The Wolves are in the Pasture Thomas Pool
You crash through thick brush, sweating, scared, eyes wide from fear. Your legs have lost all feeling and the adrenaline has washed away the pain. The woods are burning and the heat sears the back of your neck. It begins to bubble up your throat, but you don’t stop, not even to wretch. You’ve put some distance between yourself and the fire but you can’t even see your own hands on this moonless night, you slow down. A howl cuts through the silent forest sky and you break into a frenzied sprint. (Run faster!) Twigs snap, leaves crackle, but its coming from behind you. Yelping as you trip, you use your hands to half-crawl and scramble to your feet, then keep running. You run fast, as fast as the shepherds did a millennia ago, when the wolves were in the pasture. The forest glows orange-red around you and the smoke begins to choke you. It’s still gaining on you. (Don’t stop!) You throw yourself through the burning brush on the bank and into the stream. Clothes wet and charred you stumble into the cool meadow, illuminated by wildfires. You think you’re safe. Its fur coarse from mange, the wolf meets your gaze, it watches as your face pales, as fear hollows your briefly hopeful eyes. The wolf squats down on its haunches, claws knead into the soil, lips part and snarl, the light dances on its fangs, all this in less than half a second. You notice none of it. Your eyes are locked on the wolf’s, they are blood red and hungry. The wolf launches with its arsenal of claws and fangs aimed at your body, which is frozen. You look only at the eyes, blood red. You look only at the eyes, blood red. The mirror is shattered. Wrists bandaged, but the hand still bleeds, clutching the glass dagger, a fang. The porcelain sink, glistening orange-red from the cheap bulbs and the blood, is washed clean once more. There is some on the bathmat, you’ll say it was wine not wolves, never wolves. You don’t feel afraid; the fear is all gone, now you’re just angry. Angry at the wolves, angry they took so much from you. You are the shepherd of the pasture. Eyes still locked with the wolf in the mirror, you snarl back.
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american literary magazine