Reckless, sleepless behavior is what I'm given to these days. Hi, my name is Frank.
I love my life on the family farm here in Alberta. Summers are great, winters give me time to think, and the moderate times between are the best of days. All my days here with Grandma and Grandpa are beautiful. In full truth, they are the only folks I've ever valued or cared about. I'm with them but missing something.
Someday, the place will be mine, although the thought of their passing brings me no joy. I so look forward to finding a wife and settling down-settling down is the wrong word as I am one sedate twenty seven year old. When I'm not working, I pass the time with hobbies. I don't have any friends my own age and I don't want any. And as for girlfriends, I've never had any. The old man says you don't miss what you never had, so I do manage to stay out of trouble, in that respect, at least.
My number one hobby is fiddle playing. I took it up later in life than most perhaps; I caught on quick, just like Grandpa. Grandma likes my music more than he does, as the music brings about memories of loss. I favor mournful, mysterious tunes late at night.
I play out on the balcony tonight, lost in echoes among the swaying treetops. I watch my undulating silhouette flit across shifts of moonlit fog scudding along the earth below. The damp night air brings out the best the fiddle has to offer. So tonight, I play on into the small hours, feeling weightless, nameless, and timeless. I love it. I'm in fine form indeed.
****************************
I flirt with notions of sleeping in after my late night, but breakfast smells get to me. Down the stairs I go, to where my folks await. I take my seat and rock my coffee mug absent-mindedly, peering out at the day outdoors. I dreamt of a different of world would follow last night, but no, and it's okay.
"Mornin' boy," sighed Grandpa, casting a sidelong frown my way. "Sleep well?"
"Well, sleep was good, for what there was of it," I cajole, respectfully.
"Maybe for one of us," he snaps. I say nothing, scalded, gathering bacon and eggs around my fork. I hoped he had slept through my open air concert, but I guess he's peeved.
"Take it easy on our Frank. He loves to play that thing," murmurers Grandma. Good old Grandma, she gets me.
"Yeah, I suppose he does at that." He gives my knee a whack, grinning into my face, causing me to snort coffee through my nose. I cough awhile, as he laughs some more. He's not a bad old guy-it's just the way of the man.
He puts me to work on some extra rough chores today; I get a kick out of how he gives me instructions as if I'm new here. The work is fine with me, as hard work helps me relate to the old time songs I play. All the same, I'm glad when he stalks back to the house, leaving me to my work. It's early in the morning, but hot already. I bend to lift a fence post into position; a cloud of road dust imposes. I enjoyed last night's fog a million times more.
"Hi! Hey there! Hey you!" hollers a young dude from his urban pickup truck. I squint through the dust squall to see him. Oh great, another city moron for me to ignore. I sledgehammer and shatter the top of the fence post with self righteous insolence.
"What's the matter with Paul Bunyon today? Simple or something?" Okay, this is an extra special moron needing some attention.
Hopping the fence, I stroll over to the city boy's shiny new pick up. "And what can I do for you?" I drawl. Bile burns the back of my throat as I glare at him. He expects simple country folk, so who am I to deny him his fantasy?
He's not so brave now, but I can see why he's showing off. HIs girlfriend is quite something, I must admit. I give him a break; I wait for his answer.
"You look like a guy who knows his way around these parts," he says. I cringe, thinking of how no one around here says 'these parts'-damn wanna be.
"I'd like a place to go huntin', you know, hunting?" he continues, making a pistol shooting motion with his hand. Moron. He looks over at his girlfriend, who is giggling at his antics. I don't mind all that much, since her breasts jiggle and sway as she laughs. He notices me noticing; I delight in annoying him. I continue to stare plainly at her shapely chest. Her tits are wet with summer sweat under her thin, clinging t shirt. I love the stretches of translucent white cotton between her breasts-just beautiful. She knows what's going on; so proudly she arches her back, to give me a damn good look at her bra-free wonders-stiffening nipples and all. Blood hammers into my erection. I'm all smiles now.
He sits gripping the wheel, looking back and forth at us, outraged. An awkward silence lingers around this odd standoff of sorts. I give her a wink; she looks away, covering her precious endowment. That's it, he's had enough. He grits his teeth, swearing, he shoulders the door to open it. I shove it back shut for him, bouncing him halfway across the truck cab. It doesn't take much, as he isn't much.
"Don't do anything more," I smile, flipping the guard from my Bowie knife. I've confused him with my friendly tone.
"Aw, fuck this, and fuck you! Fuckin' hick!" he snorts, flipping me the middle finger as he floors the gas pedal of his pricey toy, spraying me with gravel. Asshole. I shield my eyes to see his girlfriend turning to watch me as they speed off. Sunlight glints from her sunglasses. She holds her shining black hair aside. She looks and looks.
I go back to work with a healthy erection bouncing around in my blue jeans. Drops of pre-come cool my skin where they fall. Still at work, I picture the two of them pulling over into a secluded clearing so he can reassert his manhood. It would be hilarious if she imagines me fucking her as they go at it in the tall grass. That might not be all that realistic, as I'm not what most women want; I'm large but gangly with a long beard and hair all over my chest. Maybe I'd be more proud of my chaste life if it was more by choice.
I could go and jack myself off in the woods, but I have work to do. Besides that, I find conserving sexual energy makes for better fiddle playing. Still, the city girl will be in my dreams, I'm doubly sure of that. That foxy little thing is exactly who I want to make love to; tonight and every night. Sweat flies from my brow as I pound the last fence post home. Exhausted, I shout a prayer to the blue sky, "Come to me, city girl. Leave him and be with me." I feel not so alone after my words pass out of me, through the trees, up and away. Strange indeed.
***********************
Grandma senses I'm out of sorts at supper time. "What's on your mind?"
"Nothin' much. Just tired, I guess."
She pats my arm and says, "Don't go playing that fiddle in the dark no more. You'll bring something on." I glance at her eyes, shining with sincerity and concern. I should ask her to explain, but I don't.
I ask instead, "Where's Grandpa at?"
"He's showing a nice young couple from the city around the place." I arch an eyebrow at her as she adds, "That boy's lady friend sure has a figure on her. Oh my." I say nothing.
*****************************
I find it impossible to sleep tonight; maybe a good round of fiddle tunes would straighten me out. No wait, the old man asked I not do it. Then again, what he doesn't know can't bother him. I'll sneak out, to play out of his earshot. What's more, I know the perfect place. I'm off, with my fiddle case on my back, to get my bike out of the shed. I'm not sure, but maybe Grandma spoke my name as I left.
I pop the catches on my instrument case and rosin my bow in the secluded, dark clearing, some miles from the house. The nature sounds around me stifle as I rouse up an old reel from 'lord only knows' how long ago. Feeling better and bolder, I begin into another tune; an unearthly wail resounds in the forest. My feet freeze in place, my scalp tingles terribly. I stop playing to listen. Faint laughter follows in the echos of that shriek; it's no coyote, of that I'm sure. Solemnly, I rest my fiddle in its case. I stand perfectly still, listening for more.
And there is more. I hear my name, voiced in a very female voice. In clear, bell-like chimes it rings out. "Frank, come here." I can't tell where exactly 'here' is, as the voice is all around. I choose a direction and go traipsing off after it. I strain to see rustling movements in the distance. Who, or what this is must be found. I approach the tuft of willow branches, leaning in with caution, to find only an erotic scent. My cock stiffens instantly.
Turning, intending a retreat to my abandoned fiddle, another willow bunch sways nearby. "Frank, I need you." Something in the urgency of the voice brings a tear to my eye. What is this? This is either a cruel joke or a thing I should fear. I draw my knife on nearing the woman's voice, listening keenly for footsteps behind me, fearing the city boy's ambush. A female form springs from the thicket and runs; I chase, driven by instincts deep and primal. Crashing through snags and snarls of underbrush, my arms deflect errant branches blocking my progress and wild rose thorns tear at my flesh. How my heart pounds, how my cock throbs in the wake of erotic scent and sighs. I give unholy chase.
I round the corner, skidding to a halt, facing her full on. No more to the running; she's waiting. She stands proud and fearlessly glowering, her hair cascades down her pale shoulders to frame her arousing breasts. I stand in shocked awe, scanning her body. She's a beauty; her face is that of the city girl's, but she has short horns emerging from her wild black hair. She has perfect, shapely arms and hands. I thrill to her taut, rounded belly expanding in time with her panting breaths. I note her wide girlish hips, ripe for sex. All is perfect except for her legs-there's something wrong with them. They're covered with fur like that of a deer. Her fur rises up above her groin and in wisps and whorls around her sides. Like a deer's hind legs, hers bend backwards at the knees, ending with hooves to cleave the forest floor. Oh god, get me out of here. I turn, to run like hell. Something's wrong-I can't run worth a damn.
I struggle away from her, at a pace of timeless nightmares. I'm down, falling to all fours, into the clutches of weeds and damp moss. She doesn't run-she walks, metering horrible, hip rocking strides towards me.
My skin writhes. A murky, fetid mass rises from the soil, to surround, to engulf, to numb my body. I fall, fighting to breathe amid her insane shrieks of joy, clawing at the sickening, unyielding membrane that binds me. In time, I escape the black cocoon, crawling on my belly like a torched moth. My skin tingles in the moonlight.
Something more is wrong: my clothes are gone, revealing big, ripe breasts on my chest, just like those of the city girl; my legs and torso are nubile and hairless. I slide a trembling hand down between my legs. I groan as my fingers pass my pubic mound to find a vagina, with labia engorged and splayed for fucking. I shiver with longing upon fingering my tender clitty. I draw my hand away, amazed at my sensitive discovery. This can't be happening. I rise on my knees, searching the clearing.
A cool breeze bristles my naked she-flesh. To my horror, weeds and grasses ensnare my wrists and calves, wrenching them to the ground, immobilizing me, leaving me defenseless. I lower my head to await the unknown, my ass cheeks high and outspread, my cunt uptight and throbbing.
With eyes shut tight, I sense deliberate footfalls at my side. She begins to speak; a guttural moan leaps from my throat, blocking out her voice. She stops my struggles and weeping wails by slapping me hard, driving all taste from my mouth. "Do you know who I am?" she asks. I shake silently, saying not a word.
"Answer!"
"No, I do not," I whimper, shocked at my feminine voice.
