Scaretale

I urge anyone who decides to review this, or anything else I may write to be brutally honest. Being honest doesn't mean being rude or super nice, it just means saying what you really, truely feel in the core of your soul. I can't live off of lies. That's just my personal thing.

This is an updated version of a story I wrote awhile ago. The original is attached at the end, I didn't finish it again. I use this as a place to write drafts because I don't have a word processor. I don't like where the story is going. Scaretale is a strong title, and therefore needs a strong story, that's fanciful and artistically beautifully. Not ugly and horrific


It was cold in the forest; and all through the night, not a creature was stirring, but a wolf with darkly staring eyes. Behind a wreath of trees he hid. The wolf stood anxious, eyeing his little scandal, with flaxen hair and a careless, innocent face. She walked on, lost. Her friends had left her. Though it had become apparent that they weren't her friends at all. She walked on, aiming to dodge every hard branch and every fallen dead tree. But she failed, and it was pitiful. But the wolf loved it.
He zoomed in with his calculating eyes. He knew that this was the only kill left for him today; the others of his pack had already fed and were sleeping in caves. This wolf was young. and he was hungry. And he thought about this. And from the darkness he erupted at her, like a cannon in the night.
The quiet of the night was broken instantaneously with her hoarse, unapologetic screams. She tried to fight but he took her hand into his mouth-----


It was cold in the forest; and all through the night, not a creature was stirring, only a wolf between rustling trees. Staring out beneath a wholesome wreathe of withering trees, the wolf stood patient, eyeing his scandal with great reprieve.