with both hands, as men will do.

He blacks out. The sound came simultaneously with that one physical movement of his. That was a good thing, for his mind could take no longer on trying to think, with the mind-blowing dosage he keeps in himself.

Hopefully, this bizarre event will last as long as the forethought the old witch had intended—a week. That will happen, but depend on the circumstances the poor soul will run into.

I lie. Truly.

Of course, a compounding of that amount of wickedness to one’s mind at one time will wager a safe bet of: no return.

Let us hope this is not the case.

Oh no! He is hungry.

He has just woken from his first stupor and feels the pangs of the first need of life! This man does not have the thoughts of us regular beings of: what am I gonna do/how can I get some food soon/I hope there’s a possibility?

No. His mind is blown and he cannot literally see the ground for what it is: full of dirt, germs and insects. He just looks around and tries to figure if he can put this or that into his mouth. He tries with the nearest leaves. He turns, in his feeding frenzy and thinks the infantile thought that the more colorful or big or juicier looking, the more it might be filling to my hunger.

He fills the next few hours with this task, while continually walking. As he looks around, he does try to decipher what this and that is, what he is, what the meaning of life is. I kid you not, for he is human. Unfortunately, he is alone and making himself more an exile by the hour.

He acknowledges the different animals on a ‘friend to friend’ note, because he feels ‘at one’ with the forest for his simplicity of thoughts. No human has felt such simplicity towards the animals before and this is an up note for the poor soul, at this time. He feels no fear, also, because of this new note to his life right now. Yes. The animals, the forest and himself.

More accurately, no competition of the rat race of man-kind will he know again. Should I be happy for him on the same note?

A note of interest: he’s hungry, fiercely hungry. Anything. Anything will do. Have you ever felt that primal? Well watch—

He sees the birds eating their share.