The moon is rising, full and arrogant over the trees and you can feel it in your blood.
Your every heartbeat is subject to its pull, its power ebbing and waning in pulses that leave neighborhood children irritable and unruly and send menstruating women running for hot water bottles and Motrin. They are unsure why they feel so uncomfortable in their own bodies.
You feel your tendons stretching, your bones shifting. Cracking. You can hear the hairs on your neck growing.
The family next door is making microwave popcorn. The scent of it drifts by in overpowering wisps on the rising wind. A low growl of displeasure rumbles in your throat.
The desire to run, to hunt, to howl becomes irresistible.
Your body gives in to the call of the moon and the urging of your blood. You crack and tear, breaking apart the fragile costume you are forced to wear for days, weeks, and allowing your true form to spring forth.
For a brief moment, you consider visiting the neighbors. No, you have no time for such pathetic prey. You hear the howling of your pack coming from high in the hills and you lope down the street on strong, sure legs, your mouth already watering.
*2/7/18 prompt: that’s not the wind howling