This short piece has been sitting my mason jar for nearly a decade. One of these days I hope to do something with it — just need to figure out what! – Jess

The woods were dark around her. The stars hidden behind the thick canopy.

Even the unending lights of the city were invisible.

She looked around, feeling the drum of her pulse, hearing the bellows of her breath.

The woods were still. Like the silence on the street before the first shot was fired.

A distant part of her said: I should be scared.

A distant part of her said: I don’t belong here . . . in the dark . . . of the woods . . . of the park . . . at night . . .

But that distant part was drowned out by the bellows of her breath, the drum of her pulse.

Her dark skin blended into the dark woods. She might have been a ghost . . . or a demon!

Oh, she liked that idea! She, who had been prey for the streets her whole life, to be a demon that even those who had tormented her would run from!

Her bellows-breath deepened into a growl. The drum of her pulse became the rhythm of the chase.

Softly, the woods returned her growl. From a dozen throats, the sound rose.

She whirled! A cry of challenge echoed through the woods! Who dared her wrath? Hers! The demon of the woods!

They emerged slowly, dark forms against dark night. Striding tall, crouched and creeping. People of every size and shape.

The hurricane of their breath shook the trees. Their hearts beat as one, the footsteps of a giant.

Her pulse matched the rhythm of their hearts. Her breath joined theirs, battering the trees.

The sliver of the moon, barely past new, gleamed through the leaves.

She lifted her head. Her skin itched, her bones ached, her muscles twisted. She cried aloud, and the pack surrounding her echoed her howl.

In Central Park, in the greatest city on earth, the demon wolves ran until dawn.