Once Upon a Wolfpack

By Jeffrey DeMarco, Joe Congel, Alexander Pain and 10 more

The idea was simple: form a group of authors based on the mantra, "Do good things for the right reasons." We are a pack – #WolfPackAuthors. Together, we expand exposure for our books, help one another with all aspects of the process, pick each other up when the lonely life of writing gets us down.

As with wolves, words can be dangerous or healing. The reintroduction of the wolf, hunted to the brink of extinction, carries such far-reaching results as to make vegetation grow on what was once barren, and to change the paths of rivers. Considering these powerful facts, we chose to donate the proceeds of this anthology to Lockwood Animal Rescue Center /LARC, a facility with a unique mission. They are one of the few organizations focused heavily on wolves, integrating military veteran rehabilitation into the caretaking process.

In this collection of work, you will find a showcase of many of our members' talents: A young girl betrothed to a werewolf, yet her father, a human, is the true monster. Two snipers who lay in wait, an otherworldly supreme being watching them, in the form of a majestic wolf. A she-wolf sets her sights on a young woman, married to the man she loved. The paradoxical story of the big bad wolf, who through no fault of his own sets out on a calamity filled adventure. A batch of witty private investigators at work solving crime. A sarcastic banshee, a shapeshifting detective, and a vampire, all friends, investigate a string of murders. There are many others, varied in style or genre.

Come on an adventure with the WolfPackAuthors. We've got the stories you want; together, we hope to make the world a better place for wolves, humans, and those who dare to dream.

Fairy Tale/ Parody - Unfairy Prosecuted: J.W. Crawford
Fairy Tale - Poppy: Tia Fanning
Fantasy/ Supernatural - For the Love of the Pack: Sharon Lopez
Horror/ Meta horror - The Untold One: B.L. Clark
Horror - Frost Harbor: Alexander Pain
Literary - Omega Road: R.L.M. Tipton
Magical Realism - An Early Snow: Andi Marchal
P.I./ Detective - The Wolf: Joe Congel
P.I./ Detective, Cozy Mystery - Mrs Solberg's Problem: CW Hawes
Science Fiction/ Military - Sacha: Jeff DeMarco
Science Fiction/ Paranormal - Wolf Cry: Z Gottlieb
Science Fiction/ Paranormal - Circus of the Night: Stefan Angelina McElvain
Urban Fantasy - True Nature : Luna Selas

 

Disclosure:  The proceeds from this anthology were donated to Lockwood Animal Rescue from 2019-2021. Given that this book is being placed on permafree as of 2022, I encourage you to donate to Lockwood Animal Rescue Center.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey DeMarco
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201505547

Book preview

FOREWORD: Of writers, words, and wolves

Written by Jeff DeMarco

Ahead in the clearing, an elk dips its head for a scarce mouthful of grass, still wet with early morning dew. The grasses no longer grow as they once did, and the elk are starving. There’s a rustle in the distance, a wolf stalks low. A small male elk tenses his muscles, ready to bolt. From his flank, teeth tear through hide and muscle, down to bone. The ensuing carnage feeds the pack, but that’s only a start. Bears and hawks, big cats and scavengers all have their fill. The other elk, the ones that got away, serve a crucial purpose too, more specifically their hooves. Thanks to the wolves, the elk run faster and farther. Their hooves aerate the ground, causing the grass to grow once more, firming the vegetation along riverbanks, causing meandering rivers to straighten their paths. Death is an ugly thing, but beautiful too, sometimes even helpful. Writers often deal in death, or equally as disturbing material. Words have the power to destroy, but they can also change, heal, rally or build. Words are a force unto themselves, often with favorable, yet unforeseen and unintended consequence. Let us hope that words, as well as wolves, dangerous as they may appear, are understood as a force for good.

The strength of the wolf is the pack, the strength of the pack is the wolf. We are #WolfPackAuthors, an intersectional group of authors from all genre’s, all walks of life, and from all around the globe. We met on twitter, and what I hoped would turn into a marketing group quickly turned to friendship. My mantra in life is simple. Do good things for people. You get what you give, and with that, I have been fortunate to meet some of the most generous and talented folks I’ve ever met. It’s with a will to do good that we write this anthology.

I could be a ‘lone wolf,’ out working on my own, marketing on my own, but what kind of life would that be? Writing is a lonely business. We spend long hours in front of a computer or typewriter or pad of paper, and all the while grasping for a conception of perfection inside our own head. You need people to trust, support, guide and listen; to do good things for people, and for good people to do things for you. I have met my wolfpack, and though we may not all be rich in money, we are a wealth of talent and drive.

Disclosure:  The proceeds from this anthology were donated to Lockwood Animal Rescue from 2019-2021. Given that this book is being placed on permafree as of 2022, I encourage you to donate to Lockwood Animal Rescue Center.

Unfairy Prosecuted

Written by J.W. Crawford

This is not your typical fairy tale story. It has no once upon a time, nor does it have a happily ever after. There are no mystical fairies, glass slippers or little singing dwarves; there are certainly no knights in shining armor, beautiful princesses or magical swords. You will not be reading about witches and dragons, poisoned apples or candied houses. You will, however, hear a tale of sorrow, anger and pain. Of foolishness, bravery and dumb luck. Of sex, lies and murder. And, of course, the number three.

It begins and it ends in a courtroom. Not quite the setting you would expect. There is no castle with high parapets and no dark musty dungeon. There is most definitely no quaint little cottage in the woods. No, nothing like that at all. Just a quiet little courtroom, in a quiet little town, in a quiet little country. And that’s just how the judge likes it. Quiet.

Before I continue, I should elaborate on the significance of the number three, as you will see it quite often in this story. You see, throughout history, the number three has played an important role. If you look in Greek mythology, there were the three Muses. There is Cerebus, the three-headed dog who guards the gates of the underworld. In Christianity, there were the three wise men. Three, three, three. Ironically, the number three always seems to lead up to something that is nothing good. I suppose the three wise men really did not intend on bringing harm to the world. They just followed a star. Who knew that by doing so they would ultimately, if indirectly, set in motion a chain of events that would lead to the Crusades? That is another tale for another time. For now, whether it is magic or just plain coincidence you must decide for yourself. But the number three is all it took. Three mistakes, three misguided stories. Three misadventures of the big, bad wolf.

Guilty. You’re guilty. Those three little words were the worst three words that the wolf could have heard, especially at this particular moment of this particular time of this particular day. The gavel clunked down like a rather accusing finger. Clunk clunk clunk. The poor wolf sat with his head in his paws, a low howl spitting through his lips. He had dressed in his best outfit today, a rather sharp looking plaid jacket with a matching tie. Not a power suit, by any means, but always one that had brought him good luck. Until now. Looking back on it, maybe it had not been such a wise choice after all.

That poor wolf. He had never intended on causing any harm. Quite the opposite, in fact. Actually, I have it through very good authority- through the friend of a friend of somebody’s Aunt who just so happened to know a little girl that had met the wolf- that the big, bad wolf was really not quite so big and bad. He lived in a quiet little suburban apartment, where he made little noise, kept to himself and stayed free of trouble. It just so happened that on one particular day, trouble decided not to keep quite clear of him.

It all began in the morning, exactly one week ago. The sun rose, as it tends to most mornings, and the wolf woke up feeling fresh and lively. He cooked himself a rather tantalizingly delicious plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and spiced potatoes. He drank his usual morning orange juice. After breakfast, he showered, stepped into his bright neon green jogging suit, and set out on a morning constitutional. The day had gotten off to a wonderful start, one that would last all of an hour.

The wolf had decided to drop in on his old friend, Grandmother Hood. Such a sweet old lady. Every Sunday she and the wolf would sit by a nice crackling fire with a pot of tea, playing cards and having just a hum-dinger of a time. Today was only Wednesday, but the wolf felt like some company.

As it was, on his run through the forest, he happened upon the most peculiar thing. A picnic basket jumped out on the trail in front of him, and he stumbled over it. Now, I should also mention that the stories of wolves being graceful and agile are completely untrue. At least, they are when you’re talking about wolves in this region of the world. Well, perhaps when you’re speaking of this particular wolf. He is quite clumsy, so it is no strange coincidence that he tripped over such a small obstacle.

The basket just happened to be full of a mouth-watering assortment of some of the most delectable pastries that the wolf had ever wrapped his nose around. Thinking it his lucky day, he plucked up the basket and continued on his way. Unfortunately, that basket belonged to none other than Little Red Riding Hood. The basket has nothing to do with the rest of this particular part of this tale, but if you had ever tasted one of Little Red Riding Hood’s pastries, you would feel very unfortunate indeed.

On his way to Grandmother Hood’s, another peculiar thing happened. He thought he heard someone call out his name. It sounded far away, and he cocked his large ears to listen, but no more calls came forth. Deciding it must have been in his head, he started walking again, whistling his favorite tune.

When he finally arrived at Grandmother Hood’s tiny little cottage in the middle of the forest, he could not help but feel as though something was wrong. Call it intuition or clairvoyance if you will, but as the wolf stepped through the broken-down door and tripped on the displaced doorknob, he could just tell that all was not right.

Granny Hood, he called over the crumbs of a not entirely tasteful pastry from the basket. The only response he received was a rhythmic thumping upon the wall, rather like an oversized metronome tick-tocking along to an invisible beat. He called again. This time, the thumping was accompanied by a low groaning sound. Not such an odd sound for a little old cottage, but odd in that it sounded very feminine and not at all like you would expect from a crotchety old house. That lingering feeling that something was slightly askew troubled the wolf. The thumping grew momentarily louder and the groaning became a high-pitched shriek before both sounds abruptly stopped. The wolf found his curiosity piqued.

Upon opening the door to Granny Hood’s bedroom, the wolf was witness to another most unusual sight. Wrapped loosely in the fold of a pink cotton blanket that failed to cover her blessedly ample and naked bosom, Little Red Riding sat with her legs on either side of a man. And not just any man. Paul the Hunter, to be sure.

Excuse me, the wolf said in embarrassment, chewing on another of the not-so-wonderful tasting pastries. I didn’t know you were here, Little Red. Have you seen your grandmother? I’ve brought her the most scrumptious of treats. Nice to see you, Paul.

It was then that the wolf noticed the oddly mismatched pair of socks sticking out at the other side of the bed. Oddly mismatched indeed, especially as they were inflated by the oddly small feet. Oddly small indeed, when they were compared to the attached pair of cellulite scarred legs, which were connected to a shriveled old body, which was finished off by the wrinkled ancient face of Grandmother Hood. It struck the wolf funny that he found all of these odd, yet not so strange as the handle of the rather large knife sticking straight up from Granny Hood’s chest.

My what a big knife that is, the wolf observed, munching on a third pastry from the basket. It was rather bitter, nothing at all like the delicious smell it teased with, and had he not been so intent on staring at the body of Granny Hood, he may have been inclined to spit it out.

All the better to kill her with, answered Little Red Riding Hood, climbing off of Paul. My what a big inheritance she left. And my what a big nose you have.

My what a big gun you have, Paul, the wolf noticed as the hunter grabbed his rifle.

As the wolf tumbled out through the broken doorway, a naked Paul the Hunter close in tow, he was not struck with the idea that he should go immediately to the police. Nor was he inclined to think that Little Red Riding Hood would try to frame him for murder. Unfortunate that he was not so inclined, for that’s exactly what she did.

The morning sun gave way to the afternoon sun, bringing with it a nice, cozy warmth that the wolf would have thoroughly enjoyed, had he not been so nauseous after eating the three pastries. (Did I not tell you the number three always seems to lead to something that is nothing good?) His stomach whirled and twirled, and his head spun as he wrung it between his paws. More than once he found the ground to be quite rude as it came up to meet him with a rather inhospitable thump. Strange how the ground can do that when you are not feeling quite right in the head.

The wolf did have a stroke of good luck though, as he stumbled out of the forest and directly into the parking lot of a newly constructed strip mall. There were three buildings in all, owned coincidentally enough by the three little pigs, who were not quite so little anymore. They were, to be fair, rather rotund. Not quite so rotund, however, as their tightly packed and ready to burst wallets.

The first of the three pigs, fortunate enough for the wolf, had just obtained his Ph.D. in Medicinal Sciences at the nearby Grimm’s University. Having completed such a degree, he decided to open up his own little MediCentre after jointly purchasing a small plot of land with his two brothers. The year had been very profitable, and the littlest-yet-not-so-little pig had begun renovations in hopes of adding another office to the building.

On this particular occasion, the pig had stepped out of his office to enjoy a nice lunch with his brothers. Patient as he was, the wolf pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, enjoying the fine menthol taste as it burned down his throat and devastated his lungs. It had been a very stressful morning, and the relaxing smoke helped to calm his nerves. He decided to look around the quaint little building.

Now, being a very nostalgic pig, the littlest-yet-not-so-little one had fond memories of his home on the farm, where he had lived and slept in a nice warm hut made of straw. Despite his two brothers’ warnings, he had decided to build his entire office out of straw to offset his tendency to grow homesick. After all, what could possibly happen to a nice, warm straw office?

Well, I suppose he never figured on a chance encounter with a not-so-big and not-so-bad wolf suffering from a stomachache. A wolf who, at the very moment the pig was biting into a nice lunch of corn slop and trough water, was leaning in closely to inspect the fine work of the building. Nor had he figured that the wolf might possibly be holding a lit cigarette in his mouth while he was examining the straw walls. And I’m certain that he never thought that the cigarette would strike up against the finely constructed walls of his quaint little straw office. Unfortunate that he had not thought of these things, for that is precisely what happened. As the little-yet-not-so-little pig gnashed away at a ravishingly stale piece of slop covered bread, his office had become a burning bale of hay.

Now the wolf, never being one to run away from his mistakes, thought it very bad indeed that he had lit the poor pig’s office on fire. He thought and he thought over what to do, when an idea struck his fancy.

I know, he said. I’ll huff, and I’ll puff and I’ll blow that fire out!

And so the wolf huffed and he puffed, and he blew as hard as he could. As he blew, the straw house, weakened by the fire, toppled sideways, crashing rather unluckily into the walls of the second pig’s offices. Fortunately for the middle pig, he had started up a spectacularly successful insurance firm, and any damages were covered in his own insurance policy. Sadly, he had constructed his entire office out of wood, which promptly caught on fire and burnt down to the ground, destroying all of his records and leaving no trace of his insurance policy.

How fortunate was it that the three not-so-little pigs were enjoying their fine lunch in the offices of the third and oldest pig, which happened to be right next door. I’m sure that they were relieved that no one had gotten hurt in the disaster. At least, after they stared out the window and saw the fires burning down their buildings, I’m positive they must have been relieved that no one was hurt. Well, possibly after they watched the wolf blowing the burning remains of the straw building into the wooden walls of the insurance building, thus causing both to come tumbling to the ground, they must have been relieved that no one was hurt.

The wolf was very sad indeed as he looked at the smoking embers that were the ruined remains of what used to be two very fine offices. He could not shake the feeling that all this might possibly be his fault. It came as a relief when he saw that the third building had been constructed entirely of brick, and had sustained only a few scorch marks that could easily be painted over. Having perfect eyesight, he could also make out the sign that was dangling above the doorway of the brick building, which read: Benny Pig, Attorney At Law. The wolf decided that maybe his stomach did not hurt that much after all. As he stamped his cigarette into the ground, he resolved then and there that he would never smoke another one again

The day had held nothing but ill-fated luck for the poor wolf. His stomach hurt from the pastries, his fur was singed from the fire, and his legs were aching from his walk. He decided that maybe it would be best if he retired back to his apartment, where he would sleep away the rest of the day and hope tomorrow would bring better luck. On his way, he found just about the finest walking stick he had seen and picked it up. It was a relief to have such a nice stick while he was walking, and the wolf started to feel a little cheerier. He started humming a happy tune in his head when he heard a voice call out.

Wolf! the voice yelled. The wolf thought it quite strange that he would hear his own name being called by an unfamiliar voice. Stranger yet, it seemed to be coming from the path up the hill. Even stranger still, the voice sounded exactly like the one that he had heard on his way to Granny Wood’s house.

He walked along, and in doing so passed by two rather grumpy looking men, both carrying very large rifles, much the same as Paul the Hunter had brandished. They appeared to be muttering to one another.

That’s twice today! One day, that boy’s going to cry out, and nobody’s going to come running to save him! the first one growled.

He’s cried wolf for the last time! Just see if I go to help that little prankster next time! the second one scowled.

The wolf was befuddled, as he often is. Why would somebody be calling out his name? Why should it make these men so grumpy? This was certainly the first the wolf had heard of a boy who cried wolf. Deciding it was no business of his, he hefted his walking stick and continued on his journey.

Over the top of the next hill, he heard the sound of somebody crying. As he looked down the path, he saw a little boy lying in the middle of the trail. The boy may have stopped for a brief rest, but something told the wolf that it was not so. It may possibly have been the incredibly large tree branch pinning the boy to the ground that led him to that conclusion. Or possibly the cries of pain that were coming from the child’s mouth.

If there is one thing the wolf hates, it is seeing a child cry. Nothing causes more heartache than the pain of a pup, whatever the species. As the wolf approached the child, he knew he had to try and help.

Don’t worry, boy, the wolf said as he ran down the hill towards the boy. I’ll help you!

The boy looked up from his uncomfortable place on the ground and saw the wolf running towards him, stick in hand. Unbeknownst to the wolf, the boy had a rather serious phobia of wolves, and at the sight of one running towards him and wielding a rather fine walking stick, he burst out screaming even more.

Wolf! he screamed. Wolf, wolf, wolf!

The wolf took this as a sign that the boy badly needed his help and sprinted even faster down the hill. As I said before, this wolf is not inclined to be graceful or agile, and as he ran down the hill, his foot caught on a protruding root a few feet away from the troubled boy. As he fell, the wolf completely forgot about the walking stick that was clutched desperately in his flailing arm. As the stick came down heavily on top of the boy’s head, the wolf suddenly remembered it.

Picking himself up, the wolf saw the poor boy lying unconscious under the heavy branch and fathomed that maybe the boy was asleep after all. Maybe he did not want any help. Maybe the wolf had helped enough. Satisfied with his observation, he dropped his walking stick and promptly ran full boars and screaming until he burst through his apartment door, hopped into bed, and buried himself underneath his covers. His stomach hurting, his head spinning and his mind troubled, the wolf fell fast asleep. It’s unlucky that the wolf was such a heavy sleeper, because he may otherwise have heard the sirens outside his window. He may have seen the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off his mirror. He may have noticed the police breaking down his door. May have, but did not.

That brings us back to today and now. And today, as the wolf howled underneath his paws, he did not notice the accusing stares of the judge, nor did he see the smug smirk on the face of Little Red Riding Hood. He most certainly did not see the angry glares of the three not-so-little pigs (especially Benny Pig, who had gone to some length to be given the opportunity to prosecute this case). He barely heard the anguished moans of the boy who cried wolf. All he heard were three simple words.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Murder. Destruction of private property. Assault with a deadly weapon. Thirty years in jail. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed that morning. Maybe he should have left the pastries on the ground. He probably should have quit smoking a long time ago. He probably never should have retrieved the walking stick. Maybe then everything would have turned out differently. Maybe then things would have stayed normal. Maybe then everything would have turned out happily ever after.

Maybe. Personally, I blame the number three.

About the Author: J.W. Crawford

J.W. Crawford has had a passion for writing since embarrassing himself regularly in Junior High School.

Working as a teacher in Alberta, Canada, Crawford has created a world of writing for younger audiences interested in the spooky and paranormal. Two of his short stories, which can be found in his compilation Tales from Mardell: Volume 1, were previously published in small print magazines. His first novel, Dreamshaper, was originally published by Black Rose Writing in 2009, and once outsold Harry Potter for an entire hour! Dreamshaper was re-released as a self-published work in September 2018.

J.W. is also the founding member of the #WolfPackAuthors partnered site, FauphTalk Fiction.

Poppy

Written by Tia Fanning

Snowflake

I was born on a cold winter morning in a remote village at the base of a snow-covered mountain. The sun rose each day and set aglow the impassable range of white peaks before traversing across the noon sky so it might disappear behind the dark expanse of a thick evergreen forest, a timber wilderness that stretched as far as the eye could see.

So remote and embedded was this little village that it was largely untouched by the whispers of tragedy that affected the world beyond. Kingdoms rose and fell, war and plague galloped across the lands, but little bothered the self-sufficient, self-governed town that seemed almost frozen in time...

Or perhaps more accurate, stagnant. Unable to breathe. Smothered by geography.

The woods outside this village were thick and near impenetrable, and the ground often draped in a mysterious mist that made tracking of any movement nearly impossible. Most claimed the dark forest was enchanted—difficult to navigate except for those who were aided by the fey. By magic or insanity only, they said, because those without would simply wander off the path and become nourishment for the forest, swallowed by the many pitfalls hidden beneath tangling roots, or slipped beneath the hidden pools of quicksand, never to be seen again.

Worse still were those who survived long enough to be