Flash Fiction Friday: Werecock by Kirk Jones
It’s happening again. The full moon arcs across the night sky, its light spidering through branches dancing on evening’s wind. I wake in a sweat, clutching my waist with what remains of my arms. They retract into my body slowly as my legs weave together. My body lurches back in convulsive spasms as my spine softens. My mouth crowns my new head at the apex. As my eyes recede, I take one last look at myself in the overhead mirror. My entire being has become a full-scale replica of my genitalia.
I know what you’re thinking. Here’s another self-glorified male narrative about an oversized cock manifest as a vehicle for masculine domination in a society where such a phenomenon is all but dying.
You’re wrong. Hear me out.
Some assumptions you’re making are likely correct. When the moon is full I turn into a penis, yes. Not a man-sized penis, mind you, but a tiny penis, the tiniest, most insignificant penis. I measure a mere two inches. I know this because I caught the toad that raped me last month during my transformation. He was just a little over that length and he overpowered me with ease.
Unlike other werebeasts, when the moon is full I snake through the woods just trying to get the fuck out of everyone and everything’s way. I’m not a bloodthirsty killer. Honestly I don’t even know what purpose my existence serves. I’m too deflated and withered to provide even the most sex-starved of gratification. I’m barely large enough to fill the stomach of a bird. In fact, I’ve seen crows pass me up for night crawlers.
Sometimes I daydream about being part of a larger werecreature, like perhaps I’m the final component of some were-Voltron, and somewhere there are two werearms, werelegs, etc., waiting patiently for my return.
Maybe I’m an exercise in humility. My experience has at least provided me with that. I often thank the stars I’m not a wereasshole, for example. I’ve learned to be grateful that I have a means of locomotion to avoid a cruel fate.
I suppose my disposition makes sense, in that it doesn’t really make much sense. You ever wonder why, despite all the illogical and irrational phenomena in nature, the paranormal seems to serve some logical purpose? Whether it be metaphorical, some throwback to an ancient mythology, or just a manifestation of unconscious fears – there’s always some purpose.
Not in my case, apparently.
Kirk Jones is an instructor of humanities for the SUNY system. His work has appeared in Unicorn Knife Fight, and will appear in the forthcoming anthologies, The New Flesh: Episode I and Technicolor Tentacles. His first book, Uncle Sam’s Carnival of Copulating Inanimals, was published by the New Bizarro Author Series, an imprint of Eraserhead Press.