Werewolves Let You Down

Is a poem still a poem if the subject is nuclear fusion? Of course it is! The “There’s Poetry in an Atom” workshop encouraged students ages twelve to fourteen to explore the not-so-tenuous connection between art and science. From sequoias to the supernatural, all topics were fair game for these young authors.

Vampires are snobs. I do not have anything else to say on the matter, so I am going to move on to Werewolves. Werewolves are amazing. Werewolves eat zombies and mutant mermaids. Werewolves eat everything. Yet, unlike mutant mummies, who usually eat bad things, Werewolves are just like goats; they’ll eat anything that is alive—except for plants.

Okay, okay, okay. Stop giving me that look. I know Werewolves don’t eat everything. But a lot of things! Come on, give me a break. Werewolves have a tendency to attack naked people more than regular people who are smart enough not to go nude in public. I guess it’s the exposure to so much meat, too. And you know why I had to type all of this so slow? A Werewolf ate my arm. The left one.

Now, I’m not talking about werewolves. I’m talking about Werewolves. Not the puny, pathetic kind that Stephanie Meyer put into Twilight—I mean the kind that are gigantic, huge, big, ginormous, and all other synonyms for big. I mean the kind that have spiky fur, huge claws, enormous teeth, long tails, and huge muscles. They’re bigger than bears and smaller than African elephants or houses.

Werewolves are usually described as being discovered by Professor Edita Wallace, her sister Wallace Edit, Professor Tortal Ben, and author Daniel Syrgur. Daniel Syrgur is dead now. He was attacked by five Werewolf cubs when he described them as
“small beings.” They ate him.

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