The writer

Every night, a quarter till the midnight hour; I hear them howling. Their desperation is unmistakable and their pain could be felt deep within my skin. I wondered about many things while listening to their cries. I wondered if they were cold, if they were hungry and I wondered if they wondered about other things as I do. Maybe they didn’t care about the world around them. Maybe their desires were so loud that everything else faded in comparison.

80 words, so I run...I wondered then, what it would be like to run down the road on all fours; to feel the cold pavement beneath my hands and feet was something that I was currently contemplating.

I know that they call to me. The thought just made itself known and proved to be the fact of the matter. We all want to be free, and contrary to popular belief; we all want to run, to bay at the moon and to become something else entirely. For without this desire, we die empty. For we all die alone and the pack will leave us to rot.

195 words and counting, my fingers tap tap tock on the keys till the joints ache. After 30 minutes of howling, the dogs next door have grown tired. My mind grows tired with them and I have all but forgotten about my running on all fours. I have grown older and the thought burdens me deeply. I know that If I open that door, I will run. I will leap upon the bannister and drop to the earth; sniffing the wind like one of those other beasts. I will run. I will be as a flicker of light among the shadows; dancing with the torment of the days before. I will run. I will climb into the trees and rub my face against the rough flesh of the pine. I know this way, I flee from man and I run.

321 words and I am still running. The dogs have begun to bay at the moon again. Their eyes shine in the night like demon sentinels. My laughter greets them momentarily and I stop by the fence so that I can see them. They pace back and forth-back and forth; in with the rhythm of their captivity. At once, we all bay at the moon again. With my greeting so is my depart as I take my leave of the muts. I run.

I run past the church on the corner with the steeple that touches God. I giggle at the insanity of my sins spread before me. I wonder if I shall ever bind the wounds of my descension. I wonder again and then pass on by. I run past the park with its Eagle encrypted pathways; so I take a deep breath and trace the design of the intricate sidewalk twists and turns. I see the beauty in the community artwork…but I grow bored. And so, I run again…past the hills and the lanes-past the railroad track and the biker bar. I feel like I have run the world over. I am not tired, I am not of strife.

I see the small town lights and let the hostage breath find freedom. The mist curls up before my nose, making pretty swirls in front of my eyes. I see the whole world for the thing that it really is and so I squat upon the ground in reverence. With my palm upon the skin of the world, I close my eyes and say a prayer for my humanity.

591 words…just shy of 600…and so I run again.