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His shame was exposed, the scar where a shell splinter had torn through his groin and ripped away his manhood. Albert no longer cared. He was counting the moments until he died.

A deep sucking followed the crack of bone. The slurping of marrow, the fluid dripping from her jaws, the varied noise of her digestion. The bitch’s snout was buried in disinterred remains. Albert froze, no longer struggling, seeking to delay the moment he came to her attention.

That silk could bind so tight.

A charnel house in the familiar church yard. The stench of decomposition and the dripping remnants took him back to the Western Front. Only his eyes moved, darting from horror to horror. What was happening?

The thing was globular in the moonlight. Heavy breasted. Round haunches curving to a woman’s thighs that soon became dog’s legs.

Or a jackal’s.

He tried to control his shivering in the warm night. She would turn and see him. Otherwise, why would they have tied him and left him here?

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This story was reprinted by Scott Jones of the much missed Martian Migraine Press in CHTHONIC: Weird Tales of Inner Earth, and received an honorable mention from Ellen Datlow. I am really happy with the story, but don’t trust me, I’m over 30.