Ben Hramiak is an author with a Bachelor’s Honours in English Literature and Creative Writing living and working in Yorkshire. He has written prose fiction from an early and has been published in Young Writers’ Tales from the Crypt, a 2016 short horror anthology. He was also published on one website for his poetry submission and has even started a blog. He is currently writing a historical fiction novel set in feudal Japan.

A Model Dwarf

He was a little pink dwarf, and I loved painting him, even if he complained the whole time. His armour was this rotund sort, the helmet more like a metal fishbowl than anything medieval. By his feet was a severed orc head, unpainted. I would add the smaller details last.

            ‘Pink is not the colour of a dwarf! Do you hear me, giant!’ I say “he”. It sounded like a man, but I couldn’t be certain. I was too busy to reply, at any rate. He kept shouting up at me from behind his bucket helmet. The helmet was his head, really, the only head he had. I chose that because it was easier than painting a face, failing at that, then giving up. ‘Put me in iron, cold and dark!’ It continued, ‘And a hole in the gun barrel!’

            I looked at him, puzzled, ‘I don’t have a drill bit the right size.’ I nodded to the small, silver-looking drill bits, “Unless you want me to ruin your gun.”

            ‘It’s ruined already. Nothing to fire out of. And you still haven’t changed my armour!’

            I chuckled and cleaned my brush. My other hand was full, holding the model between the thumb and forefinger. I put the little creature down, picked up the red and white, and began mixing. A thin layer of this lighter pink to be added on top of the coat I’d already given.

            ‘If it’s not beer, smithing, or killing orcs, you can shove it.’

            ‘Yes, well,’ I said, ‘you can shove your complaints too. I picked pink and you’re going to be happy about it.’

            ‘This’s abuse, you hear! I’ll –’

            ‘I’ll paint the orc head for you.’

            ‘…Make it really bloody.’

            ‘Sure thing.’

            ‘HA! Foolish giant!’

            Then I put it to one side, only to start assembling an orc model. He had an axe in one hand, a clunky pistol in the other. His voice manifested soon enough. ‘’EY NOW, what’s all this? We fighting dwarfs today?’

            ‘Oh God, no.’ The dwarf sounded mortified.

            ‘HEY, WHAT’S WITH THE PINK?’

            ‘This is his form of torturing me.’

            The orc laughed. I retorted, ‘If you want torture, I can snip off both your arms and give him your gun.’ I paused, picking up the clippers and snipping them in the dwarf’s direction.

            The orc laughed, ‘Do it, boss! Give Pinky a good cuttin’!’

            ‘You are not calling me that!’

            ‘What’s ya name then?’

            I felt them both look to me. I shrugged. ‘“Pink Dwarf”? I dunno. Didn’t think of a name.’ I dipped into the pink and began dabbing more of it onto the dwarf.

            ‘Well,’ the dwarf grunted, making spluttering noises as I went over the helmet, ‘think of one fast.’ Then it moved. It knocked the paintbrush aside with the barrel of its useless gun. I turned in time to see the orc leaping towards me, axe in hand.

            Eventually, I was laid low, the barrel jammed into my cheek. ‘I name you… Giant-slayer.’

Wolf in Sheep’s Therapy

Interview Date:	November 5, 2023, 9.02am
Interview of:	Constable Marta Woods
Interviewed by:	Counsellor Maria Higgins
Reason for interview: Constable Woods was charged with Actual Bodily Harm against a suspect.

How are you, Marta?

Could be better, honestly.

You’re aware of why you’re here then.

Yep. Had it explained, bit too much explaining, if you ask me.

Just making sure you’re aware. Urm, if you don’t me asking…

I’m not changing back, if that’s what you’re thinking. I can lift a large motorbike with both hands and bite through steel like bread, why wouldn’t I want to be like this? Werewolves aren’t all monsters. A few bad apples… make the rest of us look bad. That’s how the saying goes, anyway. It’s not that you should ignore the bad apples, it’s that they spoil the bunch. I hate that saying. I’m not a monster hiding under the bed. Aren’t respect and tolerance part of our values as a country? Am I not allowed to look how I wish?

…I sound too self-righteous. That isn’t me. I am how I am, and I’ll argue for that, but I don’t like making a fuss. Very English of me. I’m not one to march in a protest, but I’ll complain to my friends. Not very helpful, I know.

I think mum picked my name; she was proud of me. Dad was a sort of self-made hunter – yes, I’ll get to him. Mother’s more of a work-from-home type. She likes writing and poetry. I can’t do either well. I took after my dad, never was into girly things. Always been a tomboy, that’s what they call it.

Dad’s name’s even worse than mine. Well, the name he picked. The man’s such a fan of Vikings he picked the name Korn. It’s an old, Germanic name. Look, his old name was Robert. ROBERT. Still a perfectly a good name. Could have kept it, but no.

And what did your father do for a living?

What did he do? Well… Dad was a werewolf hunter. The Silver Cross. You hear stories of these people. Not a thing now, thank God, but when dad was with them they were fierce. He had these silver bullets and a rifle, some wolfsbane, all expensive stuff. Had that stuff imported from America. He had a pack of his own. Likeminded “gentlemen”, hunting people who couldn’t help themselves.

Then he met mum. He always said how he was enchanted by her, her eyes in the dark, her growling voice. His heart grew three sizes or some shit. Ok, no. That’s not fair. They did love each other. Happy ending, kind of. They settled down and made me. That’s good. He stopped his war, burned his flowers, melted his silver and buried it.

Um, Miss Woods? Marta?

Huh? Yeah, I know. Just thinking back. Lot of junk to sift through. He wanted her “gift”. He called it that. Not a curse, or a disease, a gift. Quite the turnaround, I’ll admit. The way mum told it, she thought he’d gone mad, or it was some trick. But no. He’d realised what he’d been doing. Suppose that’s something. Try telling that to the men, women and children he’d already put down like dogs.

She bit him, passed on the curse. No real ritual to it, I hear. Not a hint of mood lighting or ceremony. Chomp, ow, done. Yes, really.

That fast, huh.

There’s not really any magic to it. It’s more like passing a disease. I don’t like thinking of it like that, though. There’s too many benefits for me to think of it like a disease. You don’t see a leper ripping a door off its hinges. My strength is something for me to be proud of.

The gift transferred to me, but with a catch. It’s natural for me, passed down from my mother. I can control it. I can transform any time I want. Didn’t make controlling it easy when I was young. Should have seen me during puberty, heh. So many torn up sofa cushions and holes in the walls.

And… your father enjoyed being a werewolf?

Yes, you wouldn’t like him. I don’t like him, not now. Not then, really. The wolf went to his head. He’d spend nights running out in the fields, came back bloodied and saying how he was “pretty sure” he’d killed a sheep. He… he took what mother had and tried to make it his. He took me somewhere to learn how to control myself.

He said how, ‘I’m your father, I am the man of the house. I should do my part. Your mother can stay home for this.’ And it wasn’t like mum didn’t want to come along, more that dad insisted she stay at home. He can be commanding like that.

He sounds quite controlling.

Mhm… It was a long car ride, but by nightfall we were at the woods. Old woods, ancient, but touched by man. The little sign saying, “Public Footpath”, the log steps shoved into the slopes, the mere presence of people. Hm? Oh, we were in… I think Northumbria.

We weren’t alone. In the dark, eyes watched, and the smell. It was a stinking, wet, grimy place and I wanted to run back to the car and lock myself in. Dad insisted we stay. That kind of life isn’t what I want. Dad, on the other hand. Korn, whatever he’s calling himself, he revelled in it. The man was more enraptured by the lessons than me.

What kind of lessons?

Long talks on changing into the wolf and back. Even ways to mitigate the moon’s effects. Doubly bad for a female werewolf. Cramps and, well… that’s all I’ll say for decency’s sake.

But dad… he killed and ate a deer raw. The others had wanted to cook it. He wanted to ruin it for the others, show who was boss. It was like this for a few months. I stayed, watching him start to ramble and rant on how “things were better in the old days”. What old days? Before he was born?

Idiot. You’ve seen people like this, right?

Mhm.

I left him like that, with his new family looking at me, pleading with me to take him, all without words. He told me I was a coward and didn’t “get it”. I said he was an arsehole that didn’t “get” that we weren’t beasts.

And would you say this is why you acted how you did, that all this business with your father contributed to it?

I guess. Can’t blame it on “the inner wolf”, or some other shit. Nothing inner about it.

Um… right, my dad. He’s still out there. Got arrested for biting people. On the books now, no spreading the curse. They put a collar on him. The dog jokes write themselves. It’s still a problem. Can’t all have control like me, not everyone’s a natural born. Course, people see me and it’s still the same look of terror. Faces all blend a bit when it’s the same face they’re making.

Would you consider yourself to be a violent person, even when not under a full moon?

No… I’m not. You don’t have to believe me. But full moons. They bring the worst out in you. Like I said. It’s worse for women, always has been. Everything’s hot, itchy, you need to fill your mouth with bloody meat and tear into something. The wolf comes out in earnest. Least, that’s what usually happened. Nowadays you get a prescription and try to calm yourself before anything horrible happens. Miracle of modern medicine, I tell you. But reasonable adjustments can only go so far. Need take sick leave every month. I’m not an animal though. I like having a house, and an indoor toilet, and medicine that works.

Let’s see a wolf, however trained, try and do that. The woodsmen, the werewolves, they’re a bunch of savages. Living in the woods, probably died of dysentery or poison ivy. Or they dropped the play acting the moment one of them got hurt and was rushed to a hospital in their cars. It… it’s stealing valour. Dad was brought into mum’s way of life and decided he could do it better.

I’ll… end on a good note. Deserve a happy ending. I… met someone. Her name’s Georgina. She offered to help me renovate this property I bought. I offered her a place to stay for when she’s in the area. We got to talking and… I like the way she is. Don’t love her, but it’s nice.

That’s good, but Marta –

Not even dating yet, but it’s nice. Just chatting and flirting a bit.

…Yes, I know this is work-appointed therapy, I’m –

I’m just making sure you know why you’re here.

Yeah. I “scratched” a man; I’m getting to that.