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Toxic #5: Puberty And Full Moons Don’t Mix

Mar 5, 2014




“Toxic Cinema, #156 – Puberty and Full Moons Don’t Mix”

Tonight we’re talking about “Ginger Snaps,” a little film from 2001 about suburban Goth girls with a death wish and menstrual problems. Seriously, why do writers insist on tying that time of the month to girls getting eaten by monsters or transformed into creatures somehow? I know we can be grouches, guys, but just throw us a chocolate bar and stop with the evil PMS/banshee from Hell stuff.

Despite the whole “period gets you killed” thing, this werewolf flick rocked. It’s not Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but it was still fun and gory. Cult potential? Oh, yeah.

Verdict: Worth the rental if you wear black and don’t take your horror too seriously.

Happy full moon, fuzzies,



The guy had dirty blonde hair and was dressed in the brightest Liverpool soccer jersey I’d ever seen. The fading tan and decent smile, along with brown eyes so dark they were almost black, made him look normal at a glance. The tail and fur, or at least a weird ghost-like outline of them, did not. I blinked at him a couple of times, trying to process what I was seeing.

Werewolf? I’d only seen one werewolf before, and she’d looked like, well, a big, giant wolf. Acted like one, too. She’d been stalking pigeons in the park. But there wasn’t much doubt in my mind about what the guy was. I glanced at my grandmother, but she’d actually poofed out like I’d asked. I was alone with the wolf boy. Well, alone in a crowd.

I watched his tail weave back and forth, fascinated and freaked out at the same time. Why was there a werewolf sitting in my art class? Supernaturals hadn’t done any human stuff back in New York. Not that I’d ever seen. And I didn’t need this. Not in my school. How was I supposed to see him and act normal every day?

On the bright side, unlike some dogs, he was probably potty trained.

“So do you?” he asked.

I dragged my eyes back up to his face. “What?” Did werewolves wag their tails in greeting like dogs did?

“Do you always talk to yourself? More important: do you answer back?”

“Oh.” I blinked again and tried to ignore the whole fur thing. If I kept my cool it should be okay, right? I’d gotten in trouble with the vamps because I’d given away that I knew what they were. And it wasn’t like this guy went around chomping on the student body. Something like that would attract attention. Or at least get him detention. “You know how it is,” I managed. “Sometimes it’s the only way to have a decent conversation.”

He grinned, showing a flash of phantom canines. How did he talk normally with those things in his mouth? “I’m Scott, by the way.”


“That’s cool. Where’s it from?”

I sat on my hands, which were trying to twitch. Class was only forty minutes long. I could handle a chatty werewolf for forty minutes if everyone else could. Maybe I could even pretend to be a normal person for that long. So far, it wasn’t going too badly. Then again, I hadn’t explained my name yet. “It’s a nickname. My father named me Tallulah.”

“On purpose?” He started to laugh.

“Yeah, I know. He’s stupid.” He was also obsessed with old movies. Thus the name: Tallulah Banks, after Tallulah Bankhead. That didn’t make it better. Just a hundred times more lame.

“I guess it’s better than Apple or something. And I shouldn’t talk—I’m named after my grandfather. Seriously, who’s named Scott anymore?”

I shrugged. This was too bizarre. I was talking to a werewolf. Almost willingly. And it wasn’t going too bad. “At least it’s not Fido or Spot,” I joked.

His eyebrows went up right about the time I realized what I’d said. I’d just made a dog joke. To a werewolf. Who I wasn’t supposed to be able to see. “Interesting choices…” His gaze dropped down to my belt and he tilted his head, eyebrows scrunching.

My mouth worked. Crap. How was I going to recover from this? “Um. You know, like, people naming their kids after food and weather and stuff? Like Apple?” I tugged my shirt down. “I figure pets will be the next big trend. How many Winters and Arizonas can there be, right?”

He raised his eyes back up to mine, looking vaguely amused. At least I hoped that’s what it was. I wasn’t sure what “I’m about to open up a can of doggy whoop-ass” looked like. “Where you from, Tizzy Tallulah?”

“The city.” That was good, right? Him changing the subject?

He chewed his lip, eyes back on where my hand was covering my belt. “Cool. Hey, a bunch of us hang out on the Commons after school. You should join. Tell them your theory about names.”

Okay. So he hadn’t changed the subject. Not really. Time to retreat. “Sorry. I’ve got stuff to do. Unpacking, you know?”

He shrugged, and gave me one last canine-flashing grin before swiveling around to face the teacher. I flipped open my art pad, my head down. If I was going to be in class with a werewolf, then I’d better add silver jewelry to my shopping list.

© A.M. Schilling  2014. All Rights Reserved.



Toxic: Installments