Dylan Ferner-Rose

Dylan Ferner-Rose

Dylan Ferner-Rose is a short story writer from the UK. His stories commonly explore scenes of delicate relationships, transformation, and the uncanny. He is currently working on a short story collection titled Daydreamers Anonymous, in which My Moon will be featured. More of his work can be found in Samfiftyfour literary journal, and Pilot Magazine. He is currently training to be an English teacher, and he enjoys performing live poetry in his spare time. 

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My Moon

You sent me a song that evening, as you’d been doing every evening for the past few weeks. We’d started talking about our uni work, a module on pastoral poetry: all sheep, and hills, and daffodils, and then came the songs. 

The vocals climbed in my headphones; soft, dark, and supple, creeping in from the warm pits of the instrumental like a thief in the night. The singer was Irish, and her voice had that delicate Celtic quality to it, perfectly balanced, right on the edge of cracking like a sheet of ice, but it never quite did. 

Graze my lips like your half-cut nails

Wrap your fingers ‘round my twisting trail 

Pupils dilate like the silver-disked moon 

Whatever the weather, I will see you soon.

I checked the weather. Cloudy. Checked the time. In an hour we were due to meet. Looked up at a chart on my bedroom wall. It depicted the moon cycle. I couldn’t believe this time of the month had come around already. It didn’t seem fair. I’d scheduled the date for Wednesday; you asked if I could do Thursday, and I’d impulsively said yes, though I hadn’t thought it through. I told myself I’d have enough self-control to get through the night. I simply didn’t have a choice. 

I left the door to the touch of a crisp, cool night.

The street lights refracted off my retinas, bright rays of light, silver needles reaching out from yellow bulbs. 

I had a cigarette clenched between my middle and index fingers. 

I pressed it between my lips, lit its end, breathing in the thick, dry taste of tobacco.

I counted down the seconds, walking past a row of corner shops, leery neon crackling through the stillness of the night. 

I listened to the passing cars, their engines taking it in turns to purr into nothingness. 

My phone pressed against my thigh. 

The pace of our messages had picked up as tonight approached. 

Still, I wasn’t sure if I could trust myself.

I headed down the main road, heart thumping, trying to keep my back and shoulders straight, catching my leather jacket in dark windows, trying to exude a confidence I wasn’t sure I had. 

I reached the edge of Stirchley Park and took a second to observe the shadowy canopies of trees, trying to lose myself in the clustered tangles of branches and leaves. My bladder was set to burst. I pissed onto the roots of one of the trees, my half-finished cigarette still hanging from the fingers of my free hand. I tilted my head back at the sensation of physical relief as my urine splattered across the dirt, a sigh of satisfaction mingling with the distant sound of sirens. I looked down at the back of my hand, still gripping my penis. Already, a shadow of dark hair was beginning to cover the skin, slowly crawling up my wrist like a black wave.  

You texted to say you were on the bus.

I’m here x

Sweet ! I’ll be 5-10 mins.

That’s OK - I don’t mind waiting a bit :)

We sat at a table belonging to a nearby bar, part of a seating arrangement that scattered across the open street. You were wearing a sandy colored trench coat.

Your hair was black, culminating in a delicate fringe, matching the rich dark brown of your irises. 

I hugged you hello, my leg shivering with cold and anticipation.

We took our seats, let a half-comfortable silence sit for a moment, until you found an opener:

 “I got this scar when I was little… I was carrying a glass bottle, and I fell over… It smashed in my hand… It’s subtle, but you might be able to see.”

I scanned the soft lines of your palm, squinting my eyes, making out ghostly ribbons snaking over your skin. I straightened my little finger and showed you it, running my nail over a thin, pale line, seared onto me by burning sugar. By this point a carpet of hair had formed on the back of my hand, bristling around my cold, reddened knuckles. 

“Look at this… I got this scar from a marshmallow of all things… we had a little campfire… on holiday…”

I imagined the two of us sitting on the beach where I had burned myself. The Milky Way would sprawl across the black sky on a clear night, the invisible sea ebbing and flowing like a lullaby, making me feel beautifully small.   

“It was on this Island in Cornwall… beautiful place… it’s so rural, y’know, that they don’t even pay road tax… it’s all dirt paths y’see.” 

You leaned back, a street light flickering off the white membrane of your eye, and took a sip of your wine. 

“That sounds nice… I’m pretty used to rural settings myself.”

“I thought you were from Manchester.”

“Near Manchester… here.”

You took out your mobile and scrolled through your camera roll.   

“... this is my place.”

On your phone was an overhead view of red brick houses, scattered across a dark green valley, a grey, brooding sky hanging above. 

“... it was quite boring really, growing up there… I’d imagine wolves appearing on the ridges…”

You tapped a nail, covered in faded black varnish, onto your phone screen, indicating the dark ridge on the edge of the valley. 

“... Maybe that’s why I’m still a bit obsessed with them now.”

Your hand momentarily disappeared into the gap in your trench coat, emerging with a tiny silver wolf clenched between your fingers, connected to the end of a delicate chain.

“That’s really beautiful.”

“Aha… my grandma got it for me… she’s gone now, of course… but I’ve always worn it, ever since.”

Your eyes seemed to distance some as you ran your fingertips around the rim of your wine glass, gently sloshing around the dregs of the glassy liquid. 

“Another drink?”

“Sure.”

I got up to leave, bumping the edge of the table as I did, causing the empty glasses to shudder. You wrapped your hand around my wrist with a tender touch, firmly guiding me back to my seat. 

“Don’t worry about it…”

You plucked a red bank card from your coat.

“...It’s my turn to pay.”

I stole a glance at you crossing the pot-holed street, back towards the bar, the burn of your touch still tingling on my hairy wrist. 

I sat in the cold, fiddling with a packet of tobacco, kicking my foot against the table leg. I was starting to shiver. My teeth began to chatter, waves of cold rushing through my body. My chest was beginning to swell now, the muscles in my arms bulging. You didn’t strike me as someone who liked muscle-men, but surely the change couldn’t have been a bad thing. When you came back with the drinks, I smiled, and you smiled back.

“It’s freezing out here… Do you want to go inside?”

“Sure.”

We went into the bar and I found myself ensconced in a forgiving warmth. It was all decorated with old movie posters, the wallpaper alive with reds, greens, and golds. The light was low, soft, and inviting. I initially chose a wooden chair by the window, glowing yellow from an outside streetlight, but you beckoned me over to a cushioned bench by the corner. I was more than happy to oblige. 

“Are you hungry?” You asked.

“I could eat.”

Your knee found mine as we looked through the options on the menu, as I pretended to look interested in steak sandwiches and nacho platters. We settled on something called garlic pizza bread.

“So, we’ve managed to find the only vegan thing on the menu, then.”

I was uncomfortably conscious of the point where our knees touched. I could feel the tendons in my legs begin to bulge outwards. Surely too slowly for you to notice. I was desperate not to pull away. 

A member of the bar staff in a Radiohead t-shirt passed by, toting a shallow bowl of bangers and mash. The smell of pork hung warm in the air, an intense aroma with a certain richness to it. I knew the feeling of heightened sense meant only one thing.    

“...Is it hard finding vegan stuff to eat?” I asked, trying hard to distract myself from a feeling of ravenous appetite.  

You shifted your leg, creating some light friction, making everything feel that bit more real.

“Are you joking? We’re in Bristol, I’d imagine it’s harder finding non-vegan food.”

I hadn’t been all that aware of the music filling the room, but as the song changed you perked up, your eyes going wide with recognition.

“I really like this song.”

“Is that right?”

A moment of silence gripped us, and you broke it by laughing, your torso folding towards the ground, and then when you tried to say something your mouth just opened and you ended up laughing more. Then I was laughing. We were both laughing. I laughed so hard that I lost control of myself, punctuating my hearty guffawing with a deep, guttural, growl. It rumbled in the air, obscene and feral, unmissable, more animal than human, coming from a place deeper than the body should have been able to muster. I felt a rush of panic, chiding myself for my mistake. There was a look of concern in your eyes, but not fear, I hoped. 

“Everything OK?”

“Fine. Just need to nip to the loo. I’m fine.”

The mirror could have used a clean; a layer of opaque grime covered its surface. I studied my face, at least what I could make out of it. My facial hair was thick now, curling around my cheeks in dark brown mutton chops. I deliberately hadn’t shaved in the name of keeping the transformation as subtle as possible. 

I could feel your presence above. My heart began to hammer in my chest. I could feel myself losing control. I laid my hands on the sink basin, hearing the tap of my nails on the white rim. I looked down at my fingers to see sharpened claws. I was overcome by a sense of pure panic. Looked around the bathroom. For now, thank God, I was alone. I locked myself in the toilet cubicle. Took a deep breath. Clenched the sharpened nail of my left pinky between my teeth and began to chew it down until the cartilage was mangled enough to rip off. I had always been a nail chewer. It was fine. Totally normal. You wouldn’t notice a difference. With each nail I chewed quicker, repeating the process until I reached the little finger on my right hand. I ripped off the last nail so quickly a strip of skin came with it. A sharp stab of pain shot right through me. I wanted to growl in frustration, but I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes tight, keeping the feeling locked inside of me. I couldn’t let my instincts win. I wrapped my maimed finger in tissue paper, a red blossom appearing in the white as my blood seeped through. 

I came back upstairs to the sight of you cutting apart our newly arrived garlic pizza bread. I flashed you a smile as I approached, sat back down, casually letting my knee find yours once again. I picked up a slice, ripped its pointed tip off with my teeth, and tried to keep things casual.  

“More garlic bread or more pizza?” I asked through a full mouth.

The dough was dry and tasteless, but somehow chewing through it was a pleasurable experience. I focused on every bite, keeping myself locked into the experience of chewing and swallowing. 

“I’d say it’s pretty 50/50 really… they’ve nailed it.” 

“Do you only eat vegan? Or do you have a cheat day now and then?”

You pushed the tough, dry, bread around your mouth, considering my question in your eyes, before finally pushing the food down your throat, a small pale lump forming in your neck before disappearing. 

“I’ll have a pizza now and then… I’m probably not as hardlined as some vegans…”

You picked up another piece, holding it in your palm, before slowly placing it back onto the plate.

“... really hard-lined vegans think any animal product is essentially genocide…”

“Right, well, I’m not sure about that.”

“I know… I mean, it does cheapen actual genocide, that attitude…”

“Yeah. I mean, people can be treated like animals in a genocide.’

“I know… I think that attitude is based in ignorance, honestly… It’s like Israel and Palestine… don’t get me started on that… I mean… God, what do I mean… ah…” 

You bit the corner of your lip and began to wring your hands together. 

“... ah, shit, what was I going to say? My head is frazzled now.”

You opened your hands, your face falling into your palms. The tension began to get unbearable. I could feel every part of me holding back, trying to stay in control, but the words totally failed me, just like they had failed you. 

I didn’t know what else to do, so I kissed you. We instantly fell into a rhythm, sweet in its ease. When you pulled away, I opened my eyes, catching the edge of your fringe, your eyebrows, and the light dusting of blackheads across your soft cheeks. We both wore giddy smiles. 

“I really do pick my moments don’t I?”

Your cheeks colored a light red.

“You sure do.”

“Well, is your head a bit less frazzled now?”

“Yeah… yeah, you could say that.”

My hand found your thigh. I stroked circles across your tights, taking pleasure in the slinky, elastic texture of the fabric. 

“Hey, look. It’s a full moon. Don’t you just love a full moon?”

I looked out of the window. The clouds had parted, revealing a silver disk in the sky, glowing ghostly white on the backdrop of the black sky. I could feel a pulse deep in my chest, thumping until it was almost unbearable. For a moment, you melted into oblivion. I clenched my fists. Closed my eyes again . I could hear your words, distant in the background.

“Are you OK? What’s the matter, Ezra? What’s wrong?”

“I need to go,” the words left my mouth before I could figure out what they meant.  

“Oh. OK. But there’s still loads of this food left…”

I got to my feet, awkward and abrupt, jolting the table again, sending beer splattering over the rim of my pint glass, leaving wet marks on my trousers.

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lovely time. I’ll call you.” 

You followed me up, wrapped your arms around my changing body in a warm embrace, and gave me another fleeting kiss. It felt so good I could still feel the burning skin of my lips, long after I left the shadows of that cozy little bar. 

I ran down the main road. Flashing lights flew past, exploding in color like a fireworks display. I didn’t look at faces as they raced by. My feet pounded against the pavement, hot blood pumping through the muscles in my legs. I lost all sense of time, desperately chasing the trees, and the grass, and a space where I could be far away from the watching eyes of all these strange human beings. 

I had no idea how much time had passed by the time I reached Stirchley Park. I found myself bashing through the undergrowth with my torso, letting the brambles rip across my arms, leaving cuts, blood glimmering red in the moonlight. 

I could vaguely make out the ping of my phone, the notification hitting me like a gunshot. But it was already too late. I found a clearing amongst the trees. Knelt down on the dirt. Felt my shoulders finally begin to bulge through my t-shirt, let the hair finally race across my skin, covering the backs of my hands, expanding into an animal’s hide as my palms became black and leathery. My nails reached out from where I had ripped them from the cuticles, forming into sharp sabres of white cartilage. My jaw began to swell out in a process that felt both agonising and orgasmic, leaving space for my teeth to sharpen and grow. I arched my back hearing the sound of my shirt ripping into useless tatters of fabric, then straightened up, pointing my face towards the gleaming moon above. 

The howl echoed through the forest, leaving nothing untouched; full of rage, and desire, and an animal instinct far away from matters of the English language. I howled until the breath in my lungs was gone, and then howled some more. I howled until my chest was hollow. I howled until I could feel my organs beating against the hard shell of my ribcage. I howled until I could taste salty blood filling my dog’s mouth. 

I howled until I forgot what it was to be a man. 

And I refused to stop — not until the bastard moon was howling back.