A few days ago, I entered a contest to win tickets to see my favorite writer of all time (Gene Wolfe) get honored for his life's work near Chicago. Not only did I not win, I wasn't even one of the four finalists. I'm perfectly alright with that, though, because this story marks the breaking of the writer's block that's been holding me down for the last year. Sure, I've adapted some of my things into comic scripts, but that didn't count as real writing--to me--because I wasn't making something NEW. This story is new, and though it's short, I'm fairly proud of it. Since I didn't win, I've decided to put it up here.
The requirements of the contest were that the story was between 100 and 250 words, and that it had to do with wolves or a Wolfe.
Here's the story:
My Brother's Wolves
In the back of the house I was raised in, the part no one ever used, there lived a pack of wolves. They spent their days frolicking in and out of the shadows, chasing each other across dimensions and sideways through time. They belonged to my oldest brother, but he was always too consumed by what he called his "special darkness" or chasing after girls. For this reason, the chore of the feeding of the wolves usually fell to me.
I would stalk through the nighttime streets of our city, and hunt for some unlucky man to bring back home with me. Invariably, the men who followed me home were slightly soiled, and had haunted, dead eyes. I'd take their candy or their crumpled, sweaty money, and lead them back to the rambling old house we called home. I'd lead them through the house, ignoring their whispered questions and dancing out of the reach of their groping hands. When we reached the room the wolves lived in, I would open the door, usher them in, and slam the door shut behind them. The men never lasted long, but that didn't stop me from sitting with my back to the door so that I could listen to the sounds of the feast that came through the door.
It was the only part of my childhood I enjoyed.