Text written as a response to an exercise from a writing course. I had a lot of fun with it. So I thought I'd share.
I grew up in a street named Allée Saint Basles. There was nothing remarkable about this street. It shot down from the main village artery in a straight perpendicular line until it reached the edge of endless wheat fields. Compressed by this hard border, the street ballooned into a dead end. I remember being assigned a homework to learn about the history of my street. I'm sure I was dutiful and completed the tasks as required, but over twenty years later, I cannot recall a single thing about Saint Basles and what martyrdom they suffered to merit a sleepy village street named after them. What I do remember from the street is the pack of wolves at the very border of tarmac and dirt. They waited, shuffling and muffling, for night to fall and their opportunity to crawl out of their hidden lair.
I could hear them as day turned into night. Twilight washed the colours of the world and hemmed me in, squeezed me between the low houses and gardens I knew so well. They'd jostle and growl, a deep growl that makes your bones vibrate. I could smell them. Their putrid breath warm and hungry as they wrapped around my ankles.
I tried to keep my cool. Nobody else in the street seem to be afraid of the wolves or even aware of them. They talked and laughed at the edge of their properties. They lingered as if the restlessness of the wolves did not exist, as if there was no urgency to cower indoors, find safety. I could never keep my cool. I ran. I ran every time, propelled towards my house at the angle where the street met the main road. My chest constricted, the metallic tang of asthma spilled in my mouth, and my legs burned. It was worth it. They never got to me. But I did see their eyes once, big and yellow, aglow with fury and envy.
I have not lived in Allée Saint Basles for a long time but I imagine the wolves are still biding their time until I return. Perhaps they are not. Perhaps they await for another child to sense their presence. I think I would not run if I saw their eyes again, but I would carry some meat in a bag, just in case. I want to see their eyes again, I think. I want to meet them, grey and soft, and probably lonely so far away from the mountains and with only this one child who could see them for company.