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The man-thing roars in angry mosquito whines. Wendigo feels it in his chest. It will not cease proclaiming its presence to take a breath. Three long, flat feet spray snow against the slick hide. The man part’s head is wrapped in a shell. Sightless. The thing’s eyes are close together, brilliant yellow, horned serpent-wide. They never blink. Looking into them hurts. He trembles. Freezes.
It dashes past his hiding spot. Snow powder settles over him. Instinct triumphs over fear.
Running.
Chase it.
He chases. Clawed feet grip packed snow. His loping stride brings him back into the powder cloud.
It hides right in front of him, a pale silhouette inside a localized storm. The smoldering scent of its sweat assaults his nose. He coughs. Shakes his head. It’s buzzing yell cuts at him. He feels as if his ears might bleed. He veers aside, taking his chances in the undisturbed snow.
The man part twists around. It stares with its shell, as if using the surface in place of a set of eyes. The man-thing’s pace quickens.
He pulls up beside its right flank. It swerves to the left. He sprints across its tracks, holds pace with it, tackles it from the side. The man-thing leans to the right. His leg slips beneath it. The broad middle foot stomps the limb into the ground. It’s rough, spinning foot pad chews his flesh. Skin burns. Bone cracks. He roars.
Claws scrabble across hairless skin. The black outer layer comes loose with a screech that makes his teeth ache. No muscle underneath, no blood. Its innards are silver. He yanks his leg free of the grinding foot.
Splintered ends of bone draw together. A callus envelopes the break. Swells. Smoothes. The bone is whole. Friction burns remain.
The man-thing zigzags, trying to throw him. He grabs a handful of the man part’s clothing, pulls himself up, crouches on the thing’s smooth hindquarters. Snuffles at the cloth. Drinks in the scent underneath.
The man part’s thick arms lash out behind it. It shouts over the buzz its other half makes. “Dégage, connard!”
His head is light with adrenaline. The surrealism of the situation hits him. He feels silly. Playful. He breathes deep, pants steam clouds, grins. “Mange moi!”
A gloved hand strikes him in the jaw. He snaps. Teeth miss flesh, click together through cloth. Dry, scratchy. He spits it out.
The man part twists to face him. The thing careens off its straight path. Unblinking yellow eyes illuminate an oncoming tree with indifference.
He pounces. Claws slice through cloth, find flesh. This part bleeds.
He leaps away with the man part in his arms. The man detaches from the other half without difficulty. The thing gallops, still whining, headfirst into the tree. Smash! Stupid thing. No brain behind those bulbous eyes. Without the man it is helpless.
The man thrashes. A foot slams between his legs. He yelps. Tears blur his vision. He almost lets go.
A warm meal makes it better.
It dashes past his hiding spot. Snow powder settles over him. Instinct triumphs over fear.
Running.
Chase it.
He chases. Clawed feet grip packed snow. His loping stride brings him back into the powder cloud.
It hides right in front of him, a pale silhouette inside a localized storm. The smoldering scent of its sweat assaults his nose. He coughs. Shakes his head. It’s buzzing yell cuts at him. He feels as if his ears might bleed. He veers aside, taking his chances in the undisturbed snow.
The man part twists around. It stares with its shell, as if using the surface in place of a set of eyes. The man-thing’s pace quickens.
He pulls up beside its right flank. It swerves to the left. He sprints across its tracks, holds pace with it, tackles it from the side. The man-thing leans to the right. His leg slips beneath it. The broad middle foot stomps the limb into the ground. It’s rough, spinning foot pad chews his flesh. Skin burns. Bone cracks. He roars.
Claws scrabble across hairless skin. The black outer layer comes loose with a screech that makes his teeth ache. No muscle underneath, no blood. Its innards are silver. He yanks his leg free of the grinding foot.
Splintered ends of bone draw together. A callus envelopes the break. Swells. Smoothes. The bone is whole. Friction burns remain.
The man-thing zigzags, trying to throw him. He grabs a handful of the man part’s clothing, pulls himself up, crouches on the thing’s smooth hindquarters. Snuffles at the cloth. Drinks in the scent underneath.
The man part’s thick arms lash out behind it. It shouts over the buzz its other half makes. “Dégage, connard!”
His head is light with adrenaline. The surrealism of the situation hits him. He feels silly. Playful. He breathes deep, pants steam clouds, grins. “Mange moi!”
A gloved hand strikes him in the jaw. He snaps. Teeth miss flesh, click together through cloth. Dry, scratchy. He spits it out.
The man part twists to face him. The thing careens off its straight path. Unblinking yellow eyes illuminate an oncoming tree with indifference.
He pounces. Claws slice through cloth, find flesh. This part bleeds.
He leaps away with the man part in his arms. The man detaches from the other half without difficulty. The thing gallops, still whining, headfirst into the tree. Smash! Stupid thing. No brain behind those bulbous eyes. Without the man it is helpless.
The man thrashes. A foot slams between his legs. He yelps. Tears blur his vision. He almost lets go.
A warm meal makes it better.
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Prompt #33: A 500 word vignette without the word “and.”
I’ve never written a vignette. Still not sure if I did it right, even after reading the definition. Not sure how long a “moment” is, so I focused on making it fast paced, like a scene that passes quickly in a movie.
Modern man meets the cursed coureur des bois. Wendigo has observed airplanes passing overhead, but this is the first time a human riding an artificial being has entered his territory.
Past stories
Prompt #33: A 500 word vignette without the word “and.”I’ve never written a vignette. Still not sure if I did it right, even after reading the definition. Not sure how long a “moment” is, so I focused on making it fast paced, like a scene that passes quickly in a movie.
Modern man meets the cursed coureur des bois. Wendigo has observed airplanes passing overhead, but this is the first time a human riding an artificial being has entered his territory.
Past
storiesNo Free LunchIf there was any human invention Wendigo hated with all his frozen heart, it was the boat. He paced along the shore of the lake and eyed the two men. They sat in a small green canoe with fishing poles cast over the side. Snatches of casual conversation and hearty laughter drifted to his sharp ears. They hadn't spotted him yet.
The men were ideal prey. Middle-aged, plump, and relaxed, they didn't look like they would offer much of a struggle. Ordinarily he would enjoy the challenge, but the Canadian summer was uncomfortably warm and he had only reluctantly dragged himself out of his den to hunt. He opted for a more energy efficient pursuit- p
ControlThe feeling came over Bill when he was out checking his trap line in the dying light of a winter evening. Eyes on the back of his head. He knew the wary scrutiny of the deer and the hungry yet restrained gaze of the wolf. This didn't feel like either. It didn't belong to this place any more than he did. He would have preferred the wolf.
He turned around, shook his gun at the reddening sky, and cupped his other hand to his mouth. "I know you're out there! This is private property! I don't wanna use this, but you'll leave me no choice if I catch you hanging around here!"
A soft rustle from somewhere deep enough that the trees obscured his vis
Talking to YourselfWind drove snow over the trees with such force they seemed to step into the distance. The whiteness in the air covered everything until it was as faded as an old scent trail after a rainstorm. The snow was already deep enough to suck in a man's leg past the knee if he wasn't wearing snowshoes, but the figure trudging through it was no longer a man.
Wendigo had given up on snowshoes long ago in favor of simpler footwear. The straps challenged the clumsy fingers of his stolen human body, and he could never figure out how to move in them without tripping. He lurched onward with the tenacity of a wolverine gnawing through an inch of deer skull t
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Without and? I'm not sure I could do it. That's a tough challenge and I think you did well with it. A bit hard to follow the action near the end, but the beginning started out really solid.