The First Werewolf

THE FIRST WEREWOLF Flashfiction from Adducent

What If?

Flashfiction by Dennis Lowery
What if an alchemist’s failed experiment created the first werewolf?

“‘The moon mocked him even more than the girls in the village.’ Shakespearean!” –Raul Interiano

“First let me say that I just heard about your stories recently, so I wanted to check them out. This story was utterly captivating. I felt as though your choice of words and the way your character was made throughout this piece was extraordinary. I will read some of your other works, and I love the concept of werewolves themselves, so I enjoyed reading this very much! You’re a very talented writer!” -Brianna Wilkie

“This is a really cool story. I found it interesting and intriguing, and your writing was full of imagery that really helped to set the mood and scene. It was a really cool take on the story of werewolves. Really nice work! :)” – WB

“’The moon SPOILER PART REMOVED.’ LOL. That made me laugh. Great story! Especially the irony at the end, how it was SPOILER PART REMOVED. Nicely done!” -Nyan C

“First off, I love the cover. Again your descriptions here were amazing! I don’t know how you do it. It made me feel like I was in the main character’s body. I like how you use more complex language in this piece. And the descriptions are really realistic. Nice job!!!!!!!!!!” –Adrianne Avery

“I had to read it but THE LIGHTS ARE ON!!!!!” –Janet L. Mix

“I love it!” –Åsa Nilsson

“Love the cover and the visual imagery – reminds me of Game of Thrones. Would love to read more!” –Karen T

“That was good! Such detail. I could imagine the scene transpiring.” –Tracie Parker

“Wow, your stories sooo cool to read!” –Roxy May

“I think you should do the novel of this. I’d buy it. Envy.” –Charles Smith


The Man in the Moon shone full and bright through the large bank of windows. At a long table of wood, discolored from the spills of countless nostrums and strewn with the implements of the alchemist—a dabbler in the dark—a man turned to look up at it. Its luminescence washed over his features, revealing their roundness. Other than a beard, barely a hair graced his head to break the near-perfect curve, a bit of a gleam from his pate as the rays through the glass draped him in the pale light.

The moon mocked him even more than the girls in the village. He learned to avoid them, but each night the moon was always there, and once each month, he felt its derision in fullness—as it was tonight.

Hating the lunar light, bitter but determined, he returned to his work. He was close.

The elixir he held would succeed where all the others had failed. He would have a luxuriant mane of hair that would draw the ladies to him. They would not resist the urge to run their hands through it and toy with his locks. The first exhibition, he was sure, would lead to fulfilling his fancies and other, darker, fantasies.

Completed potion in hand, he turned again to the window, raising the vial—in more a challenge than a toast—he downed its contents in one swallow. The foul taste not enough to wipe the smirk off his face as he taunted the moon while standing bathed in its light.

It came on him and coursed through his veins, permeating the cells of his being. A strange tingle, almost an itch, crawled from the top of his head, blooming down to his toes. Touching his scalp where nubs of hair now grew, he could feel them lengthen beneath his palm. In another minute, he was brushing his fingers through beautiful strands of hair that became fuller as they spread. They soon gave balance to his beard and proportion to his face—making him, dare he say it… “Quite handsome,” he laughed into the full-length mirror he had placed near the window.

His laughter faded at a strange tightening of his shirt and a hint of pain like a cramp that promised to worsen. Buttons now pulled tight, he fumbled to release them. The exposed flesh was no longer smooth and white as milk, nor as hairless as his head had been. The skin had thickened and dark, coarse hair sprouted. As he watched, it flourished across his stomach and down into his trousers. His pants tightened, drawing up and pinching his nethers; the constriction too much, he ripped them off with furred hands, and long fingers tipped with sharp nails. At the awful pain in his feet, he tore off his boots and now free of all binding cloth, he stood in the moonlight before the mirror.

His face distorted into an animal’s visage, teeth turned to fangs, and hairy ears twitched. He had scant time to think, “God, what have I done?” before the lust for blood and flesh triggered a flood of juices in his mouth. His ears caught the sound and nose the scent of food living in the village below.

Little did he know that—as the mind of man gave way to the slavering beast—the ladies of the town, mostly, thought him not ugly but a lout. A most unbecoming man. It was more about him than his head, they found distasteful.

With a howl that tailed from lament to a shriek of hunger, the first werewolf raced to feed.

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Howling at the moon…

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