Hello, my name is Joel Betancourt and I’m a storyholic. I crave fiction, tales, stories and a strong narrative for my mainline fix. I can’t help it.
Regardless if it’s from a great novel, an unknown indie flick or even if I have to steal it in the streets from slices of conversation I overhear, I love a good tale. I guess that’s why I write. After all, if you use enough, you’re going to have to start dealing the stuff yourself. I know, like the movie Scarface teaches you, “You don’t get high on your own supply.” But a fix, is a fix. You got to do, what you got to do.
So, this is my gift to you. Here’s a taste. It’s one of the featured tales in my short story collection, High Stakes. Hope to see you again, jonsing.
Of Wolves and Moons
“Why does the wolf howl, daddy?” my boy asked as we walked past the forest and back to our farm.
I ran my fingers through the dark strands of his hair. The soft locks reminded me of his mother. He looked up at me with eyes filled with wonder. The silver necklace that hugged his neck bounced moonbeams as bright as his innocence. The medallion of St. Lazarus his mother had given him years ago swung near his heart.
“The wolf howls because he misses her, my son.”
“Who? Who does the wolf miss?”
I listened closely to the night. Crickets chirped from hidden corners of the forest. Small animals scurried through piles of dead leaves. I waited for the mournful wail. The wolf’s cry crept through the night air, crawled through my ears, and into my memories.
“He’s lonely. He misses his female wolf.”
“Why does he miss her?”
“She’s gone. Hunters … hunters took her away from him. With their bullets and guns and lies. They stole her away.”
“Is he sad, daddy?”
“Yes.”
The howl came again. I looked up into the sky. A half-moon frowned down upon me. I opened the door to our farmhouse. We entered and I locked the moon out behind me.
“Why does he howl at the moon?” my boy asked.
“For answers. He wants to know why she’s gone.”
“Does the moon ever answer?”
“No.”
“Why does he howl then?”
“He hopes that one day the moon will answer him.”
I tucked my boy into his bed and kissed his forehead. I hoped he’d dream of bicycles, of other children, and of summer days lost in the joys of youth. I hoped he did not dream of wolves and I prayed that he definitely would not dream of moons.
~ * ~
“Daddy, daddy,” my boy said as he shook me from my empty dreams. “The howls are louder tonight.”
I sat up in bed, glanced out the window and saw the moon. This time it stared back at me three quarters full.
The wolf’s cries came again. They stole the sounds of the forest, leaving only the wail to rise in pitch as if the sound could touch the moon.
“Yes, they are louder,” I whispered. The newly broken sleep strangled my voice.
I placed my hand on my son’s shoulder. The silver necklace touched my skin and I remembered his mother, her eyes as dark and deep as the twilight hours that filled my life with longing so many years ago. Her hair, dark and full with strands that rested gently on her breasts. I thought of her breasts and how they had quenched my desire through those twilight hours.
“You must sleep, my boy. You must sleep and dream, and not listen to the howls.”
“They keep me up.”
“You must try.”
I walked him to his room, sat on the side of his bed and pulled the covers up to his neck. “Sleep. Tomorrow I will take you into town and we will go to the ice cream shop. You can have as many scoops as you like. Then we will stay in the park as long as you like. You will play with other children. We will stay there until your legs tire of running and your heart tires of laughing and then we will come home. Would you like that?”
“Yes daddy, I would.”
I kissed him on the forehead and squeezed his hand. “Good night then.”
~ * ~
The next day I walked my boy through town. We spoke of bugs, and school, and birthday presents. We had ice cream and soda and I smiled as he played on the swings in the park. I laughed as he fell into the sandbox to joke with the other children. I sat still under the bright sky and forgot about wolves and moons and wives and little boys who will never know their mothers.
~ * ~
“Daddy, daddy, are you okay?”
I awoke. Fever filled my body and I could feel my bones breaking. The night air suffocated me.
I looked at my son. “Yes ... yes...”
“I heard the howling. I wanted to see if you were okay,” he said.
“Yes—”
Pain surged through my soul. I reeled as agony tore at my limbs.
“It’s okay daddy. It’s okay,” my boy said as he held my hand. I glanced at him. His necklace was gone.
“What happened to the—”
“It broke. It broke in the park,” he replied.
“Did you lose it?”
“No, it’s in my room. I still have it but I can’t wear it.”
“Your mother ... your mother gave that to you when you were a baby. You need—”
The pain broke my body.
“It’s okay, daddy. It’s okay.”
My limbs stretched. My teeth grew under my shattered jaw. My body twisted and grew.
“You’ll be okay, daddy,” my son repeated. He patted my head.
I rolled over. My spine stretched my torso so that I spanned the length of the bed. My new body grew its hair. My hands twisted into paws. My mouth lengthened.
“It’s okay,” he said.
I looked at my son with sad eyes. He took hold of me behind my head and led me off the bed by my neck. I crawled through our house. My claws scratched the wooden floor as my little boy guided me outside.
The night held a full moon larger than I had seen in years. A hunter’s moon. It was there when I crawled through the field and into the forest. It was there when I cried, there when I howled and it was there when I asked the moon the questions I have always asked.
This time I hoped, no, I prayed, that the moon would answer me.
For more stories check out the collection, High Stakes, now only $0.99. Click here for the link to the ebook.
