This is a product of a Creative Writing course at the University of Tennessee.  I feel that it still needs a great deal of work an, in all honesty, a new title.  However, I present it as the weekly feature for this week (or, more likely, the next several weeks or years), and would be more than happy to consider considerate, constructive criticism, or any suggestion for another title.
 

    The warm water poured over Lucinda, running in tiny rivulets down her back and around her legs, dripping in crystal streams and minute droplets from her long brown hair.  As she reached down to scrub her legs and massage the tense muscles, she felt an itching sensation.  It was time to shave again.  Wait, though, she had just shaved yesterday, or maybe the day before.  She was sure of it.

    Or perhaps she was not so sure.  As she stepped out of the shower, she considered that she had not quite felt herself lately.  The past few days had been full of little mistakes:  combs forgotten, stamps put in the refrigerator and milk left on the writing desk, missing ear rings and mismatched socks.  She had not felt this disoriented since the first week after Hal's death.  Perhaps this was a new phase in the cycle.  She remembered denial, and rage, all the things her counselor had told her to expect.  Perhaps absent-mindedness was due at four months; she could not remember.

    "Ha, just proves my point," Lucinda said to the silence of the apartment, smiling a little.  It was just a little, though.  Nothing seemed quite as funny as it had when her fiancée was still alive.  Hal had been killed by a drunk driver one night four months ago yesterday.  The worst thing was that Lucinda and almost everyone else knew who the drunk was--she even saw him at school occasionally, but nothing had ever been done.  It was a southern college town, and Elvis Leadbetter was the star of the college basketball team.  A chance at the championship hung in the balance, and the accident had been ignored by the local police and newspapers.  If only Elvis had been black, Lucinda thought, then there might have been some outcry--for once race violence might have done some good.

    Lucinda was shocked.  She shook her head to clear the horrible image from her mind.  Where had she gotten this terrible blood lust all of a sudden?  Even right after the accident she had never wanted this kind of revenge.  She had wanted Elvis locked up as long as the law required, but even then she had not meant to ask for the death penalty, and not just because there was almost no chance of seeing it passed down.

    When had this disorientation begun?  Lucinda thought back.  She had survived the first month, with the help of friends, especially Garreth, who had been Hal's best friend for years and who needed comfort, too.  The second month had been easier, and she had thought she was getting on with her life.  The third month was very difficult, as it included their planned wedding date, and a few cards and gifts had arrived anyway from distant relatives who had somehow missed the news.  This month had not started off bad, but Lucinda had still been a bit quiet and withdrawn, and a couple of weeks ago her friends had decided to take her out to a bar.

    "You need to come out of yourself some, girl," Mary had said.  "They're playing some music and we'll get everybody together and have a nice night out.  Come on, Luce, it'll be fun!"

    It had been nice.  The bar was one of the newer restaurant bars out in the new part of town along the highway, and Lucinda and her friends had been there many times before.  The band was playing some bluegrass and some country, and now and then some older rock and roll, as if the members had had a meeting and said "Musical theme?  We don't need no musical theme!  We're going to play what we like."  Lucinda approved, and, over a few glasses of wine, relaxed and enjoyed being with her friends, as they watched a few brave souls dance to the eclectic selection of the band.

    As Lucy finished off her fourth glass of white Merlot, a stranger approached her table.  He was a little shorter than average, but compact and strong.  His black hair was cut short and his smile was most compelling.

    "Hey there, miss," he said to Lucinda, leaning on the table lightly, "how about a dance?"

    "I don't know, I'm a little out of practice."

    "I can show you.  I know all this music."

    "Well, I don't care for this song."  Still, as Lucy looked at him, she changed her mind.  "But how about the next one?"

    "You bet; and you've made a promise now," he replied as he walked back to the bar.

    "Lucy, what are you doing?" asked Chris.  "You don't even know him."

    "It's just for one dance, nothing's going to happen," Lucy responded.

    "I don't know, Luce," Mary objected, "I've seen him around here a few times.  The girl at the bar says he’s sort of a wolf."

    "Don't worry.  You're all here, and I'm not looking for anybody.  You know that.  I just haven't danced since... since... for months now.  OK?"  Just then the song ended, and the stranger returned to the table and offered Lucinda his arm.

    He introduced himself as Thomas Peltier.  He had just come into town a few months ago, and was working odd jobs until he could get into college.  "Better late than never," he explained.  Afterwards, Lucinda remembered everything they talked about, for they talked through dance after dance, so that Lucinda could not even remember what they had danced to, except that they had danced to every kind of music and never stopped, but she could never remember exactly what Thomas said.  It all sounded wonderful at the time, but afterwards she wondered why.  Perhaps it was his smile, or perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was the way he led her on the dance floor.  Finally, though, Lucinda had to go.

    "Just one more dance," he asked, almost whimpering, as a few chords were wrung out of the guitar on stage.  "It's my favorite song."  So Lucinda stayed, and danced to "Blue Moon Over Kentucky."

     As the song came to a close, Thomas admitted that he was an amateur astronomer, and asked Lucinda to come with him to see a meteor shower.  She agreed, although looking back it seemed strange.  She waved off her friends' hasty objections, and rode with Thomas to a hill out in the country.  There was a new moon, and no streetlights; it was a perfect night for stargazing.  He showed her the meteor shower, and described conjunctions of the planets, and named half the constellations in the sky.  Then, still perfectly charming, he asked Lucinda for one last favor, and she agreed.

    Looking back in shame, Lucinda could not believe what she had done.  Thomas had been nice in his way, but she had only been with two other men.  She and Hal had planned to wait until they were married, but one night everything had just seemed perfect, and they changed their mind.  They had still been careful, and had only been intimate a few times before he died.  Afterwards, when she felt worst, Garreth had comforted her and consoled her, and once done more.  They both regretted it, or at least she did, and he was a perfect gentleman about it.  They were still friends, or part of the same group of friends, but they did not talk much any more.  Thomas had been different from both of them in many ways.  One way was that she never saw him again.

    As Lucinda went to make dinner, she scratched her itchy legs.  Things were worse than she thought--without thinking she scratched until she drew blood.  Grumbling, she considered living European-style (for everyone knows foreigners do not shave themselves) as she prepared her evening meal.  Finally, feeling relief that she had not done anything absent-minded with her food, Lucinda sat down to eat.  She had made a nice meal tonight, just for a change, and decided to use some wedding silver.  Most of the gifts that had arrived had been returned with a sad but gracious note, but one set of silverware had caught Lucinda's eye, and she had begged her old aunt to let her keep it.  Of all the things that reminded her of Hal, this was one that did not make her sad for some reason.

    As Lucy was cutting her steak--rare rib eye was a luxury for this anniversary of sorts--she sneezed.  Suddenly, she yelped in pain.  She had cut herself with her favorite silver table knife, and blood was flowing freely.  Leaping up, she grabbed a bandage, and repaired her injury.  Laughing ruefully at her bad luck, she decided to do something to take her mind off her own mental disintegration, and selected a book off the shelf to read with her meal.

    It was one of Hal's fantasy stories, about heroes and wizards and monsters.  This one was about werewolf hunters, and Hal had left a bookmark in the chapter where the heroes first faced a pack of the cursed creatures.  One of the heroines was bitten by a werewolf, and another warrior was struck by his best friend's sword, a sword already covered in the blood of a werewolf.  The wizard in the story explained that those two were in danger of turning into werewolves themselves, as the curse could be transmitted through any bodily fluid from a werewolf.  Laughing, Lucinda set the book down, washed her dishes, put Credence Clearwater Revival on the compact disc player, and went to watch the ten o'clock news.

    There was a story about Elvis Leadbetter and the basketball team.  A month ago, they had won the national championship and the city was going to name a street Leadbetter Lane.  Again, Lucinda felt her hackles rise at the name--and the fame--of her true love's killer.  Growling, she got up and paced around the room.  Raising the blinds to let in some air, she caught sight of the full moon, and gasped.  Shaking and shuddering, twisting and spitting, she fell to the floor in agony.  Every muscle in her body convulsed, the hair on her legs and everywhere else grew longer and longer, as did her nails--already sharper than usual--and even her teeth.  After a few moments, she shook off what remained of her clothes, growled at the lingering image of Elvis Leadbetter on the television, and leapt through the screen on her window.

    A lone wolf prowled the streets that night, searching for her prey.

    In an empty apartment, a forgotten stereo sang to the silence, ‘I see a bad moon rising; I see trouble on the way.’
 

I hope you enjoyed this story, and you are welcome to leave comments or suggestions for future Weekly Features for dusty@sayersnet.com.

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