One evening, while walking, I happened upon Cordelia’s MG near the lake. With the sun about to set it wasn’t the place to be. The paths there were unlit, the terrain unpredictable.

I called but there was no reply. Then I heard crackling undergrowth some distance away. I followed the noise until brambles blocked my path. The last rays of sun streaked the tops of the overhanging trees yellow, amber, red, then faded through indigo. I found a gap and pushed through, thorns dragging at my skin. Framed by barbed and twisted stems I watched the moon rise on her. She had undressed. On her marble skin fresh cuts showed clearly. I heard panting, saw her twitch.

I gasped.

Cordelia sniffed the air and turned. I glimpsed the face I knew for an instant—a look of pain and despair as she saw me in the moonlight. Then the change overtook her. It rippled through her and when she rose again she was the beast and I was helpless against her speed. Her power. The passion of her strike.

Now I go with her to the clearing when the moon is full. Never again shall we spend those nights apart.

2011—Richard Holt / small stories about love (