The Wild Kind ©️
Tag Archives: twilight myth
Before the Tide ©️
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Fog comes in like a promise. Low and slow, like a ghost with secrets. I open my eyes beneath cedar roots and breathe in the earth like it’s an old lover. Cold. Damp. Sweet with rot.
There are no clocks here. Only tides.
I move quiet.
Bones like smoke. Skin like river light. I’m not a man, but I remember what it felt like to be one. That’s the curse, isn’t it? Memory. That tight little whisper you can’t ever drown.
The water’s warm today. Too warm. The kind of warm that brings hikers. Solitude seekers. Broken-souled wanderers. God, I love ‘em. They taste like hope.
There’s one now—I feel him before I hear him. Heart thudding against rib like a war drum. Young. Lost. His sadness hangs off him like soaked cotton.
I follow.
I do not stalk. I… accompany. He doesn’t know it, but he’s already said yes. Yes to the sound of his brother’s voice, yes to the lie carved from memory. “Help me,” I whisper. It’s soft, cracked, human. Perfect.
He turns.
It’s the eyes. The eyes always do it.
He falls.
The moment breaks like a mirror dropped in wet moss. I kneel beside him, wear his brother’s skin like a borrowed coat, and I look down at him with the kind of love only monsters know.
Not yet. I don’t kill. Not now.
I convert.
My hand on his chest. His breath catches, and the water begins to teach him the first hymn.
He’s going to forget everything. And when he wakes tomorrow, he’ll swim like a ghost and think like a god.
I’ll be there. In the shallows. Smiling.
Elegy for a Goat ©️
I wake just after dusk, throat dry like the desert wind, heart beating slow and deliberate—like a drum echoing across the empty canyons of time. I am not a man. I’m not quite a beast. I am… an idea. A whisper they tell around campfires when the tequila’s nearly gone and the fear starts to taste sweet.
They call me Chupacabra. They don’t know what that means. Not really.
I crawl out from under an abandoned trailer on the edge of nowhere—rusted, forgotten, beautiful in its ruin. The moon greets me like an old lover, cold and luminous. I crack my neck. I smile. I vanish into the mesquite and shadow.
I’ve got a thirst. Not just for blood—but for something pure. Something that pulses.
Goats tonight. Maybe. But I’m hoping for a taste of memory.
See, I don’t hunt like some rabid thing. I glide. I observe. There’s an art to it. The ranch down the hill is humming with tension. The animals are uneasy. The boy’s been drawing me in the dirt with a stick. Maybe he dreams me. Maybe I’m his imaginary friend. Or his warning.
The goat sees me. Doesn’t run. They never do. I whisper to her—soft, apologetic, like a gentleman at the gallows.
“Forgive me, darlin’. But you knew this was comin’.”
One bite. No pain. No mess. Just… relief. The soul surrenders. The blood sings. And for a moment, I remember… something human. A church bell. Laughter. The smell of peaches in a Georgia orchard.
Then it’s gone.
I disappear before the sun creeps back across the horizon like a nosy neighbor. Back to the dust. Back to the dreams of the fearful.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow I might let them catch a glimpse. Just a flicker in the trees. A shadow on the fencepost. Enough to make ’em wonder if the legends are true.
Because I am the truth behind the legend.
And baby—I’m still very much alive.