First Place

Wild At Heart by Debbie Oulton

He has the most beautiful eyes; sometimes soft and emerald green, at others hard and black as coal.  Right now, they are impossible to describe.  The fullness of the Strawberry Moon is reflected in them as he raises his head and savours the fresh night air, his  entire being tingling with expectation.

It’s midnight…..his favourite time…..the killing time.

Cocooned in his safe place, he has slept away the day, hidden from curious eyes and free from distraction. But as dusk creeps in and shadows lengthen, he anticipates nightfall and the opportunities that darkness affords. 

Stretching out sleepy muscles like an athlete preparing for a race, he flexes both body and mind and surveys the scene in front of him.  Tall trees and long grass provide the perfect cover whilst lofty buildings, distorted by the half-light, loom up from the ground and counsel caution.  He moves on,  silent and alert, straining for sound, scanning for danger. 

Then, like a dreamer catapulted from a nightmare, all his senses awaken at once.  Shades of grey sharpen as his vision becomes crystal clear. His body sizzles from tiny electric shocks sparked by rough grass, reaching out for him as he lopes past. The sounds of the night are music to his ears and the summer breeze carries the enticing aroma of prey.

His progress through the long grass is fluid, almost sensual, with a beauty and grace that belies his malicious intent.  The darkness holds no fear for him – the night is young and adventures lie ahead.

Soft sound, half-heard, captures his full attention.  He tenses, frozen to the spot, all-seeing eyes awash with moonlight.  In slow motion, he creeps forward – just a little – and sinks to the ground, watching and waiting with a patience born of expertise and countless hours of practice. Time stands still as hunter and hunted are locked in hushed, deadly conflict.  The game is on.  

The swaying of a single blade of grass is all it takes and he launches himself in the direction of that movement, springing into the air with athletic grace and pounding back down again with savage ferocity.  The cracking of bone and the venal tang of blood on his tongue is his reward for pinpoint accuracy.  He is a consummate hunter, impelled by a carnal instinct embedded centuries ago in his DNA and this is what he was born to do.

He is careful not to inflict the killer blow too early, just breaking a limb or two, prolonging that sweet sensation of complete and utter power.  He lifts the carcass and tosses it into the air.  Feeble attempts at escape are met with fresh torments and he watches with a detached fascination, toying with his quarry until the last breath is drawn and the game is over.

With no more fun to be had, he retraces his steps, heading for home, where a good meal and a warm bed await him.  But first he must play another game and there she is, sitting alone by the fire, all softness and familiar smells.

With a greeting reserved just for her, he nuzzles himself against her and in return, she strokes him gently, kissing him on the nose.  Rolling onto his back, he gazes into her eyes, feigning innocence and invites a tummy rub, then rewards his human plaything with his very best purr.  

About Debbie: Originally from Liverpool, Debbie now lives on Anglesey with her husband Shaun and rescue cat Bruce, who was the inspiration for Wild at Heart. As a fan of horror films and stories, Debbie began writing at an early age to entertain her four younger siblings and terrify her classmates at school, just for fun. For many years Debbie concentrated on a career in Finance and supporting her husband’s successful training company which left little time for writing. However, retirement and joining the writer’s group in Llanddona has re-ignited Debbie’s passion for creative writing and given her the confidence to share her work. This is the first time Debbie has entered a writing competition,

Runner Up

Hunted by Angharad Griffiths

The forest was louder at night.
Not with birdsong or wind, but with the silence that pressed in between each crack of twigs, every
rustle just beyond the beam of the torch.
Blair’s breath came sharp and shallow. She shouldn’t have come here alone. She knew that.
The police had called it an accident when her brother vanished on the trail. Lost footing, wild animals,
nature taking its toll.
But Blair had found his backpack half buried near the clearing, its straps slashed clean through.
That wasn’t an accident.
She pushed deeper into the woods, checking her back pocket for the knife she’d taken from the
kitchen.
The deeper she went, the more the trees leaned inwards, like ribs around a heart.
Then came the smell. Metallic, sharp, wrong.
The beam of her torch in her shaking hands caught it first, a cage. Rough iron welded from scrap,
smeared with rust, or was that blood?
Her stomach lurched.
Inside were bones, and something else, claw marks gouged into the bars, long and frantic.
“Looking for your brother?”
The voice slid out of the dark, male, steady, far too close.
Blair spun, light catching a figure in torn hunting gear. His eyes gleamed like a predators.
“You’re trespassing,” he said. “This is my wild.”
She reached around to her pocket for the knife. “What did you do to him?”
He smiled, showing sharp teeth. “This forest takes what it wants. I only… help it choose.” he said,
almost growling.
Blair’s pulse hammered in her ears. She could feel the blood coarsing through her veins like tidal
waves crashing at the oceans edge.
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Behind him, the forest
seemed to shift, branches swaying, though there was no wind.
She stepped back, heel crunching bone.
“Run,” he said softly. “I like it better when they run.”
The woods swallowed her as she bolted, branches whipping at her arms, roots from the trees
seemed to lift under her feet, breath burning her lungs. She didn’t dare look back. His footsteps
followed, steady, unhurried, as though he knew the forest would corner her for him.
And then she saw it, another cage. This one empty, waiting.
Blair’s torch flickered. “Not now, not now!” She exclaimed to herself.
She dropped it, darkness slamming around her like a trap.
But she didn’t stop running.
Behind her, his voice drifted low through the trees, almost tender.
“You can’t fight the wild. It always wins.”

About Angharad: Angharad lives on Ynys Môn and is a mum of two. She has worked in education for nearly 10 years. Having been writing short stories and poetry for several years but only for herself, ‘Wild’ is the first thing she’s written that others have read. This is her first entry into a competition.