Swearwolves

A jolt of jagged pain shoots through Luna’s ankle.

‘Ahhh!’ She cries out as she crashes onto the soft grass of her backyard. She doesn’t look back, just forces herself up and forward, adrenaline surging as she limp-runs towards the laundry door.

It’s twenty steps away.

She summons every ounce of strength, pushing through the hot pain in her ankle and the terror pounding in her heart. The snarls behind her are deafening now, and so close she can feel hot breath on the back of her legs.

She reaches the door, yanks on the handle and shoulders it open. She tumbles inside then kicks the door shut behind her.

On the other side, she can hear rough, heavy breathing. Then, slowly, it recedes. The thicket at the end of the garden stirs, branches rustling, and then the thing, whatever it is, is gone.

Shaken, Luna lies on the floor of the laundry and is sure of just two things. It was no possum and her ankle throbs.

She pulls down her sock to see where the animal (that was definitely not a possum) bit her. The marks just above her ankle are clear, but nowhere near as bad as they feel, just six tiny pin pricks that have barely drawn blood and won’t even require a bandaid.

She stands and moves to the laundry’s sink, grabs a paper towel, runs it under the hot water, dabs it in soap and washes the bite marks. They really are minuscule.

How weird.

Maybe the thing that was chasing her was just a feral cat and that’s why the bite is such a non. Either way, the bite doesn’t hurt anymore and she feels fine –

‘Food’s on!’ That’s Dad calling from upstairs. It’s his turn to organise dinner so it’ll be take-out of some kind. Chinese maybe. Or if she’s lucky, fried chicken. She picks up Clint’s soccer ball and hotfoots it up the stairs because if it is KFC she doesn’t want that horror show to snag all the drumsticks.

On the way up the stairs she decides to not to tell them about her run-in with the feral cat. The last thing she wants is the parentals catastrophising about stuff that is not actually worth catastrophising about.

When she makes it to the rustic, wood-panelled kitchen, Dad is unpacking a bag of Mexican food as Mum pulls out some plates. Her painful brother is already sitting at the kitchen table ready to eat.

He spots the soccer ball in her hands and smirks. ‘Took you long enough.’

Luna glares at him. ‘Next time get it yourself, you little ****.’

Everyone freezes.

It’s like the universe hit pause. Luna is horrified.

She never swears. Like, ever.

In fact, she prides herself on it.

She doesn’t think it makes her sound cool or tough or mature. To her it just means she wasn’t clever enough to find a more interesting word.

Her father turns to her, gobsmacked. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I said he’s a little ****’ Luna’s eyes widen in shock. She did it again!

Her mother’s brow furrows, her voice sharp. ‘Luna Dee Wilkinson, you do not, under any circumstances, use that kind of language in this house, or anywhere else.’

Luna’s face burns. ‘Sorry, Mum, I won’t ******* do it again.’ Another bad word slips out. Horrified, she claps her hands over her mouth as if that will stop any more from escaping. ‘Why do I keep ******* swearing?’

Clint laughs, delighted. ‘I don’t know but it’s epic!’

Their mother doesn’t share her son’s amusement, her voice ice cold. ‘Clint, be quiet. Luna, go to your room this instant.’

Her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, Luna trudges down the hallway towards her bedroom, completely baffled by what just happened.

What is wrong with me?

She has no idea. Once she reaches her room, she shuts the door, leans against it and resolves to speak without swearing. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and visualises the exact words she’s going to say, which are: I am going to speak without swearing.

Okay. Here goes.

‘I am going to speak without swearing.’ Excellent! She’s thrilled. She didn’t swear! Yay!

‘So, I can speak without ******* swearing.’ No, she cannot.

Or can she? She tries again with the first sentence she learned that contained all the letters of the alphabet. ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy moon.’ Again, she’s thrilled. ‘Yes!

I ******* did it!’

No, she didn’t.

It would seem her swearing is sporadic, intermittent and irregular. In other words, it comes and goes as it pleases. Her eyes widen in horror as the terrible realisation sinks in: Whatever is happening, I can’t control it.

There’s a knock at her door. ‘Luna. What’s going on?’

It’s her mum. Luna can’t answer, because she doesn’t want to drop another swear bomb and get in more trouble, so she doesn’t say anything.

A long, awkward moment passes, and when Luna doesn’t answer, her mother fills in the blanks. ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, I will see you in the morning. I hope your manners have improved by then.’

So do I.

Luna hears her mother place something at the foot of her door and then move off. Luna waits a moment, then opens the door and sees a tray with two tacos, a salad and a glass of water.

Even after Luna swore three times, her mother’s still the best.

After she’s eaten dinner, Luna tries, once more, to speak without swearing.

She tries to say: Those tacos were delicious.

It comes out as: ‘Those tacos were delicious.’ Yay! She didn’t swear. Maybe she’s cured?

So, she returns to her old favourite once again: ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy ******* moon. No! ’

And every time she drops a swear, the bite on her ankle throbs.

What’s that about?

Upset and confused, but also weirdly intrigued, she looks up ‘swearing when you don’t mean to’ on the internet. She finds nothing of any use. Then she asks AI the same question. It gives her nada. After that, she starts to fade. As her head hits the pillow she hopes a good night’s sleep will cure her foul-mouthed curse.

She falls asleep fast and dreams of running through the forest behind her house. But this time it’s not that scary. It’s fun, exhilarating even.

She wakes with a start when she hears a loud, echoing howl, though she’s not sure if it was in her dream or not. When she looks through the window, the sun is out and the sky is blue and all seems right with the world. Then she speaks: ‘What a beautiful ******* day.’

Damn.

She didn’t sleep it off, which is super disappointing. And her ankle still throbs when she swears. She studies the spot where she was bitten and realises the pinprick teeth marks have completely healed already. There’s no sign of them at all.

How is that possible?

And how is she going to deal with her fam?

She can’t be lobbing swear grenades at them all morning. She thinks hard – then has a brainstorm. Before heading to the kitchen for breakfast, she fires off a group text message:

People! Voice feels ordinary after rehearsal yesterday so resting it before Friday’s audition, therefore I shan’t be speaking today.

She prefers to use proper punctuation in her texts. She thinks it elevates the conversation.

And any day she can drop a ‘shan’t’ into a message is a good day. She loves its faux old English vibe.