Busy with thesis writing, writing and now sleeping, and if I’m really productive, writing while I sleep. So few words here my friends. But I may as well throw some more fiction scraps on the fire. I sketched this down one night, when I was alone, up at home, and I heard a pack of coyote’s howl which was infinitely different than hearing a lone animal – which I had. I thought of the river behind our house and a bridge and a lonely soul and…

I was at the brink and cries for help seemed too predictable and adolescent. The water whispered cold and harsh things beneath the bridge in languages I felt I now understood; the way every bitter love song suddenly holds one’s empathy after they’re dumped.

No clues. I’m not that devious. No note. I don’t feel that eloquent. Just feet over the edge and the dull anticipation of a splash.

I never heard it.

The trees never heard it.

We heard the howls.

I’ve heard the coyote call before. A lonely sort of howl, late at night, like the desperate call seeking things that the 900 number does not offer. It’s a strange, haunting sound, but not frightening.

This was different.

Beginning in quiet waves, an orchestra of lupine voices tuning – turning to a hum – humming to moans – moaning to laughter – laughter to screams. Then a crescendo of whippoorwill madness, layered eldritch madness. A primordial shriek from somewhere before memory had a name.

No splash…

…only feet slapping pavement…

…and I kept running.

I’d like to say my epiphany was a realization of a joy for life…but I discovered a fear of death and things beyond.