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By hairymclarey The Booksie Classic House. Tags: lovevampirewarwerewolfold-soul. By Jessie Elizabeth Monaghan.

My age 31
My sex: I am woman
Zodiac sign: Pisces
Body features: My figure type is strong
Favourite drink: Mulled wine

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It is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts. Cold; tempest; wild beasts in the forest. It is a hard life. Their houses are built of logs, dark and smoky within.

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There will be a crude icon of the virgin behind a guttering candle, the leg of a pig hung up to cure, a string of drying mushrooms. A bed, a stool, a table. Harsh, brief, poor lives. To these upland woodsmen, the Devil is as reals as you or I. More so; they have not seen us nor even know that we exist, but the Devil they glimpse often in the graveyards, those bleak and touching townships of the dead where the graves are marked with portraits of the deceased in the naif style and there are no flowers to put in front of them, no flowers grow there, so they put out small votive offerings, little loaves, sometimes a cake that the bears come lumbering from the margins of the forests to snatch away.

At midnight, especially on Walpurgisnacht, the Devil holds picnics in the graveyards and invites the witches; then they dig up fresh corpses, and eat them. Anyone will tell you that.

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Wreaths of garlic on the doors keep out the vampires. A blue-eyed child born feet first on the night of St. They soon find it. Then they stone her to death.

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Go and visit grandmother, who has been sick. The child had a scabbby coat of sheepskin to keep out the cold, she knew the forest too well to fear it but she must always be on her guard. When she heard that freezing howl of a wolf, she dropped her gifts, seized her knife, and turned on the beast. The wolf let out a gulp, almost a sob, when it saw what had happened to it; wolves are less brave than they seem. It went lolloping off disconsolately between the trees as well as it could on three legs, leaving a trail of blood behind it.

Soon it came on to snow so thickly that the path and any footsteps, track or spoor that might have been upon it were obscured. She found her grandmother was so sick she had taken to her bed and fallen into a fretful sleep, moaning and shaking so that the child guessed she had a fever.

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She felt the forehead, it burned. It was a hand, chopped off at the wrist, a hand toughened with work and freckled with old age.

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There was a wedding ring on the third finger and a wart in the index finger. She pulled back the sheet but the old woman woke up, at that, and began to struggle, squawking and shrieking like a thing possessed.

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There was a bloody stump where her right hand should have been, festering already. The child crossed herself and cried out so loud the neighbours heard her and come rushing in. View all posts by Biblioklept.

Chapter 5 mature content

Like Like. I adore this story. While I personally prefer the other fairy tale re-tellings mentioned here although I really like this one, tooI cannot deny that Carter was both an incredibly talented and influential for good reason author. If you want to see what all the fuss is about, you should definitely give these intriguing, dark and darkly funnyoften disturbing tales a chance. Here is my Mary Gaitskill pastiche. You are commenting using your WordPress.

Read “the werewolf,” a short fable by angela carter

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This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Winter and cold weather. Like this: Like Loading Published by Biblioklept.

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