Updated: Aug 6
Late For His Shift
By Peter G. Reynolds
Ron hurried into the cemetery, hopping as he pulled off his shoes and socks. He unbuttoned his dress shirt (a gift from Mary, who'd kill him stone dead if he ripped it) and laid it carefully on a cracked yet dry headstone. The name was worn with age, but Ron could still make out the deceased was a beloved husband and father.Ron was neither, but he hoped to be someday.
He unbuckled his pants when the itching began, and Ron increased his pace, the path lit by moonlight that peeked its way through dark clouds invisible in the night sky. Sadly, the clearing was not empty. Ron sighed as his brothers turned and looked up at him, their yellow eyes glaring, their thick black fur bristling in irritation. The largest one spoke in a low growl, his tattered clothes surrounding him like a discarded snakeskin.
"Well, look who it is! It's Ron. The Whenwolf."
Laughter echoed through the cemetery, and Ron was glad his fur now hid how red his face had gotten.
To be continued.