Beth Poppet

Red Beth Poppet

Sunlight poured out from between the wisps of leafless branches. There was no wind and she grew warm against his coat. The afternoon was singing. It was blue. Blue like lips without life. Blue like the stillness of a tame winter sky. She must have fallen asleep. Her mind at rest was dreamless and lonely, but within her unconscious state she had grasped the meaning of three small words strung together to form a thread of reclamation. When she awoke, the wolf was gone. A pit like a great, splitting chasm rose up in her gut and she prepared to scream with every breath left in her. Until she saw she was not alone. Her palms that once were buried in fur lay flat against a man's chest. Rather than a long snout, the end of a strong chin rested on the top of her head, and hands that were nothing like paws held fast to her waist. She wriggled back to look into the face of the shivering man, bare except for the lace thrown over him. The wounds inflicted by poachers were gone. His shoulder sloped upwards to his heck without red or ruin. She looked into his eyes and saw a wolfish gleam in them. "Who am I?" "You're Red."